Wheeling Gull Isle i’m not superstitious, but i’m a little stitious

The sheepdog cocked her head as if Maegi had said something very confusing, and then a warm, gentle smile spread across her features and arched her eyes. She leaned forward and made to lick at the girl’s ears, then preen the underscore between them in a manner meant to soothe — but if the young Melonii found her ministrations displeasing, she would immediately draw away to give her space. “Another day,” she breathed softly. They didn’t need to talk about this now — it wasn’t like Maegi was leaving tomorrow, after all. On the island, it felt like the seawolves had all the time in the world to plan and heal. “Not worry, small, dear Maegi, little dove,” she urged.

`Io, clearly moved by Maegi’s story as well as Seelie’s brief allusion to abuse, offered a thready whine. Coelacanth stretched upward to bathe the woman’s face in nibbles and kisses. “Not worry, lovely `Io,” she whispered, the bridge of her muzzle knocking briskly against the underside of the raven’s chin in a plucky little, “Chin up!” sort of way. Perhaps both of them would feel better if they were reunited with Poppy’s babies — an aching pressure told Seelie it was almost time again for them to feed, and if she was feeling it, so was the island’s guardian. “Life move and move,” she commented. “Maegi and `Io walk far and far. Now, rest. Now, heal.”