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"The flowers are fading."
Tavern Keeper lowered her ears in response to these words. This was worse than a bad omen, worse than Sirin singing in the thicket. And far more frightening than a flower wilting on the windowsill.
"Don't say that." Her usually joyful meow faded to a stifled hiss. "This... This shouldn't happen. You are the spirit of spring, after all."
"There were signs." Midwife merely shrugged, her tone unchanged, as if speaking to a patient. "I've been shedding for a week now. I'm not able to cure myself."
Tavern Keeper approached, slowly, silently. She twitched her nose—and then immediately tucked both tails between her legs, realizing that the usual floral trail had been replaced by something cold and mossy. This hadn't happened in any previous year. Yes, ever since the Beast appeared in the Unknown, since the warm seasons had ceased, Midwife had been half-asleep most of the day, but she never smelled of death. The scent of disease didn't cling to such a creature, no matter how many people she visited, and it was noticeable: a cat with two tails, standing on hind legs, and of a human mind doesn't become any less of a cat.
It became worse. It was always scary, but the presence of spring itself within the tavern offered a faint ray of hope. There had been nothing but winter and autumn for a long time, but the missing season was always within sight, always clear that warm days could return.
And now the warmth was fading. Literally: taking Midwife's hand, Tavern Keeper realized that her skin had become cold, too different from the warm pads of her paws.
"Don't." It wasn't a hiss anymore, more like a hoarse whisper, tinged with tears. "Stay. You can't... You can't leave. Not now."
In response, she only hugged her, burying her face in the familiar white bonnet with slits for the ears. The bamboo pipe fell to the floor, along with its stand. They didn't care.
"I won't leave. I don't believe the Beast is capable of such a thing. As long as he's here, I can't leave, but he might be gone."
"Are you kidding? Who would dare attack him?"
Midwife smiled weakly.
"Anyone. Whoever loses their patience first. People in Pottsfield have been complaining about the crop failure for a long time, and Langtree won't let her students out of the door. Endicott probably doesn't care, but one day he'll find out why his wife has been wandering as a ghost for ten years. I'm afraid of the Beast because I can't do anything to him, but there are creatures far stronger. He's made of wood. A tree wouldn't survive even one blow from a claw."
"That's true." Tavern Keeper sighed, burying her nose in withered hair, which smelled of dying grass. A dried chamomile fell onto her shawl. "I can only hope that someone will overcome themselves sooner."
"Sooner" happened that same night.
***
"I'm tired of you, Beast. I won't carry your lantern anymore."
Woodsman bared his teeth, staring into his large, shining eyes. The full moon shone faintly through the veil of clouds. He tried not to get down on all fours even on nights like these, but now he no longer cared about humanity: sometimes a wolf needs to be a wolf.
"Don't you want to help your daughter? Don't forget, she will die as soon as the lantern goes out."
"You're lying once again! She's not there!" His voice almost broke into a hoarse bark. "I heard her howl last full moon."
"Are you so sure? That's a lie, Woodsman. Anyone could have."
"There haven't been any other werewolves in the Unknown for a long time. I won't let you trick me anymore."
The Beast took a step back. He didn't know how wolves prepared to pounce, but the bristling fur was definitely not a good sign. He wanted to say something else, but the lies were already spilling: werewolves had long since died out in this forest, there had never been any regular wolves, and a dog, be it three-headed or the size of a bull, howls incoherently, not as a call. He retreated another step and held his hands out in front of him, choosing his words.
"Don't bother with your tongue. If you want to live, take the lantern, and then run and feed it yourself. I've got to know you. You're no stronger than a puppy."
The Beast hunched over, pressing his back against the tree.
"You don't understand. You live on empty hope. Listen to my voice, Woodsman. I don't..."
He didn't have time to finish, as he was pawed in the chest and fell sideways like a young birch. He tried to push away, but, miscalculating that werewolves were larger than ordinary animals, he only scratched her—the bark peeled off his wrist like an apple peel. He was held to the ground, pinning him with all the considerable weight, holding his head up. The Beast had never felt the fear of death. He had always been the one feared, the one who controlled the entire forest, and he never imagined that one day someone would dare attack him. It wasn't even fear: more confusion, incomprehension.
"An axe isn't needed for such rotten wood."
Strong fangs sank into the wood of the neck. There was no cry, no taste of blood. Only the foul smell of edelwood oil, which only made Woodman sneeze; although the canine's nose was more sensitive, he himself carried this scent on the back of his neck and had long since gotten used to it. Licking his muzzle, smeared with the shiny black liquid, and wiping his tongue and paws on the withered grass, he rose to his hind legs again.
"It's long overdue."
Dawn was breaking, and the fur was beginning to peel from his face. As soon as Woodsman felt his hands becoming human enough, he took the axe and, sighing, struck through the lantern's glass. The fire flared one last time and died down, leaving an empty iron frame. Light was no longer needed; the sun, as if sensing freedom, shone brighter.
Throwing on his jacket, the wolf-man turned and went home to his long-waiting puppy.
***
The tavern was quiet in the morning. Not everyone was awake yet: the vampires and baku hadn't slept half the night, ones watching the sky, other stumbling over dreams. Dawn always seemed a little sluggish. However, Tavern Keeper was usually the first up, a responsible creature, albeit with a cat-like urge to lie by the fireplace.
But today, as soon as she left the room, she closed her eyes at the strong scent of flowers and fresh grass. Twitching an ear in surprise, she descended the stairs; the railing had also sprouted, adorned with an uneven row of daisies. Something like "a good sign" flashed through her mind, and, glancing into the hall, she realized she was definitely not mistaken.
Midwife stood by the open window, her hand on the frame. Fresh tendrils of morning glory slid from her palm. The roof was dripping, and the sun's rays cast wide, warm stripes across the wooden floor. The window overlooked the stable; Fred was still asleep, but Midwife had apparently reached him as a joke: a dozen yellow water lilies grew scattered on the kelpie's damp mane.
"Are you awake yet?"
This time, Tavern Keeper's voice was not strained, but soft, a familiar, cozy meow. Midwife turned and approached, wordlessly sweeping the gotokuneko into her arms.
"I told you so."
The only response was a quiet, purring laugh.