Wheeling Gull Isle little star, tonight

The third-born child of Stockholm and Coelacanth is, for the moment, the fussiest. With the first breath he draws, he cries. A high-pitch mewling that isn’t distress but isn’t happiness either. He squeaks as his mother cleans him and nudges him against her breast, and he noses ineffectually at her stomach for a time – mouthing but not quite ever latching to a nipple.

Making quiet disgruntled sounds all the way, he wiggles and squirms and while Seelie is busy cleaning off her fourth-born, the mottled blonde and white boy valiantly tries to wedge himself under her rear leg until she diverts her attention to him to gently roll him back into place with the rest of his siblings.

For a time he continues to fuss before finally finding a nipple he finds suitable and latches on, drinking greedily, but still not fully silent until his belly is full and he drifts into his first sleep.