When Tybalt stands up and moves away, the rain begins to fall in ernest on Foxtail’s head neck, drenching the dark fur and plastering it to her thin frame, making her look for gawky than ever. She sits up too, more out of habit than companionably toward Tybalt, and she watches him from the corner of her golden eye as he raises his head and howls. Foxtail could have told him that howling does nothing – hadn’t she tried it herself upon finding Bramble’s body? – but she remains silent until the sound of his voice no longer echoes off the distant walls of the crater.

When he finally does speak, it’s not in the typical calm rumble that she is accustomed to, and the wet fur on her neck instinctively rises and there is a brief flash of white teeth against the black fur of her lips. He speaks of imprinting, something that Foxtail will probably never understand. Females aren’t supposed to, after all. It is not within their realm of knowledge. Oh, she knows that Tybalt was devoted to Bramble, but their parents had seemed equally enthralled with each other, despite the fact that they were not a fated pair. Why imprinting is so much more important, more respected, than an actual conscious choice of mate seems nearly foolish to Foxtail. Of course, she’s never said this to anyone but an old uncle in her home pack; it’s not a popular opinion.

“Yes.” Foxtail replies, “she was.” Saying it doesn’t make her feel any better, though before the words had come out she’d been sure they would. She cannot sympathize – she has never been in love. But she knows that she hurts, and for now that’s all that really matters. “What now?” She asks, because even though she seeks to make herself feel better by inflicting pain on Tybalt, she still cannot quite imagine the idea of a life without him.