Mothwing woke from the familiar dream with a gasp, still reaching out for her lost littermate. One paw brushed against Hawkfrost, who woke with a grunt. “Stop,” he muttered, and then, more quietly, asked, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Mothwing told him. She could see his eyes glittering in the darkness of the den, watching her, so she rolled over and turned her back to him. She didn’t want to talk about what she’d seen, even though Hawkfrost was the only one who would understand.
The dream was over, but the rest of the memory played out in her mind. Sasha managing to open the window, and Hawk and Moth tumbling out into the freedom of the grass. Their mother howling Tadpole’s name. Peering past her, Moth had seen Tadpole surface, his paws outstretched toward Sasha, then sink again.
The rain had beaten down on Moth’s head as she strained toward the ledge, expecting at any moment to see Tadpole’s small, determined black face, but he hadn’t appeared again. Tadpole had been the strongest of them, the bravest. She couldn’t believe he wouldn’t survive, not when she and Hawk had. But Tadpole had drowned.
Moth hadn’t been able to stop shivering. Hawk had clawed at their mother, trying to jump into the water and pull Tadpole out, but Sasha had held him back. Her eyes shining with grief, she had said it was too late. Hawk had collapsed onto the ground, wailing, and Moth had lain down next to him, pressing her side to his, shaking hard.
One thought had cut through her sorrow like a claw: from that point on, she and Hawk would have to stick together. Without Tadpole, they would need each other more than ever.
At last, Sasha had shepherded them back to their den in the woods and dried them with short, rough licks, then curled up and fallen asleep without a word. Hawk had slept, too, an uneasy, whimpering sleep. But Moth had stayed awake, her eyes on her brother’s tabby form.
“We’ll both be as brave and strong as he was,” she’d whispered. “I’ll never leave you, I promise.”
Now Mothwing rolled over and looked at her brother again. Dawn light, chilly and clear, had begun to spread through the den. “We’ll stay together,” she whispered, her chest aching with love and sorrow. Whether she belonged in RiverClan or not didn’t matter. Her home would always be where Hawkfrost was.
They belonged with each other. Without Tadpole, without Sasha, that was all they had.
Later that morning, Mothwing brought up the rear of a fishing patrol as they returned to camp, a minnow dangling from her mouth. Her paws felt heavy and her eyelids were drooping—the little sleep she had gotten hadn’t been restful.
“Hi,” Hawkfrost greeted her, coming up to her as she dropped the minnow onto the fresh-kill pile. “Did you catch that?”
Mothwing yawned. “No, it’s Stormfur’s. I was helping him carry some of his catch.”
Hawkfrost’s tail twitched. “He’s good,” he admitted. “But you should be better.”
“I am good at fishing,” Mothwing argued, offended. “I’m just tired today.”
“I know.” Hawkfrost glanced around and then led her toward the edge of camp, where they couldn’t be overheard. “Listen,” he mewed urgently. “We have to do our best all the time. Not every cat wants us here.”
Mothwing sighed. She knew. Because they hadn’t been born in the Clan, because their mother had been a rogue, some cats would always see them as outsiders. And if they ever find out that Tigerstar, who almost destroyed the Clans, was our father, things will be much worse. “But what can we do?” she asked, helpless.
Hawkfrost crowded closer, his pale eyes intent on hers. “Some cats don’t want us. But I heard Leopardstar telling Mistyfoot what strong cats we are and what good additions we are to the Clan. Our leader and deputy believe in us.”
“That’s good.” Warmth curled through Mothwing. Mistyfoot had been her mentor, and Leopardstar had startled the whole Clan by taking Hawkfrost as her apprentice. The leaders of RiverClan wanted them to belong.
“If we both do our best, all the time,” Hawkfrost told her, his ears pricked with excitement, “every single one of the RiverClan cats will have to accept us. Maybe we’ll be the leader and the deputy one day.”
“Maybe,” Mothwing mewed. She couldn’t see herself leading RiverClan. But she could be a good warrior. And maybe Hawkfrost would rise to be leader, someday. If he’s determined to be the best warrior he can, I’ll be right by his side.
Chapter 2
A few days later, Mothwing picked her way over the muddy ground at the edge of the river, her tail drooping. I can’t wait to get back to camp and rest, she thought. Her dreams of Tadpole’s death had been more frequent lately, keeping her awake in her nest until it got so late that sleep pulled her under despite her racing thoughts.
Ahead of her, Hawkfrost sniffed eagerly at a small, limp-leaved plant. “Is this it?” he asked.
Mistyfoot circled back around to look, Mosspelt and Swallowpaw close behind. “No,” she told him. “Didn’t Mudfur tell you all what watermint looks like? The leaves are lighter-colored and more oval.”
Mosspelt flicked her ears. “I knew that.”
Swallowpaw peered at the plant. “Those are sort of oval,” she mewed. “Are you sure this isn’t right?”
Mothwing yawned. Her eyelids felt so heavy. Mistyfoot’s blue eyes passed over her, then looked around the circle of cats.
“We don’t really need so many cats on a patrol like this,” she decided. “Mothwing and Hawkfrost, why don’t you head back to camp? Mothwing looks like she could use some sleep.”
Mothwing ducked her head and licked at her chest hot with embarrassment. “I’m okay,” she insisted, but Mistyfoot waved her off.
“The three of us can handle it,” the deputy told her.
Hawkfrost dipped his head and replied, “Yes, Mistyfoot,” while shooting Mothwing a threatening glance. He swept past her, and she followed him back toward camp, eyes fixed on his brown tabby tail.
When they were out of sight and hearing of the patrol, Hawkfrost whipped around to face Mothwing. “Moth, we need to do well on patrols. We have to be the best. You know that.”
Mothwing stiffened. “It’s Mothwing now. You know that.”
“Exactly.” Hawkfrost relaxed a little and brushed his tail over hers. “It’s okay. We can practice some fighting moves when we get back to camp. That’s more important than looking for herbs anyway.”
Mistyfoot told me to get some rest, not to play-fight. Mothwing’s pelt prickled with irritation, but she didn’t say anything. She’d rather practice battle moves with her littermate than argue with him.
Pushing her way through the reeds at the entrance to camp, Mothwing sniffed, picking up a strange smell. The mustiness of oak leaves mixed with the familiar scents of the RiverClan camp. “What’s that?” she asked.
Hawkfrost gestured with his tail toward the medicine den. “The ThunderClan medicine cat,” he said. “She must have come to talk to Mudfur.”
Mothwing looked at the strange cat curiously. She had never seen her before—Leopardstar hadn’t taken her and Hawkfrost to a Gathering yet—but the dark gray she-cat must be Cinderpelt. She looked small next to the broad-shouldered RiverClan medicine cat, whose light brown fur was speckled with gray. Mudfur had been a warrior before he became a medicine cat, and he still looked as powerful as any RiverClan warrior.
The two were deep in discussion. Mothwing pricked up her ears, intrigued. There was something fascinating about medicine cats. They knew so much! This past newleaf, Mothwing—she had still been Mothpaw then—had been bothered by pains in her belly, and Mudfur had been so kind, and so confident, as he fed her herbs to make her feel better, and he had reassured an anxious Sasha that Mothpaw was in no danger.