[/html]Myrtle jumped, caught unawares, at Conor's sudden shout. He fumbled with the pot of water he was holding and ended up splashing the water all over himself and on the ground. Conor's cry had taken him by such surprise that his heart was now pounding even faster than it had been before, and his hands were shaking even worse. He saw the white wolf jump out of harms way just in time. Myrtle's hands shook and he could feel a twinge of pain in his chest. Why was he so worried for her? He shook his head and looked back down at his hands. Tiredness and fear was making his entire body shake. He tried to make it stop; it didn't work.
Dutifully, he continued to fill up the buckets, pots and pans with water and hand them off to the wolfdog woman. She didn't seem nearly as frightened as Myrtle was; she just looked angry, as if her hair would burst into flames from sheer rage. Myrtle handed her another bucket of water, trying not to quiver. His hands, however, shook on their own, and he tried not to splash any of the water on her like he had done to himself. The harsh reality of the situation took all the confidence he'd had only moments ago. No longer was he able to chirp a cheerful thank you to the girl anymore. He felt the fear piling up on him, threatening to crush him. Everything about this, now, was horribly scary. Myrtle frowned and gritted his teeth, determined not to let the fear get the best of him. His father had done that enough times for Myrtle to know how ridiculous it was. Myrtle was amazing (the fact itself was self-evident) and we would be the best pot-filler Dahlia de Mai had ever seen.
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