Wheeling Gull Isle fried chicken

The sheepdog wants to leave the poor, waterlogged creature alone — but between her kittenish curiosity and her doubly enforced prey drive, she can’t. She falls back when the raccoon puts distance between them, not wanting to frighten her, but her muscles are tightly coiled and poised for forward motion. Licking at her lips, she whines entreatingly and paws at the sand with one forepaw, tilting her head to the side. “Undersea,” she breathes, marveling at the small, clever hands, “island name, name…um.” Her feathered ears flop against her head as she tips it to one side, then the other, like a curious bird. “We, of this island, jewel under light of sky and song of sea,” she sounds out slowly and clumsily. Her name for the place is more of a feeling — a wordless song in her heart — but she tries her best. “Undersea,” she sums up.

At that moment, Stockholm appears at his mate’s side, and seems patently unsurprised by Seelie’s attempting to befriend the masked creature. His love for cats makes it easy for him to understand what she is doing here, so he tries to make the little imp feel welcome. In his low, rumbling voice, “You are welcome here, little one,” he murmurs, “and if you ever want to go back to the mainland, you can ride on my back. Should probably stay and get your strength back, though. Nobody will hurt you.” He throws back his head and howls the arrival of the small beast, putting her under the protection of the Aralez and the Overseer. It should be easy to identify her, as there aren’t any other raccoons on the island. It takes some urging before Coelacanth turns away — a lot of urging. She can’t seem to take her eyes off her new friend, and every attempt Stockholm makes to divert her attention is evaded. She looks over him, under him, around him, at Ravioli, until he mouths lightly at the fur of her nape.

It is Seelie’s internal clock that finally warns her away — despite cuddling up beside Moorhen, their honorary big sister, her babies are almost certainly missing their actual parents. “Peace be, little small,” she offers cheerfully to the raccoon, and clasps a sizeable amount of Stockholm’s cheek fur in her mouth, mock-growling as she does a skittery butt dance in the direction of the Labyrinth. His answering chuckle tickles down her spine, and she shimmies into a sprightly trot to beat him home.