The yowls of welcome rang out around her, mainly from the other medicine cats. Yellowfang’s heart swelled with a mixture of pride and comradeship at the thought that she was one of them, privileged to care for her Clan and to interpret the signs of StarClan for them.
Then she caught Raggedpelt’s eye. He had not joined in the cheering; instead he was scowling at her. He had hardly spoken to her in the half-moon since she had taken her vows as a medicine cat.
Yet Yellowfang could not stifle a pang of regret for what she had lost. Instead Foxheart clung to Raggedpelt’s side like a burr; she was there now, leaning close to him, whispering into his ear.
As Heatherstar began to speak, Yellowfang felt a strange wriggling sensation in her belly. She shifted around among the fallen leaves, trying to get comfortable.
Sagewhisker gave her a prod. “Keep still,” she hissed. “I can’t concentrate on what Heatherstar is saying.”
“Sorry,” Yellowfang muttered.
“Do you have a pain somewhere?” Sagewhisker asked. “Have you eaten crow-food by mistake?”
“That must be it,” Yellowfang agreed.
But she knew what this feeling was. She’d treated enough pregnant queens now to recognize the quiver of unborn babies, even before their mother’s belly had begun to swell. Yellowfang tried to block out the sensation, wondering which of the queens around her could be expecting kits. But the wriggling went on, even though Yellowfang held her breath with the effort to concentrate on her own stomach.
Which meant that these weren’t the feelings belonging to another cat. These were truly inside her belly, kicking and squirming and growing… A cold sensation of dread crept through Yellowfang’s fur.
“Why are you always so tired these days?” Sagewhisker asked her as Yellowfang forced herself to draw her paws over her ears in a sketchy grooming. “And you’re putting on weight, too. Maybe if you didn’t eat so much, you would be able to do more.”
“Maybe,” Yellowfang muttered.
Slipping out of the den, she stood at the edge of the clearing and watched her Clanmates going about their duties. The apprentices were hauling a load of bedding out of the elders’ den. As Yellowfang watched, Flintpaw rolled up a ball of moss and hurled it at Nightpaw’s head.
Nightpaw batted it away. “Stop being such a mouse-brain, Flintpaw,” he meowed. “We’ll never get finished that way.”
Flintpaw let out a yowl and hurled himself at Nightpaw. “I’m a WindClan warrior!” he screeched. The two apprentices wrestled together in the midst of the discarded bedding; Blackpaw, Clawpaw, and Fernpaw joined in with joyous mews, scattering moss everywhere.
Yellowfang wondered if she needed to intervene, but she realized that Nightpaw, who was the smallest of the apprentices, was giving as good as he got, and the squabbling was basically good-natured. A moment later Hollyflower, who was Blackpaw’s, Flintpaw’s, and Fernpaw’s mother, strode across the clearing, grabbed Flintpaw by the scruff, and heaved him out of the fight. The other apprentices sat up with moss all over their pelts and identical disappointed expressions.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Hollyflower demanded. “Clear this mess up
The threat was enough to send the apprentices scurrying to gather up the scattered moss and begin hauling it toward the tunnel. Hollyflower watched until she was sure they were all working, then turned toward the fresh-kill pile.
