“Dovepaw?” Whitewing’s mew brought her back. “Are you all right?”
Dovepaw shook herself. “I’m just glad Briarlight’s got her warrior name.”
“She’s a warrior at heart,” Whitewing murmured.
It was true. Briarlight had never stopped fighting for a moment. Jayfeather had devised exercises to keep her chest clear and strengthen her forelegs. And Briarlight never missed a chance to practice them: stretching and twisting, reaching out with her forepaws until she trembled with the effort and her pelt grew matted. The past few days she’d insisted on fetching her own food from the fresh-kill pile, though her Clanmates often tripped over one another trying to be the first to carry the tastiest morsel to her nest in the medicine den.
“I’ll get my own,” Briarlight had told Cherrykit, who had tried to give her own meal to the injured young cat.
Cherrykit had stared with round eyes at Briarlight as she hauled herself with her forepaws across to the fresh-kill pile.
“Look, Molekit!” Cherrykit had called. “She’s doing it herself!”
Molekit had come running. “Go, Briarlight!” he cheered.
Dovepaw secretly thought the two kits and Jayfeather had been Briarlight’s greatest allies; they alone accepted her entirely as she was now. Millie’s gaze was still clouded with grief, and pity flashed in every warrior’s eyes when they saw the young cat hauling herself across the camp. Mousefur could not even look at Briarlight. She still blamed herself for the tragedy that had killed her best friend and crippled the young warrior.
In spite of their horror, most of the Clan was getting used to Briarlight’s injury. They no longer stared with startled eyes at the medicine den when she wailed and yowled under Jayfeather’s instruction.
“It’ll keep your chest clear,” he’d encouraged. “Yowl your head off if you have to. Your Clanmates won’t mind.”
The treatment seemed to be working. Briarlight’s hind legs were no better, but her fur was sleek, her eyes brighter each day, and her forelegs as strong as any warrior’s.
They didn’t even tremble now as Molekit clawed his way up the newest warrior’s pelt and balanced on her shoulders. “Briarlight!” he cheered.
Millie nosed him off crossly. “Be careful!”
“It’s okay,” Briarlight insisted. “I bet I can carry both of them.”
“Really?” Cherrykit’s eyes sparkled.
“Don’t you dare!” Millie warned the kits.
Graystripe softly pushed his mate away. “Let them have some fun.”
“We’ll be warriors, too, soon!” Molekit bundled his sister over in a surprise attack.
“You’re not even apprentices!” Briarlight teased.
Dovepaw gazed at her old denmate. How could she act so cheerful?
Whitewing leaned forward and licked her daughter’s ear. “Don’t forget, we’re gathering moss for the new elders’ den.”
How could she forget? For days, she’d been helping to weave the honeysuckle around what was left of the beech branches where the old den had stood. The new den was spacious and strong. Purdy and Mousefur would move in as soon as the new nests were built.
She gazed around the camp, accustomed now to its new shape. The warriors’ den was lost for good, crushed by the trunk. But the thick boughs of the beech, which arched over half the clearing and pressed against one side of the hollow, gave plenty of new shelter. There were plans to shape a brand-new warriors’ den around the thickest of them; rescued branches had already been stacked, ready for construction to begin. The nursery looked safer than a badgers’ set, enclosed in a thick tangle of roots that had been woven where possible to form a protective shell around the old bramble bush.
“Come on.” Whitewing flicked Dovepaw’s flank with her tail-tip. She beckoned to Toadstep and Rosepetal. “Are you ready?”
The two warriors trotted to meet them.
“Where’s Ivypaw?” Dovepaw glanced around the clearing, and spotted her sister slipping in from the dirtplace tunnel.
“I’m coming!” Ivypaw bounded across the clearing. “See you later, Briarlight!” she called cheerfully.
Briarlight had lain down in a spot of weak sunshine, while Molekit and Cherrykit clambered over her. She lifted her head and purred at Ivypaw. “Can’t you take these two with you?”
“I’m afraid you’re stuck with them for another moon yet,” Ivypaw joked.
“Hey!” Molekit objected. “We’d come if we could!”
Ivypaw bounded to a halt beside Toadstep. “A dawdling cat gathers no moss,” she teased the black-and-white tom.
Dovepaw weaved around them. “I bet I collect the most,” she challenged.
Ivypaw shrugged. “If you say so.”
Dovepaw tensed. Ivypaw was acting really weird lately. She’d been like this since the tree fell. Had she guessed Dovepaw’s powers? Was Ivypaw blaming her for not warning the Clan sooner? Dovepaw shook the thought away.
She watched her sister race after Toadstep and Rosepetal toward the camp entrance, still not sure if she was imagining Ivypaw’s coldness.
“Watch this!” Ivypaw called to Toadstep as they reached the slope leading down to the shore. She skidded onto her belly and slid three tail-lengths down the soft grass.
