Deepwood Weald you waiting at ho[m]e for me saying what time do you call this?

“Whenever you wish,” Lotte breathed, failing at her own game in her zeal to be near him. “Call for me at Donnelaith and I will call for you at Teaghlaigh and we will make nuisances of ourselves that every wolf knows we are — courting.” She wasn’t sure that was the correct usage of the term, but she didn’t care either way. “Turo,” she murmured throatily, “I think our winter will be very warm indeed.” Nobody could have told her that she was both very, very right and very, very wrong.

Resuming the game, the gangster and his nightingale chased one another through the weald, tearing up the ferns that blanketed the earth with their eager feet; by the time they returned to their respective homes, the sky was full of stars.