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Hopkit is born with a twisted forepaw.
“Hawk-paw,” the medicine cat calls it.
“You’re making that up,” he says. “Because of your name.”
“No,” Hawkheart insists. “That’s just what it’s called. Hawk-paw.”
Hopkit bristles. “Why?” He’s only here because of his paw, because Hawkheart wants to see him. He doesn’t want to hear about what it’s called.
“Hawks sit on one leg in leaf-bare,” Hawkheart says. “Like how you stand on three.”
It’s not a very satisfying answer.
(It’s also not a true one. He finds this part out later. It’s called dead-paw, but Hawkheart didn’t want him to hear that, yet.)
He doesn’t pay much attention to his foot, not at first.
When Palebird has her litter, he and his littermates are evicted from the nursery, and they chase each other around camp.
“Race you to the Hunting Stones!” Sorrelkit says, and she takes off, bolting through the clusters of cats waiting for Hawkheart or Barkface to emerge.
Hopkit runs after her, tripping as he weaves under Talltail. “Be careful! Don’t hurt yourself!” the warrior calls, but Hopkit is already picking himself up and racing onward.
“I’m going to be the first to show the kits around camp,” he says.
“No! I am!” Sorrelkit says. “I’m faster. I beat you here.”
“It’s not fair! You got a head start.”
She doesn’t say anything about his foot. She’s his littermate; she thinks about it as little as he does.
But he’s getting older, and he’s starting to wonder if it matters.
Talltail is his favorite warrior, and he always takes time to be kind to him.
It hurts when he leaves.
Hopkit asks Meadowslip where he’s going.
“I don’t know, breezeling,” she says.
“Is he coming back?”
“I’m not sure,” she says, purring softly.
“Can I go with him?”
She shakes her head, grooming him gently. “No,” she says. “You have to be a warrior. And you don’t want to leave me behind, or WindClan, do you?”
“No,” he says. “But why’d Talltail leave? Talltail loved all of this, didn’t he?”
Meadowslip sighs. “I’m sure he does,” she says, “but sometimes…well, I don’t know. Go play with your littermates, now.”
He does, but he still wonders where Talltail is.
Sorrelkit and Pigeonkit get over it faster.
He starts to move on, refocusing on beating them in races and mock battles.
But still.
His unanswered questions hang in the air. Is it possible to love something more than WindClan?
All WindClan cats race.
They race from the nursery to the hunting stones, from the hunting stones to Tallrock, from Tallrock to the hunting grounds, from the hunting grounds to camp.
The life of a WindClan warrior can be neatly summarized as a series of races.
Hopkit is no exception. He races with his littermates, competing with them for the best pieces of prey. Palebird’s litter follows them, on legs still too short to run properly, but determined to try.
They get faster as they grow, and so does Hopkit. Sorrelkit and Pigeonkit don’t always beat him: defeats turn to ties and ties turn to hard-fought victories.
Hopkit likes running. He likes the wind in his pelt, likes the moment when he pulls ahead of his littermates and can feel their whiskers brushing past them.
When he’s running, all he’s thinking about is where he’s going. He weaves under warriors, or around them, as he gets older. He focuses his gaze on where he’s going.
“That’s the trick to running,” Talltail told him. He had just returned from a hunt, and Hopkit found him when there was still something wild in his eyes. “You look at where you’re going until you get there. Your paws know where they need to go.”
And they do. He sets his jaw and runs, and he doesn’t think about how the rhythm of his paws doesn’t match his siblings. He doesn’t think about how Talltail left. He doesn’t think about anything but where he’s going.
When he gets there, he picks the next place to run to.
Things are missing.
Talltail, for one.
Hopkit is getting closer and closer to his apprentice ceremony, and he’s not sure Talltail is coming back.
He doesn’t ask Meadowslip about him anymore. Sorrelkit and Pigeonkit were never close with Talltail, and they’ve already moved on. There’s no point to talking about something when no one has anything to say about it. He’ll have a warrior as his mentor in a moon and a half. Shrewclaw, maybe.
Hopkit doesn’t like Shrewclaw as much as Talltail, but he’s kind, and he doesn’t treat Hopkit any differently. Which is better than most of the warriors.
That’s another thing he’s missing. His paw. Or maybe, he’s missing when he didn’t notice it.
Now, though, it seems to swallow more and more of his attention. He’s off-balance when he runs, he doesn’t like to practice hunting, and Palebird’s kits are as fast as him on a bad day.
