“Turning back⁠ ⁠…” the acknowledgment came. “… tried to save her.⁠ ⁠…”

The message stopped and there was a silence that Chiara’s mocker would never break again. He walked on, with Tip sitting very small and quiet on his shoulder. He had crossed another hill before Tip moved, to press up close to him the way mockers did when they were lonely and to hold tightly to him.

“What is it, Tip?” he asked.

“Goldie is dying,” Tip said. And then again, like a soft, sad whisper, “Goldie is dying.⁠ ⁠…”

“She was your mate.⁠ ⁠… I’m sorry.”

Tip made a little whimpering sound, and the man reached up to stroke his silky side.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry as hell, little fellow.”