Sun Mote Copse whistle as I work

Skip didn’t much like storms. They were too loud and overstimulated the little boy. He huddled in the back of the den, trembling every so often. His family members took turns sitting with him—sitting on him, in Towhee’s case—and at some point, the exhausted bairn fell asleep.

He woke to birdsong and sunlight, the latter of which he could only feel when he tentatively peeked his head out of The Taigh. His red tail swayed as he felt someone brush close to him. Da, he thought fondly, ears pricking when Njord spoke.

Okay! the agreeable little fellow said, for once taking care to mind his volume.

He trotted out of the cottage, sea glass eyes brightening when he found the world a good deal smellier than usual. The wet air seemed to amplify everything. Skipjack breathed in deeply, taking a few moments to sort through the myriad scents before he finally turned his head.

His gaze was vague, naturally, but there was an expectant look on his face as he awaited his father and sister.