It’s not always a bad day, but when it is, he can feel the eyes of all of WindClan on him.
Hawkheart and Barkface are sympathetic, but he avoids them as much as he can. He doesn’t want to be a medicine cat.
Maybe they’re a third thing he misses. He used to spend more time with them.
But he can feel the warriors watching him, and he doesn’t want them to think he wants to be a medicine cat. No one has said anything, but they don’t have to say anything for him to worry about it.
Hopkit is getting older, and growing up means you notice absences more and more.
Talltail returns less than a moon before Hopkit’s apprenticeship.
He’s the first of the kits to greet him, nearly tripping over himself in excitement.
“You’re back!” he says, greeting him before Talltail can dip his head.
He knows he’s grown by how little he has to reach. When Talltail left, he still had to reach up to touch noses.
“I am,” Talltail says, purring.
“Meadowslip said she wasn’t sure, but I always thought you would come back.”
It’s not true, but Hopkit is beginning to appreciate the value of a strategic lie.
“My heart lies with WindClan,” Talltail says. (There’s a longing in his eyes.)
“I knew it.” Hopkit purrs, weaving through Talltail’s legs. “I knew you’d come back.”
Talltail agrees to help him practice hunting.
Hopkit settles into his crouch the way he’s seen apprentices do it, struggling to keep his balance.
Talltail presses his head down. “Keep your hind legs farther apart,” he says. Hopkit makes the adjustment. He shakes, putting more weight on his twisted paw than he can hold.
(Hawk-paw, Hawkheart had called it.)
“Your forepaws need to match,” Talltail says. “They’re for balance. If one is stronger, you’ll fall.”
(Later, he learned Hawkheart was lying to him.)
“But one is stronger,” Hopkit says. He glares at his twisted paw, willing it to straighten.
(Overheard its name from a circle of warriors.)
“Then put less weight on the other,” Talltail says, trying to soothe him.
It’s not that easy, Hopkit thinks. The weight has to go somewhere.
But he makes the adjustment best he can, until he feels like he’s balanced.
(They hadn’t seen him there.)
“Good,” Talltail says. “Now try leaping.”
He does, pouncing as hard as he could, and he lands on something sharp, blood welling, and he cries out in pain.
Talltail picks him up by the scruff of his neck — he’s getting too big for that — and carries him to the medicine den. The memory fragments before it forms, shock and pain welling together.
(They called it dead-paw.)
His paw heals, although it’s stiffer than it was, and he reaches six moons.
He sits with Sorrelkit and Pigeonkit, waiting for Heatherstar to call a meeting. Meadowslip had groomed them, but the weather is dry, and they’re already dusty.
“Let all cats old enough to fast gather in the Meeting Hollow for a Clan meeting!” Heatherstar calls, and they race to sit in the center of the clearing.
Sorrelkit and Pigeonkit’s ceremonies race by. Sorrelpaw and Stagleap touch noses, his sister practically spinning circles in excitement, and Pigeonpaw, somewhat more reserved, greets Doespring.
He stands alone, now, waiting for Heatherstar to call his name. He sits up straight, and tries to ignore the Clan whispering behind him.
Heatherstar nods, and he approaches her. Her gaze is kind, but he can’t tell if it’s from pity or sympathy. “Hopkit, you have reached the age of six moons, and it is time for you to be apprenticed.”
There is the beginning of complaints, but Heatherstar doesn’t give them a chance to speak up. “From this day on, until you receive your warrior name, you will be known as Deadpaw.”
There’s a quiet gasp — from his mother, most likely — but no protests, and Heatherstar continues.
“Your mentor will be Talltail.” The warrior steps forward, a warm expression on his face. “Share your sense of courage and adventure with him.”
They touch noses, and Deadpaw lets his new name ring in his head. It doesn’t bother him.
His paw is dead. He’s already learned to shift his balance, learned exactly how much weight can be put on it. His paw is dead, but the rest of him is alive, and he’s going to be the best warrior WindClan has ever seen.
Meadowslip and Talltail corner him not long after his ceremony.
“If you want to change your name to Hoppaw,” Meadowslip says, “I’ll ask Heatherstar.”
“You don’t have to accept it,” Talltail says.
Deadpaw shakes his head. “No, I’m happy with my name. It’s what it’s called, anyway.”
Meadowslip looks at him, her eyes dropping to his curled front paw. “You don’t have to put on a brave face, love. It’s alright.”
“You don’t have to be defined by this,” Talltail says.
