Barrow Fields castles in the sand, cradles in the trees

Coelacanth had grown to associate Titmouse with a certain heaviness — a brooding darkness that she could not assuage. It didn’t stop her from trying, though; she preened gently at his withers as his nose threaded through her feathery fur and wondered why he seemed to simultaneously sink into the comfort she offered while trying to deny himself any vestige of it. He seemed to need kindness so desperately, so she couldn’t understand why he appeared to shy away from it. Her unfair bias and the way he told his tale made her look at Rannoch and Liffey in a different light — perhaps the trio hadn’t been as close as she’d initially thought? — but she couldn’t discount the possibility that the young wolf was simply making things harder on himself than they needed to be.

The tiny sheepdog reached up, and if left uninterrupted would nibble teasingly at the base of the boy’s ear. “Now?” she wheedled mischievously, wondering if she could coax him across the drawbridge to her citadel before he disappeared and she couldn’t find him to change his mind.