Wheeling Gull Isle no resentment ever evened out a weaker hand

“Good girl,” the little wolfdog breathed, a wriggle of her feathered tail sending a shimmy through her hips and spine. It was a phrase that could be used derisively or condescendingly, but coming from Seelie, it was simply praise. At first, she’d used it mainly in flirtatious jest with her mate, given their domesticated backgrounds, but eventually it had simply become a natural part of her verbal arsenal.

She rose as Mou began to drift, moving with infinite care lest he awaken at her departure — but he remained asleep, leaving the sheepdog to nuzzle Reed’s cheek. “Babies call,” she whispered, depending on her magical mama radar instead of the actual sound of their cries. Seelie had a fairly accurate internal clock; she hadn’t been here long, but her fussiest baby (I’m talking about you, @Sixgill!) needed only a second or two of what he perceived as Grave Neglect before he started squalling — and that would set them all off. She repeated her invitation just in case: “Welcome ever, Reed,” she assured the girl gently. “Meet babies soon?” She offered a shy smile, then turned and trotted back toward the Labyrinth with joy in her heart.