His pelt puffs up with frustration. “My paw is going to be the first thing cats notice about me. It might as well be in my name. Get the introductions over with.”
That’s not why he’s alright with it, but he’s not sure how to put into words that it’s not a bad name.
“If you’re sure that’s what you want,” Talltail says.
“I’m sure.”
He’s happy Talltail is his mentor. The warrior is kind, and patient, but his expectations are high. He has a passion for the moor that Deadpaw understands, although he waxes philosophical in a way Deadpaw finds tedious.
“The wind — like the rain, like the river — calls the name of each star in its breath,” Talltail says. Deadpaw’s mouth is full of rabbit, so he can’t retort.
“The wind — like the earth, like the stone — anchors us to our home.”
Deadpaw scrunches his nose, dropping the rabbit.
“That doesn’t make any sense. We can’t live in the wind.”
“Maybe it doesn’t make sense to you,” Talltail says. His eyes shine with love. “But some ties are not so material.”
Deadpaw sighs.
“Fine,” Talltail says, “we’re doing battle practice today anyway.”
Deadpaw hates battle practice. Hunting is alright. He’s a good runner, and he can pounce now, having perfected his balance. But every time Talltail teaches him a new move, he has to spend twice as long on it as everyone else. He can rarely do it without modifications. Even the simplest claws and rakes require adjustments.
But he’s going to be the best warrior WindClan has ever seen, and that means being the best fighter as well as the best hunter.
Even if that means tolerating Talltail’s hymns.
He gets faster.
Better.
It’s hard work.
He hunts with Pigeonpaw. His brother has more strength in his jaws, more ability to land the killing pounce, so Deadpaw is the flusher.
Sorrelpaw is the chaser, still faster than Deadpaw.
They’re a good team.
WindClan has always hunted in threes. They run down rabbits with skill, not merely speed, mentors working together to make sure their apprentice can run in each position. All are equally important; Talltail, Doespring, and Stagleap wait by their sides, ready to step in if they falter.
But they fail less and less.
Deadpaw craves each victory, each successful hunt. Sorrelpaw and Pigeonpaw celebrate each day of training with him.
They’re getting better, faster. Each day is a day closer to becoming warriors, and it’s coming soon, gaining on them like they gain on prey.
Deadpaw is ready.
He knows the Clan still doubts him. Reedfeather favors putting him on hunting patrols, even though he’s perfectly capable of holding himself in a border skirmish, and he feels like the senior warriors are counting his contributions to the freshkill pile.
Deadpaw huffs. "Why can't they treat me like I'm normal?"
He shakes his paw, willing it to untwist.
"They're not treating you differently," Talltail says. "They're treating me differently."
Deadpaw tilts his head. "But why? You're one of the best warriors in WindClan."
Talltail laughs. "I know you think that, but a lot of WindClan doesn't still doesn’t trust me.”
"You came back," Deadpaw says. "Isn't that what matters?"
Talltail opens his mouth, searching for words. "What matters," he says, "is that we need to catch at least two rabbits."
Leaf-fall comes.
Sorrelpaw dies.
She catches greencough, the first patient of the year, before all the grasses had even died off.
It’s unexpected. She was strong; there was no reason to believe she would die.
But Barkface tended to her, gave her all the catnip he could, and Deadpaw and Pigeonpaw were forced to watch as their sister coughed, then stopped coughing, then stopped breathing, without getting a chance to say even the briefest goodbyes.
They don’t get to groom her when she is laid before StarClan. Barkface is afraid of greencough spreading, as leaf-bare begins and they retreat to dens. They can only watch as the elders carry her away, Meadowslip distraught and inconsolable.
Deadpaw chases, now.
Wrenpaw flushes for them. She can chase, too, but Deadpaw finds a certain satisfaction in filling his sister’s role.
(“Where’s Rabbitkit?” he asked, when only three heads poked out of the nursery, only a half moon after Sorrelpaw had died.
Barkface looked away. “In StarClan,” he said.
“No!” Deadpaw said. “She’s too young.” His tail lashed.
“StarClan comes for us all,” Barkface said. He looked sympathetic but Rabbitkit was so young. She hadn’t even left camp, hadn’t seen the moors, had never felt the wind whip past her unhindered.
“But she can’t run there,” Deadpaw said. “How is she supposed to get there?”
“Sorrelpaw will guide her,” Barkface said, his voice rough. “But it’s best not to dwell on that.”
“Why not?” he said, anger surging. It wasn’t fair. He had lost Sorrelpaw, why did he have to lose Rabbitkit as well?
