She wasn’t sure how long it had been, but the sounds of footsteps brought Mutia back to reality. Two voices could be heard. One was the man’s and the other was distinctly feminine. The feminine voice was admonishing the man and was clearly quite unhappy. Mutia froze for a moment, unsure as whether to bolt or to remain where she was. Thankfully as the voices neared, she could pick out enough of their conversation to determine that she most likely didn’t need to flee. At least, not yet. However, Mutia could just pick out a third set of footsteps which sent alarm bells through her mind even as she attempted to tamp down her flight instincts.

“I cannot believe you, Gerard! Of all the foolishness of yours that I’ve had to put up with, this by far takes the cake! Picking up a C’amine girl in the woods and just leaving her in your home is absolutely ridiculous! You should have brought her to my place! Gods above, did you even think about how this would look like?”

“Look, Miss Laurent, as I said before, she had fallen through the ice and time was of the essence! I needed to get her dry and warm and my place was the closest! ‘Sides, no one would think I was one o’ them bastards.”

“Language Mister Fournier! I taught you better than that!”

“Apologies, ma’am, but I...”

The feminine voice cut off Gerard’s. “Now that you’ve escorted me here, you best run along to the Watch and let them know what’s happened. Gods only know which pack is currently missing a member and I’m sure they’re worried sick. Best we stay alert and ready to hand her over the moment they come prowling about.”

One pair of footsteps grumbled off into the distance, but the second and third lighter sets continued up to the door. Mutia heard a knock followed by the voice that she had attributed to Miss Laurent.

“Providing that you are awake dear, please do not be startled as I’m coming in.”

Mutia clung to the sides of the tubs in wariness as the door opened just wide enough to allow the woman inside. Miss Laurent was a prim human wearing a layered frock and enough petticoats to appear much larger than she actually was. Her gray eyes were piercing and took in Mutia’s form as her white hair bobbed in time with her nod.

“Good. At least that fool man had enough brains to draw you a bath. Spent enough on that thing, may as well get good use out of it. Can you imagine how he typically uses it? For soaking dishes!” The words were coupled with a sniff of disdain. “Come girl, you’ve likely been in there long enough. Up up! Let’s get you dry and have a look at you.”

As Miss Laurent imperiously strode forward, Mutia could finally make out who owned the third set of footsteps. Dressed in a simple yet lined frock, a distinctly vulpine C’amine stalked in behind the human woman. Her brilliantly white fur had clearly spent much time being groomed and she carried both the air of an experienced servant as well as their insignia. Dark eyes darted about the room as the C’amine took stock of the situation. Those same eyes emanated resignation and matched the upturned sneer and swishing tail. The C’amine deposited her armload of various garments and fabrics upon the nearby bed before coming to attention besides the tub, somehow making the mere act of rolling up her sleeves dignified. At the snap of Miss Laurent’s fingers, Mutia felt those now exposed snowy white arms haul her out of the water and a starkly undignified yip leap from her throat.

Twisting within the C’amine’s grasp did little, and neither domineering woman acknowledged her displeasure. Great fluffy towels were thrown about her and both the vulpine C’amine and the human woman began to thoroughly scrub the water away. Mutia growled when a brisk tug pulled too hard upon her fur, but the C’amine simply flashed a smattering of hand gestures.

“Oh hush, you. Keep your growling to yourself. Only a child would have fallen into the lake as you did, so like a child you will be treated.”

Miss Laurent tutted aloud. “For shame, Charlene! Leave the poor girl be. She’s clearly half-starved and separated from her pack. A little understanding is in order!”

Mutia’s looked upon Miss Laurent in wonder. None of the humans that she had ever encountered before had understood the complex patterns of Langue des signes. Although, Mutia supposed that it shouldn’t be all that surprising considering how casually the human woman spoke to a Maitresse. For this Charlene to have earned the silver marque du serviteur she would have needed to spend nearly a decade in the employ of a family. Clearly Miss Laurent valued Charlene much more than as a mere servant. The respect was evident both ways as the Maitresse swiftly apologized with a closed fist circled about her heart and a lowering of her ears. While an apology was not offered to Mutia, the remainder of her toweling off became markedly more gentle.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

It took far longer than Mutia cared for before the two women released their hold on her. By the end of it all, Mutia found herself dressed in a slightly worn frock with a hole that allowed her tail to act freely and set upon the bed wrapped in a different set of blankets than before. These were patterned and made up of a patchwork design of different materials sewn together, quite unlike the simple things that the man had used. Despite this, Mutia absently found herself fondling a soft corner as she watched the two female interlopers busy themselves with dusting and tending to the cauldron roiling above the fire.

