Sheepeater Cliff we made our homes in different places

Feel free to not have them hear her!

The little Groenendael remained in a defensive crouch, now several feet away from Screech, her cerulean eyes squinting reflexively and her tufted ears tucked tightly against her skull; her cringing posture said she expected retaliation, but the kittenish growl that hummed in her throat said she wasn’t done fighting. She was puffed up like an agitated housecat, the bridge of her muzzle creased into a snarl that just barely revealed the tips of her canines. Like Liffey and Rannoch, she was mostly concerned with the golden-eyed lamb — and when he stumbled back from her, recoiling, she responded in kind and gave him an even wider berth. Her emotions had gotten the best of her, but she hadn’t meant to drive him away! Not fully understanding the chaos she’d caused, she longed only to return to Stockholm, the arch of her rib cage held low to the ground as she slunk away.

“Liffey! That’s not who you think it is!”

“Stop! She’s — this is my friend.”

Seelie was his friend! — a fact that gave her pause and had her feathered plume wriggling timorously despite the gravity of the situation — but oh, she had made a bad impression on his other friends. That they had a history was made plain by the way Screech broke with them instead of away from them, by choice instead of coincidence. Turning to face the fiery-eyed female and her heavily muscled companion, the diminutive creature apologized for her blunder: her muzzle and brow smoothed out, the former craning toward the earth as she dropped her carriage and allowed the tip of her tail to snake guiltily between her hind legs. She couldn’t help its nervous scribbling; it fluttered between her hocks like a caged bird as her tufted ears slicked back and she turned her brilliant Neptune gaze pointedly askance. All of this happened in the space of a few seconds, but she carefully held her submissive posture until she could no longer stop herself:

“Titmouse” — that was what Liffey had called the lamb. Coelacanth had chosen a different one for him, but this must have been his true name. For a moment her mouth worked, but no sound emerged. She grappled with her impediment until she could claim that she’d beaten it — at least, partially: “Mou?” she whispered, a sound so soft and fragile it’d blow away if someone sighed.