Celestine gives birth in the darkest corner of the jungle she can find. She does not fear Temblor, but she is wary of allowing him around her child; he is not the father, and such things will only hurt the foal when change inevitably comes knocking. In any case, she cannot expect Temblor to raise the child of another stallion.

She expects Temblor understands her avoidance; it’s nothing personal, after all. Eventually, she does emerge, tucking the girl away to sleep in the shelter of the jungle while she steps out into the curtain of heavy rain. Without the thick winter coat to repel at least some of the water, Celestine is immediately drenched, her alabaster mane and tail falling in shining white sheets against her neck and legs.

She finds him on the beach, turning as though pacing, his dappled grey coat glistening with rainwater. The tall draft mare utters a nicker of greeting, but the sound is lost in the soft pattering of raindrops on the sand. She halts a few strides away, and waits for him to acknowledge her.

“The child is asleep,” she informs him preemptively, assuming he will ask with the same straightforward attitude with which he had asked about Rehoboam on the beach. “Do you enjoy standing in the rain, or do you simply dislike it less than whatever it is you're avoiding?”