Whitefish River some sad singers, they just play tragic

Coelacanth was quiet as Olive began to speak. She always was, in the most basic sense; but in this moment her fawnlike, limpid eyes were tranquil as an undisturbed pool at low tide and her tiny body was equally motionless. Even her tufted ears, perched atop her skull like two pair-bonded black robins, were fettered with a waiting stillness. Seelie did not move even after Olive’s last sentence trailed off with a certain melancholic ellipsis. She allowed the silence to draw out almost uncomfortably as she digested what she’d heard. Olive’s words had assured the sheepdog of her innocence in the matter while underscoring Seelie’s own ruination — something she didn’t like remembering. At once, she felt very tired, and very old. She wanted to tell Olive what had transpired, if only to vent her hurts, but perhaps it was best that she lacked the capability.

Very gently, and utterly without malice or guile, Seelie kissed the woman’s trembling mouth and rubbed her dark cheek against Olive’s tear-dampened one. There was part of the dog that desperately wanted to hang on to her bitterness, for it had seemed to transmute itself into an odd kind of strength — at least, it appeared so to Seelie, whose interpretation of strength had taken on a new meaning after being captured, imprisoned, and brutalized. She couldn’t, though. Feeling bitter [even if it was completely justified] made her feel guilty, and she feared that by showing this less kind side of herself, she would lose the regard of those who still loved her.

Intent on burying the hatchet despite her unresolved feelings, Coelacanth disengaged from Olive and delicately picked up the coconut. There was an inviting glint in her eyes, but she made it plainer by gesturing with a quick, careful quirk of her finely-tapered muzzle. There was still time enough to fish, and if Olive couldn’t be persuaded to eat the meat — although Seelie would surely attempt to coax the mist-shrouded druid into doing so; she was so thin! — the pumpkin was big enough for three. Determined to make the best of the afternoon [and glut herself on Stockholm’s comfort and attention when they were alone once more] she returned to his side and regarded him with an intent expression. The two-“note” love song of his name wheedled plaintively between the fibers of the coconut she clutched so possessively, and then she turned and began trotting toward the river as though nothing amiss had happened. A good meal would set things right again.

She trusted Olive to follow, and Stockholm to watch her back.