“Because they’re dead,” Barkface said, his ears flat and his whiskers drawn back. “They’re dead, and watching over us with our ancestors.”)
Now, he chases rabbits to Pigeonpaw, running close enough to them that he feels like he can catch them. On some hunts, he does. Talltail says it’s important for cats to know how to hunt on their own as well as in groups.
But today is a group exercise, so he stays just behind it, conserving his speed.
Pigeonpaw never misses a kill.
They carry the rabbit back to camp.
“She liked the white rabbits best,” Deadpaw says.
“They all taste the same,” Wrenpaw says. “You can’t have a favorite color.”
(Rabbitkit was brown.)
“That’s not the point.” Pigeonpaw looks at their rabbit. “It’s not fair.”
“It isn’t,” Talltail says. “Life isn’t fair.” He takes a breath. He’s about to start a hymn, Deadpaw realizes. “The wind — like the rain, like the river —”
“Calls the name of each star in its breath,” Deadpaw finishes.
Understanding the words does not make him feel any better.
He beats Talltail in a mock fight.
“The gorse is in the wind,” Deadpaw says, “but not of it.”
“And so the hare runs through the gorse,” Talltail continues, “but does not belong.”
Talltail purrs. “So you have been listening?”
“I feel like you’re far too proud, considering I just beat you.”
(And if Deadpaw’s chest is puffed, it’s only because he still remembers the protests at his apprentice ceremony, the ones that weren’t Meadowslip and Talltail’s concern over his name.)
Talltail purrs harder. “That’s exactly why I’m so proud.”
His warrior ceremony begins at moonrise. It’s good timing; his vigil won’t be unbearable.
Pigeonpaw sits shoulder to shoulder with him, vibrating in excitement, even through the exhaustion.
“Let all cats old enough to fast gather in the Meeting Hollow for a Clan meeting!” Heatherstar calls.
Talltail and Doespring are sitting across from them. They look proud.
(Deadpaw doesn’t look at Stagleap.)
“Today, I perform one of the great honors,” Heatherstar says. “The making of new warriors.” She turns her gaze to their mentors. “Doespring, has Pigeonpaw learned the skills of the warrior? Does he understand the importance of the warrior code?”
“He does.”
“Then I, Heatherstar, leader of WindClan, call upon my warrior ancestors to look down upon this apprentice. He has trained hard to understand the ways of a warrior and learn your noble code, and I commend him to you as a warrior in turn.”
Pigeonpaw steps forward as Heatherstar steps down.
“Pigeonpaw, do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend your Clan, even at the cost of your life?”
“I do.”
“Then by the powers of StarClan, I give you your warrior name. Pigeonpaw, from this moment on, you will be known as Pigeonbreeze. StarClan honors your strength and courage, and we welcome you as a full warrior of WindClan.”
WindClan does not tell its apprentices if they have passed their assessments. There’s a moment of silence between ceremonies, when the new warrior licks the leader’s shoulder, as the Clan holds its breath, wondering if the process will repeat itself for the next apprentice.
Heatherstar steps back from Pigeonbreeze, makes eye contact with Talltail. “And Talltail, has Deadpaw learned the skills of the warrior? Does he understand the importance of the warrior code?”
“He does.” Talltail looks straight at him when he says this, and Deadpaw can tell how proud of him Talltail is.
“Then I, Heatherstar, leader of WindClan, call upon my warrior ancestors to look down upon this apprentice. He has trained hard to understand the ways of a warrior and learn your noble code, and I commend him to you as a warrior in turn.”
Deadpaw takes his brother’s place. He’s the same height as Heatherstar, but the way she holds herself makes him feel small. But there’s kindness in her eyes, and he stands proud.
“Deadpaw, do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend your Clan, even at the cost of your life?”
He thinks of Talltail’s hymns.
The wind — like the earth, like the stone — anchors us to our home.
He thinks of Sorrelpaw, of Rabbitkit. He thinks of Meadowslip and Wrenpaw and Bristlepaw.
“I do,” he says, and knows he means it.
“Then by the powers of StarClan, I give you your warrior name. Deadpaw, from this moment on, you will be known as Deadfoot. StarClan honors your strength and courage, and we welcome you as a full warrior of WindClan.”
There is no surprise or outrage at his name this time, only calls of celebration.
Talltail becomes deputy.
He didn’t expect it; there’s a kink in his tail when he accepts, but Deadfoot cheers for him. Talltail deserves this, and he deserves to be proud of it.
