Swiftcurrent Creek compa

"wren," and silvertongue's voice was tight with the effort of an attempt to hold herself, to hold them, together — "say it. speak to me, all right?" men did this; men sank into themselves and swallowed everything down into an ulcer. or women did it for men, to leave things unsaid as not to be complicated. as she had done for crowfeather. her glassblue eyes did not plead, but they asked — weren't they both still trying? and she had discovered two surprises, two, she realized, as she stood watching the creek woman. the first was that she felt quite strongly for wren, and did not want this small flame between them ended so swiftly. it was something in the embers of which she had tasted a tiny hope for the first time. the second was that this realization had not been accompanied by embarrassment or chagrin, only a little warm flicker and acceptance. this too, a first thing; this too, something silvertongue did not wish to squander or to miss.