Wheeling Gull Isle Some feathers I stole from the birds

It was only when Mou arrived and she caught the word "they" did the entire picture occur to Maegi. It wasn't just Niamh—just was such a limiting word, but alas—

The babies, she said, abject horror painting each word. Can we save them? Can we—

She had tried once before. Well, sort of. Right here on this island, the babes had survived, but the mother had perished. And that was under the paw of experienced healers; she had only been a witness. Now, it was just her and Mou, and, oh, Jaes, the woman from years ago had been alive still when she'd birthed the pups, long enough to give them names. . .

This—was it too late?

Maegi pressed her cheek against the gilded abdomen, listening. Straining to hear some sign of life. She rose up, kneading, pleading with Jaes to save these children, they didn't deserve to die, too; they hadn't even lived—!

Please, she whispered, unsure of whether she spoke to her god, or to Niamh's silent body, or to Mou, or,

I, myself, have taken life with poisons, Pharaoh.

She wasn't meant to bring life into this world. All she brought was death.

Please, she moaned, but the belly remained unmoving beneath her busy paws.