Myrika is by Bobbi!
She was sorry for the question, for the palpable trembling it provoked. But in Myrika's mind, words and expression were still a tool of healing, and she earnestly believed both might soothe some of the hurt apparent in the ghost-pale form. The sand-colored coyote had listened to Sparrow's disjointed story, shifted to show her the painlessness of the process, and watched with triumph as the coyote repeated the process. This memory of the power of words was strong within the hybrid. It still twisted something jagged and sharp inside her to hear the quiet, low voice and self-deprecation and feel the quavering in Cassie's limbs. She held fast and hugged more tightly again, still observant of visible scrapes and bruises.
No... not you, never you. She could not imagine her sister gazing on another with the sort of look Tyveni had given, let alone acting in a more despicable manner. She needed no words, no tale, to tell her that much. Though the flinching creature was a stranger, there was too much of the child Myrika recalled from youth left in voice and countenance and scent for her to separate the two. She bit back and swallowed more words threatening to bubble from her copper-streaked muzzle, allowing herself only the murmured disagreement. Quiet could not be derailed, and Myrika would keep it so, at least for a little while, and dare to hope it might provoke further words.
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