Sea Lion Shores 1957

The pale-winged dove focused fully upon Coelacanth then, a question upon her lips and gentleness writ upon her comely visage, and Seelie turned her own finely-sculpted head to follow the cant of Olive’s slender muzzle. The inky ingénue had become so wrapped up in the tangled welter of the others’ emotions that she’d all but forgotten about herself; it was almost surprising to touch her nose to her own concave flank and acknowledge her corporeal self. The feathery fur was wet with saliva and the flesh below it was bruised, thin runnels of crimson abrading white flesh that did not bleed but merely smarted. Coelacanth looked then at her legs, her paws, her plumed tail with a sense of confused wonder — some days she felt whittled down, nothing more than ears, eyes, lungs, and heart — and gathered her tiny body into a standing position.

As she shook out her cloak of black silk, a reassuring expression of mirth shaped her lips; she strove to ease Olive’s worry, stretching out one hind leg, then the other, before turning one quick circle to prove her good health. The elfish gamine was skinnier than she should have been, her delicate framework clearly delineated in sloping curves and jutting angles, but her steps were sprightly and her tail whipped ceaselessly. Neptune eyes darted shyly for muted viridian as Coelacanth “barked” — more motion than actual sound this time, her breath billowing in a capsule of crystal fog and her jaws snapping with no voice behind it — and flopped down unceremoniously upon her torso with her cheek upon the rocky shore, looking up at the wolf with a patently hangdog air. The berry still rested between Olive’s paws, and very suddenly Seelie missed Starbuck — she couldn’t seem to hold still and circled back to where Doe had lain, nosing around until she found one glistening straggler that she cradled like a rare gemstone upon her tongue.

Shff! — the atramentous wolfdog lay back on the stones, closer to Olive this time, ever watchful for a sign of warding off, settling her weight upon her left hip — blep! — and placed her own berry upon her forepaws. Then she turned to Arturo’s wolf with a quizzical tilt of her head to the right — a quizzical tilt of her head to the left — and uttered a soft sound of invitation, more whisper than whine.