Blackfeather Woods the gull’s way and the whale’s way

When she was released, the tiny sheepdog crouched where she’d been placed, shaking out her dusty fur and biting back a soft whine of discomfort. Timorously she stretched out her finely tapered muzzle, prepared to flinch back and draw away if the young mistress showed any sign of aversion. If she allowed it, the little Groenendael would touch the tip of her quivering nose to the pert curve of Nyx’s chin and trace the elegant line of her jaw with a reverent tongue in submission. Her feathered tail clamped to her abdomen, tufted ears flat against the graceful sweep of her crown; and her willingness to follow and to obey was made plain by the way she fitted herself neatly into the younger wolf’s shadow.