“I’ll teach you.” Jaypaw ignored the fear pricking in his pelt at the thought of getting his paws wet.

“You?” A purr of amusement rumbled in Cinderpaw’s throat. It was the first time she’d purred since her accident.

Jaypaw knew he could convince her now. “I’ll do my best,” he promised.

“Leafpool will think we’re crazier than hares.”

“Let’s not tell her, then. It can be our secret. Think how surprised she’ll be when she sees you walking on four paws again.”

Cinderpaw didn’t speak, but Jaypaw could detect a small flower of hope budding in her mind.

“Okay,” she agreed at last.

“We’ll start tomorrow.” Jaypaw felt jubilant. “You’ll be better in no time.”

Cinderpaw flicked his ear with her tail. “If I don’t drown first.”

CHAPTER 9

Jaypaw blinked open his eyes. He could hear Leafpool stretching in her nest. It must be dawn. The medicine cat sat up and yawned. Jaypaw waited for her to leave the den to make dirt, as she always did first thing.

The moss from his nest was tickling his nose. He sneezed, then sniffed the air. It was dry and warm and promised sun. It would be a good day to take Cinderpaw to the lake. Padding from his nest, he tried to ignore the doubt rumbling in his belly. Even if teaching Cinderpaw to swim didn’t heal her leg, it would prove to Leafpool that he hadn’t given up on their patient.

“Jaypaw?” Cinderpaw was calling him. “Leafpool’s gone out.” She sounded nervous. “But she’ll probably be back in a moment. Perhaps we should leave this swimming idea for another time.”

“If we hurry, we can be gone by the time she gets back.” He was nervous too, but he refused to let it stop either of them. “We have to try this.”

Cinderpaw gave a resigned sigh, and her nest rustled as she struggled to her paws. “Ow!”

“Your leg’s just stiff,” Jaypaw reassured her.

“Could I have a couple of poppy seeds, just to ease the pain?” Cinderpaw begged.

“No.” Jaypaw was firm. “They’ll make you sleepy, and you’ll need all your wits about you if you’re going to learn to swim.”

A pause. Then determination hardened Cinderpaw’s mew. “Okay.”

Jaypaw slid beside her, pressing his shoulder to hers so that she could lean on him. She was heavy, and he struggled to help her out of the den.

Once outside the bramble-covered entrance he checked the clearing, tasting the air and pricking his ears for any sign of life. Squirrelflight was padding sleepily from the thorn tunnel. She must have been on guard overnight. “Don’t move,” Jaypaw warned Cinderpaw. The pair stood still as Squirrelflight padded into the warriors’ den.