Blackfeather Woods far away across the field

Her ears canted far forward to catch the sound of the one word, one she didn't know terribly well. . .but from context clues, based on prayers she had heard, she could figure it out. Pain. She nodded, and then he moved to the other unknown bundle—and tore a tiny piece off and ingested it, just as she was accustomed to doing with unknown plants. None of the gobbling that had come with Astara's ill-fated introduction to deadly pink.

She moved forward, slowly, as if stalking prey, and snaked her muzzle out to take a small part of the leaf as well. It was bitter on her tongue; she was sure she made a face before swallowing it, feeling all of a sudden a lack of saliva. It was only temporary, because it pooled back up again, and she swallowed again,

and she swallowed again. The muscles in her throat moved compulsively—her gorge came up, as if to rid her body of the toxin. But Maegi held it down, staring at the dark man. Did you know Cicero? she asked him quietly, waiting for the plant to seize her body, her mind. My father.