Sawtooth Spire when everything was broken, the devil hit his second stride

She's dead she's dead she's dead—

A more reasonable wolf would've investigated for signs to the contrary, but Wylla was already sinking into a miasma of grief by the time Phaedra stirred. It made her hiccup quite suddenly when her daughter croaked out an acknowledgement, and Wylla was very much the picture of Hollywood relief when she gasped and tears sprang into her eyes.

Baby, it's okay, it's okay, she crooned, seeking to shush Phaedra's stilted attempts at talking. She wasn't able to make the words out, anyway. She'd never been very good at that. The girl's impediment was forcing Wylla to become a better listener, but not when it was further hampered by cottonmouth. You fell down, but you're okay now.

A quick snuffle along the girl's belly, the sour and overly pungent scent of urine. Wylla grimaced. Now that Phaedra was awake, she was able to flip back through the mother's handbook in her head—devoid of several important chapters, I'm afraid—and suggested, let's go get you some water. Can you stand up?