Swiftcurrent Creek neck full of mockingbirds, all calling your name

And come forth he did, a silver-plated look of worry painted across his face. Hey, she is casual in her greeting, a gentle, but chaste brush of her nose to his cheek. The affectionate relationship that had begun to blossom between them was something Wren cherished, but today, the enthusiasm is not there.
She invites him to sit beside her, and if he were to accept, she would stretch out her legs onto the grass, one forepaw reaching out tentatively for his. A quiet lull of evening birdsong surrounds them before she finally opens her mouth to speak again, eyes pointed away. We need to talk about Germanicus. I think you were right. And laced within this is the implication that Silvertongue knows.