He could have told her where to find the best rabbits, or how to hunt, but this was not his duty. He could have turned her away and sent her back home, to a leader who was so weak in Larkspur’s eyes he did not see him as such. Yet the D’Angelo was quiet as he watched her eyes flicker and change, watched as she considered and finally made up her mind. His face did not move. He had boys who were learning to do this same thing—King responding better than Harlowe, but without the same conviction—and did not need to waste his time on a girl-child.
A voice whispered in his ears and they swiveled, but his face betrayed nothing. He had learned much since coming to these lands. Larkspur rose to his feet and followed after her, a broad-shouldered wolf with burning eyes. They could have been kin, given both their odd fur patterns. “If this is how y’hunt,” he grunted, speaking of her form. “Y’best keep an eye open fer the holes.” He had almost twisted a paw slipping in one, and was certain she could do the same with her small feet. “When y’do catch it—“ when, not if “—I’ll tell y’what to do.” It still surprised him she would not know instinctively. Then again, Larkspur was utterly devoid of pack-wolf instincts himself.
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