Ouroboros Spine xlviii. one day, we'll reveal the truth

She had avoided the moonwife, though not with any malicious intentions or to hurt the winterwhite -- she had avoided them all, unwilling to face what they thought was the truth shining in their eyes, this silent pity for the pregnant wife in denial that her husband wasn't coming back. But when Kukutux appeared on her doorstep with the softest whisper of empathy, a ghostly figure -- a mirror image, the pain in her eyes both for Lótë and for her own lost mate -- of grief, her sigh whistled hollowly through the Baptiste's chest like wind in the bare branches of autumnal trees. It unwound the last certain resolve in her heart and it broke. 

The dove's lips parted as if she would greet her sister but her mind raced in a thousand different directions and no words were forthcoming. They closed, tongue flicking over them before they separated once more and she tried again. "Tell me true, my dear friend," her words trembled in spite of how she clung to her composition, to any semblance of inner strength she might possess, "am I a fool not to mourn?"