Today is a day for hymns.
Barkface announced it; he said the wind was blowing north.
“Which do you want to recite?” Talltail asks.
“I’m still pretty sure they don’t make any sense,” Deadfoot says. “But I think Ashpaw agreed to sing the gorse in the wind with me.”
“Ashpaw?” Talltail says, and Deadfoot forces his pelt down, embarrassed.
“Maybe.”
“Ah, the ravages of youth,” he teases. “Reminds me of when I was young.”
Deadfoot flicks his tail. “I’m pretty sure you were born with the elders. Besides, you never took a mate.”
“No,” Talltail says. “I didn’t. Just knew a cat, once.”
“Ah, the mysterious loner.”
“Something like that,” Talltail purrs. “In that case, I’m going to go see if Barkface thinks we’re ready to call it.”
He walks off, and Deadfoot searches for Ashpaw. She’s nearing her warrior’s assessment, and she’s certain to pass. She’s been able to outrun Deadfoot for nearly two moons.
“Are you ready?” she asks. “I’m singing the gorse.”
He purrs. “As you wish.”
The gorse in the wind is far from his favorite hymn. But —
“You called me the heather and I grew stronger,” Ashpaw sings.
“I called you the heather and brought rain for you to grow,” he says.
“The gorse grows and the wind blows,” they sing together, “and the moor sleeps.”
—there aren’t many duets.
Talltail becomes deputy, and then he becomes leader.
(A rare exception to the races.)
Tallstar appoints his first deputy. Mistmouse. An easy, noncontroversial choice. She used to be a tunneler — Deadfoot wasn’t even born when the practice ended, but he knows the rift in the Clan is still deep, only healed on the surface.
(Talltail confesses to him, on a hunt as equals, “I fear it won’t be truly healed until your generation of cats is all who’s left.”
“What do you mean?” Deadfoot asks.
“Because you won’t remember the conflict.”)
The gorse is in the wind, but not of it.
A battle breaks out on the RiverClan border.
RiverClan and WindClan are rarely enemies. RiverClan typically scuffles over Sunning Rocks, and WindClan and ShadowClan are age-old rivals. But one of the WindClan apprentices crosses the border, and a skirmish breaks out.
Pigeonbreeze dies.
Deadfoot doesn’t watch when they carry his body away.
“You’re ready for an apprentice,” Tallstar says. “And Ryestalk’s litter is ready for their ceremony.”
“Do you think so?” Deadfoot says, and he doesn’t look at his paw.
“Yes. The apprentices and younger warriors respect you; you’re more than ready to have your own apprentice.”
“Ashpaw doesn’t respect me,” Deadfoot says, but the praise makes him sit up straight.
Tallstar laughs. “Ashpaw respects you plenty.” He touches his nose to Deadfoot’s shoulder. “Give her some time.”
Deadfoot shakes his head. “You better make her a warrior soon, or she’s going to tear my ear off.”
“I’m not sure,” Tallstar says, teasing. “I think it’d be a good look for you.”
Mudpaw is a fast learner, and Deadfoot feels like he’s running out of things to teach him.
“Do you know any hymns?” he asks, sensing a singing day on the horizon.
“No,” Mudpaw says. “Do you?”
“Of course I do,” he purrs. “The hare is my favorite. So the wind blows through the moor,” he recites.
“And we run alongside it, but do not belong to it,” Mudpaw continues.
“Very good.”
“I only know it because Tallstar sings it,” Mudpaw says, but his chest puffs with pride.
“Tallstar knows a lot of hymns,” Deadfoot says. “I only know them because of him, too.”
“Can we hunt now?” Mudpaw asks.
“Yes,” Deadfoot says. “Let’s practice solo techniques, today.” Even if WindClan usually patrols in teams, it’s still important to be able to hunt independently. Tallstar drilled that into him, insisting he master his crouch.
Mudpaw nods, trotting forward. He has never questioned the capabilities of his mentor, never doubted Deadfoot’s abilities.
Deadfoot has never given him any reason to.
The next singing day comes after Ashfoot’s warrior ceremony.
“Would you like to sing together?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” she says, her eyes alight, “I was considering singing with Morningflower.”
Deadfoot steels himself, determined not to back down. “I was hoping we could sing the heather and earth,” he says.
She purrs. “Alright, as long as I can sing the earth.”
He bunts his head against hers. “As you wish.”
