Sun Mote Copse and my whole earth shook

“Apologies,” he says almost automatically at her exclamation.

A beat of silence falls between them, during which the she-wolf rises to all fours. She scrutinizes him, so he takes a moment to do the same. He notes the golden fur with the splash of cream—that must’ve been what he saw from up on the ledge—on her chest. She’s sylphlike, with mesmerizing eyes the color of summer grass. His own eyes catch on the streak between them.

She speaks, her question prompting him to glance back toward the river and the mountain soaring over it. He can see the peak over the sparse treetops, though he doesn’t see any sign of Vixen. Vermouth sniffs the air but finds the wind’s not in his favor. He draws a breath, then looks back to the towheaded woman.

“For now,” he says. “You?”