“Ugh. Such a man. Meat and potatoes. Of course it’s meat and potatoes. No carrots, no onion, not a speck of celery to be seen! Just meat and damned potatoes. It’s a wonder he doesn’t fall over from malnourishment!” A wooden ladle was procured and Miss Laurent took a critical sip before grimacing. “Not even any salt. This simply will not do.” Miss Laurent turned and gazed critically at Mutia. “Any allergies?”

Mutia reeled back in confusion at the sudden address. Allergies? What?

“Oh nevermind. You probably don’t know. Let’s see what we can do to fix this awful dinner.”

By the time that the man, Gerard, returned to the house Miss Laurent had managed to do something to the contents of the pot that made it smell positively exquisite. So enraptured by its enticing odor that Mutia elected to ignore it when the door opened and closed behind him.

“I see that you’ve made yourself quite at home Miss Laurent; Charlene.”

An imperious sniff. “This is my home, boy. I purchased it. It is in my name, and therefore it is mine.”

“As you so often love to remind me. Even though I am the one that lives here.”

Mutia dared a glance at the Maitresse.

“Lady Laurent is Mister Gerard’s Mother.” The double thumb press onto the C’amine’s lower cheek with an open palm were accompanied by a wry smile.

“It was your decision to take over this shack instead of staying at the main house. I mean, honestly, a woodsman of all things? Most third sons join the church. Why couldn’t you have just done that instead of wasting your days traipsing about the kingdom I can’t imagine. You clearly enjoy your comforts.” Miss Laurent’s eyes stabbed at the tub in the middle of the room. “You’d have more than just this if you had done the sensible thing.”

“I hardly think-”

A hand cut sharply through the air. “Enough! I am aware. We are ignoring your guest. Come, eat before the girl floats away. Skin and bone!”

Mutia found herself seated at the table across from the Lady Laurent in the only other chair to be found within Gerard’s home. She had attempted to remain swaddled on the bed in the increasingly comfortable quilts, but had been firmly extracted and seated under the firm hands of the Maitresse. Resigning herself to the overwhelming hospitality and the obvious fact that she was not going to be slain or kicked out into the snow again, Mutia simply watched quietly as bowls were set and tantalizing portions of dark stew were ladled. Her jaw quavered for a different reason as the thick heady aroma became stronger and the exhaustion of the day began to overtake the last fumes of adrenaline.

“Eat, girl. No harm will come to you.” Lady Laurent demanded.

While commanding, the underlying tone of reassurance simply magnified the emotions that threatened to spill over Mutia. She struggled to hold her spoon steady and nearly spilled the precious stew several times before finally managing to get a mouthful. It was warm. Familiar. Kind. Even with her head bowed low, Mutia was glad that everyone’s attention had shifted to Gerard and were too occupied to see the first tears fall.

“As I was sayin’,” the man spoke around a large hunk of potato, “no one at the Watch has seen any agitation amongst the local packs. I also haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary.”

“What about the gypsies? The Gitanes?”

“Most of the Gitanes have already roamed south for the season. But, I have to say, why are we not just asking her?”

Mutia froze as the weight of three pairs of eyes settled onto her. She felt the spoon leave her hands and clatter to the floor as she hurriedly tried to wipe her face with a corner of her sleeve but it was too late to try and hide, the dam had already been breached. Wracking sobs overtook her as Mutia curled onto herself, pulling her tail in close and holding it as if it were the rope that had saved her earlier that day. Warm, furred hands were upon her shoulders and the ever so soft quilt was returned to her.

“Dear girl, what has happened to your pack?” Lady Laurent’s voice was calm, but Mutia could smell the worry as well as she could hear it.

The Maitresse’s finger pads were callused, but gentle as they pulled Mutia’s head up to see the question repeated in Langue des signes. Mutia pulled away and drew the quilt in tight, her hands finding a corner as they rubbed fiercely. Lady Laurent began to speak again, but Mutia could just see Gerard’s hand whip up to stop the words out of her watery peripheral vision. She remained like this, warm in her borrowed quilt, her mouth still tasting the memory of another stew like the one she had eaten from. A long moment passed before her fingers finally released the corner she had found.

Mutia’s hands moved quickly so they would not falter.

“I have no pack. My mother is dead.”