Wheeling Gull Isle the lonely sea and the sky

A memory, fragmented and fond, teases at the periphery of Coelacanth’s mind’s eye; she can’t quite grasp it or recall it in full, but a deep, gravelly voice — a male voice, and one deeply loved — is saying something about tide pools. Something about worlds. Her tufted ears flicker and she turns her head — for a moment, the voice seems so near! — but nobody is there and her muzzle dips beneath a weighty feeling of loss. It is Cascada’s voice that brings her back: “Look,” says the green-eyed girl, ankle-deep in a pool where silver-edged shadows flicker. Their attempts to flee are futile; Seelie knows it as much as her companion does.

Charmed by the benevolent wolf’s constant encouragement, Coelacanth moves forward fluidly, her gait hitching only when she puts weight or tries to turn on the left fore. Her eyes are greedy as they rove over the pools, and she tips her head to nibble excitedly at the wine-red tips of Cascada’s fur near her withers. Fishing! She knows how to fish. She tiptoes forward, crouching at the opposite end of the pool to peer inside, and when she judges the moment is right she plunges her muzzle below surface. The remaining fish swim directly toward Cascada, and Seelie comes up with a flopping, silvern prize held tightly in her jaws. It smacks her in the face with its tail and head, so she squints her eyes shut and bites down harder, enduring the slimy, wet onslaught until her prey is properly vanquished.