Wheeling Gull Isle four in the morning

Stockholm’s explanation, succinct to Seelie, might not have made as much sense to the protective Cairn girl; Coelacanth found it best to elaborate. “My b-brrrother go home,” she explained in a tremulous whisper. She stepped forward and lifted her finely drawn skull, seeking to nibble at Moorhen’s withers and smooth the wildfire of hackles with her tongue. “All well,” she promised, looking warmly from Moorhen to Stockholm and back again. “My lamb, Moorhen; my mate, Stockholm,” she named them. They were still here with her; she still had reasons to smile. “Our island,” she added. Someday, she thought, Moorhen might lead this island as part of its Council — only if she wanted to, of course, and only if she was ready. Right now, she wasn’t, but someday she might be — and if that day came, Seelie would help her honor her seafaring blood.