“Deadfoot, has Mudpaw, your apprentice, learned the skills of a warrior? Does he understand the importance of the warrior code?”
Deadfoot looks at his apprentice. Mudpaw is calm, forcing himself still, but his eyes gleam and his groomed fur shines.
I called you the heather and brought rain for you to grow.
“He has.”
“I, Tallstar, leader of WindClan, call upon my warrior ancestors to look down upon this apprentice. He has trained hard to understand the ways of your noble code, and I commend him to you as a warrior in his turn.”
Tallstar steps down, approaching Mudpaw.
“Mudpaw, do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend your Clan, even at the cost of your life?”
“I do,” Mudpaw says, his tail tip twitching.
“Then by the power of StarClan, I give your warrior name. Mudpaw, from this moment on, you will be known as Mudclaw. StarClan honors your courage and strength, and we welcome you as a full member of WindClan.”
Deadfoot is the first to call, “Mudclaw!”
“Did you know,” Ashfoot says, “that they sleep in dens all year round in the other Clans?”
Deadfoot looks at her — of course he knows, it’s a common topic of discussion after Gatherings for apprentices.
“Yes,” he says. “Why?”
She drags her tail across the ground, guiding him into their nest. “Barkface told me I’m expecting.”
He runs his temple against her jaw, twisting so he can see her. “Really?” he says, breathless at the idea. They had talked about kits, and Deadfoot wants a family, wants to raise kits with Ashfoot.
(He asked Barkface if he could pass on his foot, and the medicine cat had said he didn’t know.
“But does it matter?” Barkface asked.)
“He’s not sure, but he thinks so.” She closes her eyes, content, and Deadfoot leans into her, purring.
“You need to move into the nursery soon, then,” he says.
Ashfoot laughs. “I’m sleeping outside until the kits come, Deadfoot.” She rests her head on his shoulders, her ears pricked forward. “And then I’ll sleep in the nursery.”
“As you wish,” he says. (But he silently vows to talk to Barkface about convincing her.)
“Mistmouse is going to retire soon,” Tallstar says.
“Have you picked her replacement?”
They’re sitting out in the Meeting Hollow. Camp is quiet, with those warriors still awake treading quietly to avoid waking kits.
“I’ve yet to ask,” Tallstar says. “But yes.”
Deadfoot’s tail twitches, as he wonders who Tallstar is thinking of choosing — Hareflight, maybe? He’s only had one apprentice, but he’s a good warrior.
“So,” Tallstar says, “would you be deputy?”
Deadfoot startles, his tail stilling. “Me?” His shock shows in his tone, and Tallstar tilts his head.
“Of course. You’ve been a loyal warrior, Deadfoot, and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders.”
“I’d be honored,” he says, “but wouldn’t you like someone more experienced?”
“You’re plenty experienced,” Tallstar says. “You’ve got a good rapport with the warriors, and you help with all the apprentices. Cats turn to you when they have problems, and, well, I trust your judgement.” His ears tilt affectionately towards Deadfoot.
He meets Tallstar’s gaze, blinking slowly. “If I’m who you want, I’ll accept.”.
“Will you be deputy?” Tallstar asks, the words ringing with the voices of every leader who has asked this question before. “Will you fight by my side for the grace of WindClan?”
“I will,” Deadfoot says. “I will lay down my life for any cat in this Clan.”
Tallstar touches noses with him. “I’ll make the announcement tomorrow morning,” he says. “There’s no need to wake the Clan.”
Deadfoot purrs uncontrollably. “I need to see Ashfoot. She’ll want to hear.”
“Go,” Tallstar says. “And send my regards.”
Deadfoot squeezes into the nursery. Ashfoot is awake, her belly swollen.
“Deadfoot?” she says. “Go, I’ll come to you.”
He moves away from the nursery entrance. Ashfoot sits beside him, leaning into his side. “So,” she says, “what news justified coming into the nursery?”
“I’d visit more,” he says quietly, “but you always kick me out.”
“I need an excuse for a walk. But hush with that.”
“Mistmouse is retiring,” he says. “Tallstar asked me to be deputy.”
“And you accepted?”
“Of course,” he says. His mate purrs.
“Good,” she says. “Our kits will have the best warrior in WindClan for a mother and the deputy for a father.”
He rests his head on his, absorbing her scent, mingling with the night air. “Yes,” he says, “they will.”
A breeze runs across them, cool and sweet. Deadfoot cannot read the winds, cannot predict much more than the weather, but even so, he knows this is a wind of good tidings and strength.