“Name?"
The gate-sentry squints at us through drizzle. His coat bears a white paw stitched over a thunderbolt.
“Eamon," my father says. “Maeve. Amelia."
“From?"
“Crescent," I answer.
He lifts a brow. “Long walk."
“We're here," my mother says. “Does your pack sell dry socks?"
The sentry almost smiles, then remembers his job. “Purpose of entry?"
“Work," my father says. “Any kind."
The sentry glances at my hands, at the pouch of dried herbs tied at my belt. “You?"
“Healer-in-training," I say. “If you'll have me."
“Thunderhowl will take any pair of hands that know where to press." He gestures us under the arch. “Welcome to Snowpaw—Thunderhowl's the ridge and the storms. Don't mix them up in front of the Elders unless you like lectures."
“Duly warned," my father says.
We step into
