Sunset Valley Who tends the orchards? Who fixes up the gables?

morwenna’s body curved protectively around him, sheltering him from the chill air that stirred outside their hidden hollow. his breathing, shallow and uneven, tugged at her like fishhooks in the chest. every soft whimper, every shift of his tiny frame, every silent plea—she heard it all. she felt it in her marrow.
my brave boy, she whispered into the thick of his ruff, her voice frayed, raw with sleeplessness and desperation. she licked his crown again, slow and careful, even though she knew he’d grown tired of it. of her.
i know, came her murmur as his nose touched her paw. the mixture clinging there was not milk but a poultice—ground herbs, bitter and strong, meant to dull the pain in his shattered limb. this will help you, caan. not now… but soon. you must be patient with me. just a little longer.
she bent to nudge his broken leg, gentle, and began to chew the poultice into the fur around the break—spitting it, working it in so it might soak beneath the skin and take root. you are not alone in this. you will never be alone.
her nose pressed to the soft place between his ears. i will carry your pain if i must. her breath trembled. but you must stay, caan. you must live.
outside, the wind howled like a mourning mother. inside, morwenna held her son closer, wrapping around him as if to become a second skin. there was no space for gods now. only her hands. her mouth. her will.