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The verbal exchange lulls and in its place comes the roar of the storm and — warmth. Body heat, touch, and while it had existed between them in the moments prior, Maleah feels a stir of something foreign she cannot quite put a name to. It is tender. She feels acutely the worn pads against the tendons in her paw.
What was this?
The healer says nothing else for a while; Mireille's pain has at last thawed, at last released it's grip if only for this moment, and Maleah decides to sit in this lapse with her, to ride it out with her as if it too were her own.
She felt as if in some way it was. Was that not her job, her calling? To carry the weight and the pain of others? This was her job, as it had always been.
But there was true care in this, true sorrow, true mourning as a woman of Sapphique. And, just as well, some part of Maleah, some deeply buried part of her, reaches out in earnest for Mireille, and she allows it.