Hoshor Plains I have no time for confession

The word “vale” intrigued Pie, though not as much as the exotic words that soon followed it. Montagne de Cigue, she repeated in her head, appreciating the poetic pronunciation. It sounded like another language; she wondered which one. She also wondered if Gurrier was a surname, title or something else.

Her lips parted to ask these questions when Pala’s latter words sank their claws into her brain. She knew the meaning of this term: “wean.” Her yellow eyes brightened and widened. Suddenly, it occurred to her that Pala might not be heavyset, she might be expecting.

Are you—? Treepie began to ask, then seemed to reconsider whether or not it was a polite thing to ask.

But the trajectory of her gaze certainly gave away her curiosity as she stared at the slight swell of the woman’s midsection. Were pups growing inside her now? She felt the same wonder that all mention of children always brought to her, now tinged with an intense dash of envy.