Wheeling Gull Isle have you come here to play jesus

The little Groenendael was disappointed, but not quite offended, that the raven did not want to eat her gift. She was mollified by Reigi’s tremulous approach, her gentle mien and affable body language bespeaking overt invitation: feathered plume swayed behind her as she stretched her willowy forelimbs and wriggled her toes. She nodded when the flighty creature repeated her vow, replying in a whisper that could almost be called tuneful for its fluting cadence, “Peace be, `Io.” She named her for the royal hawks that Kirynnae had ofttimes spoken of, wondering if in turn she would be given a name that was unique to the winter shadow. She thought she knew what Reigi was going through — having a truename that no wolf knew. It never occurred to her that the tawny-and-black female had never been given one in the first place. What they truly shared was a rare understanding of how precious names and nicknames were. In naming `Io, Seelie hoped to keep her.

Coelacanth had no such reservations when it came to physical contact. Had she not nursed the female’s wounds when she was alone and reeking of infection? It never once occurred to her that `Io would deny her, and so she stretched her fox-fine muzzle forward with reckless trust and pillowed her chin on the sleek, black-stockinged forelegs. A soft whine stirred in her throat, but even she didn’t know its origin; she merely wanted the other female to be happy here — happy enough to stay. “`Io,” she breathed, tilting her head so her cheek lay flush against the woman’s carpi, licking affectionately at the tops of her toes. “Safe. Friend?” She nestled even closer. “Stay?”