Ysabet unlashed the mouth of the provision sack and set the three heavy stoneware pots of Gevren’s orchard honey beside the mouse’s box, along with the canvas bag of clean quarry limestone and pale spar they had hoarded since leaving the foothills.
Pip’s nostrils flared. Since the quartz cave had left the faint interior lights flickering behind its ribs, the creature’s appetite had doubled; even now the loose folds along its flanks curved inward toward its spine, and the lower rim of its translucent shell looked chalky where it met the hide. It reached one narrow forefoot toward the nearest honey pot, then stopped with its claws resting on the twine binding.
“Twelve moths that size will drink all three jars before their wing veins warm through,” Ysabet said quietly, keeping her voice plain. She did not stroke Pip’s head or use the coaxing tone she used with frightened foals. “And we’ll have to crush half the sweet-spar into the honey so their muscles don’t cramp in the cold air.”
Pip turned both amber eyes up to her face. Inside its chest, the pale lights pulsed once and dimmed. Its scarred jaw parted sideways with a dry scrape of tooth plates.
