Cedar Sweep there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too

Hemlock’s sudden display of vulnerability pleased Lotte; here was something she understood. She had grown up mothering her siblings — even Lærke the Bear, who was a full two years her senior. With infinite care, she craned her neck to smooth her tongue along the shock of vibrant red fur that capped the wise woman’s crown and trailed down her nape. When Lotte reached the thicker fur of the Kali’s ruff, she began preening and nibbling rhythmically, comforting herself as much as Hemlock. “I will care for you as you have cared for me,” she vowed staunchly, though the words emerged in a tired whisper rather than a rabblerousing oration. “The Family will heal from their hurts — we will come out of this different than how we went in, but we will make a new life here. Arturo said it would be so.” She trusted implicitly in the Fearghal both as husband and Ceannasach. “If you have battles to face in the future, liekkikukka, I will be there fighting at your side.” She offered the woman a weary smile.