Moth Flight’s Vision

Rocky looked up as he heard his name. The old ginger-and-white tom blinked from his nest in the long grass beside the sandy hollow. “She could learn a lot from me,” he grunted.

“I’ve seen more moons than the three of you put together.” The kittypet had been with the Clan for only a few moons—he’d arrived shortly after Gray Wing had called the groups of cats Clans for the first time, a word that had seemed right the moment Gray Wing had said it—but Rocky had taken to Clan life like a frog to swimming. He didn’t hunt as much as the younger cats, complaining that his paws were too slow for chasing. But he loved to help Holly and Eagle Feather with their tunneling. Holly was always planning new tunnels, digging through old rabbit runs to make shortcuts to new ones.

Moth Flight scrambled to her paws. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but the sun was so warm.” Leafbare was finally loosening its grip on the moor and the newleaf sun felt luxurious after hard moons of frost and ice. Panic jolted through her.

“Where are Slate’s kits?” She scanned the clearing, her heart lurching. Slate had asked Moth Flight to watch White Tail, Silver Stripe, and Black Ear. They’d been playing in the sandy hollow when Moth Flight’s eyes had begun to grow heavy.

She’d only closed them for a moment and now the kits were nowhere to be seen.

She caught Holly’s eye across the camp. The black she-cat was washing dirt from her fur, while Eagle Feather shook out his dusty pelt beside his mother.

Holly frowned. “Is everything okay, Moth Flight?” she called. “You look worried.”

Moth Flight forced herself to blink brightly. “I’m fine,” she assured Holly.

Dust Muzzle flashed her a look. “Apart from losing Slate’s kits,” he breathed.

“Hush!” Moth Flight headed across the tussocky grass.

“Perhaps they’re near the stones.” The kits liked to chase one another around the smooth flat rocks near the camp entrance.

“I saw them earlier,” Rocky called.

Moth Flight spun to face him. “Where?” Before he could call his answer across the camp for everyone to hear, she dashed to his nest and stopped, panting, beside him. “Where were they?” she begged.

“I saw them playing outside camp when we came out of the tunnel,” Rocky told her.

“Whereabouts?” Fear prickled through Moth Flight’s pelt.

“Near the RiverClan border.”

“You mean the gorge?” Moth Flight’s throat tightened. A

deep ravine cut through the moor there, a river churning at the bottom. It was a dangerous place for kits.

“Not very near,” Rocky reassured her. “They’re too sensible to go close to the edge.”

“They’re only two moons old!” Moth Flight was fighting panic. Slate had trusted her to watch her beloved kits. Still mourning the loss of her mate, Gray Wing, the gray she-cat often rested after sunhigh, weary from her grief. I’ve let her down! What if Silver Stripe fell into the gorge? Or a buzzard carried off White Tail? Or Black Ear—stop! Moth Flight forced her thoughts to slow. “Why didn’t you bring them home with you?” She glared at Rocky.

“I thought you’d sent them out there.” Rocky blinked at her.

“Why would I do that?” Moth Flight lowered her voice to a hiss. “They’re too young to be out of camp. They can’t look after themselves.”

Rocky met her gaze steadily. “I thought that’s what you were supposed to be doing,” he grunted.

A disdainful snort sounded from behind Moth Flight.

She glanced around to where the heather wall of the camp shaded a soft grassy border.

Swift Minnow was eyeing her harshly. “I can tell you haven’t been with us long, Rocky,” the gray-and-white she-cat meowed. “You clearly don’t know Moth Flight very well.”

“What does that mean?” Moth Flight glared at the other cat, her belly twisting as she guessed what Swift Minnow was going to say before she’d finished her question.

“You never do what you’re supposed to.” Swift Minnow sniffed. “Wind Runner sent you out to catch voles yesterday and you came back with leaves from some stinking plant.”

“It wasn’t stinking!” Moth Flight defended herself. “And I had to bring it back. I’d never smelled leaves like that before.”

“Leaves don’t feed a Clan,” Swift Minnow shot back.

Rocky pushed himself to his paws and gazed gently at the gray-and-white she-cat. “Don’t be too harsh, Swift Minnow.

Moth Flight’s hardly more than a kit herself. Kits get distracted.

Everything is new to them.” He shrugged and shambled toward a sunny patch of clearing, his pelt twitching along his spine where tunnel mud caked his fur.

“Don’t worry.” Spotted Fur’s mew stirred Moth Flight’s ear fur. The golden tom leaned closer, his dappled pelt glowing in the afternoon sun. “The kits will be fine. I’ll help you look for them.”

Swift Minnow glanced toward the shady hollow in the heather wall where Slate was sleeping. “You’d better find them before their mother wakes up. She’s had enough grief.”