Clover willow's Arc

Chapter 3 of 20

The foxcat healed by dawn. Clover thought the hard part was over. But three days later she climbed the slope with fresh moss and found the fox-woman already there. The blond woman leaned against the guardian's tree, close enough to touch him. Her red-striped tail curled near his leg. She laughed at something he said. Clover stopped, moss slipping in her hands. The two looked easy together, like old friends. Or more. The guardian saw Clover and smiled. "You came back again." His wings shifted, catching the light. "This is the one who feeds the wolf. She helps me watch the wounded." "We've met," the fox-woman said. Her amber eyes found Clover. "By the stream. She forgot her basket." A small smile. "She learns slow." Heat rose in Clover's face. She wanted to leave. Instead she knelt and set the moss down. "I brought this. In case a splint needs changing." The guardian nodded, pleased. Then a sharp cry cut the grove. A bird thrashed in the brush, one wing bent wrong. The guardian moved toward it. The fox-woman stepped the same way. Both reached for the same task. Clover made her choice before she could think. "I'll hold it," she said. She scooped the bird against her chest, firm but gentle, the way she'd carried the foxcat. It fought, then stilled under her hands. "Tell me where the break is." The guardian knelt beside her. His fingers found the bent wing. "Here. Hold steady." He glanced at the fox-woman. "Bring the willow bark." The fox-woman did not move at once. She watched Clover hold the bird. Then she went and fetched the bark. She handed it over without a word. The guardian bound the wing while Clover held. When the bird calmed, he looked at Clover, not the fox-woman. "Your hands are steady," he said. "Steadier than mine tonight." The fox-woman brushed dust from her palms. "You don't need me for this one." Her voice held no anger. Something else. She studied Clover a long moment. "I thought you'd run the first night. You didn't." She stepped back. "I feed his wolf. I bring him herbs when he asks. That's all I am to him." A dry laugh. "You wanted to know. It was written on your face." Clover's grip loosened. The bird nestled deeper. "I didn't say anything." "You didn't have to." The fox-woman turned toward the ferns. "He watches you now. Not me." Then she was gone into the trees, tail flicking once. The guardian tied the last knot. His shoulder pressed warm against Clover's. "She's right," he said quietly. "I do watch you." Clover held the healing bird and felt her fear break loose. The fox-woman was no rival. But now the guardian had said the thing plainly, and Clover had to answer it. She had wanted his heart from a distance for eleven years. Now he was close, waiting, and she did not know what to say.