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“…Thresher.”

That hurt, but the pain was not new — it was just another wave in a deep, rolling sea of grief, so the sheepdog did not flinch. On the bright side, if Moorhen wasn’t missing anything, then maybe she would defy the odds and stick around. The unlikely pair had already defied so many odds to get to this place, shoulder-to-shoulder, and Seelie shifted to walk closer still to the wolf who had once been a tiny seashell. She rubbed her cheek against the banded raven’s thick collar of neck ruff.

The wolf in Seelie understood and appreciated what Moorhen was trying to say. After all, Cortens were notorious wanderers. The sheepdog side, though — and the mothering side! — protested mightily. Maybe that was why she’d chosen to make her home on an island. The boundaries were clearer and it was easier to count heads in such a confined space. “Happy,” Coelacanth whispered, tucking her ears back as she nuzzled warmly at the crest of Moorhen’s withers, rising up on tiptoe to do so. “Happy with you — happy you come.” She stopped indulgently as both puppies doublebacked to scrabble against her and Moorhen’s forelegs, lured by what they thought was a game waiting to happen. If ŭmma and Moorhen were doing something, Sixgill and Koi wanted to be included — they both had serious cases of FOMO.