Ankyra Sound Breakin' is easy and hope is hard

"dis is my lan'," erzulie declared. how could rosalyn even think of leaving? she had wandered with her lover, yes, and would have done so again, had not caiaphas offered them both a home. "i fought for dis place. i fought for you," and here her two-toned eyes snapped with balefire. "an' i would shed blood for de bot' again." 
to die for rusalka, for her lover, was not a sacrifice. to be in the service of the seawitch; to take from the sound all she had earned with her own sweat and wounds: that was her reward. she knew not the sum of what drageda had done to rosalyn, only what was so plainly writ in twisted pain upon the other's face and form.
an island. erzulie knew it, though she could not recall having met a wolf from the place. hurt billowed in her chest; rage threatened to lace her words with more harshness than she meant. caiaphas snapped a declaration, and erzulie blinked at the finality of it, before lifting her chin with a pride she did not feel.
"we can talk of it later. please; let me tend you, rosalyn. you will die of infection if i do not, and den it will be a moot point what you decide to do." there was a bite to her tone she could not keep hidden, but the harlot did not see how it was possible, not when faced with the very real prospect of losing the wolf dearest to her in all the world.