Wolfish
Contents ( 127)
- I
- ELEVENTH, OR COOKED CREAM
- II
- INTERLUDE—THE DAY OF ACCIDENTS, OR HOW ELEVENTH CAME TO BE FIRST
- III
- THE ORACLE AND THE APPRENTICE
- IV
- THE WATERS SPEAK
- V
- OVERCOOKED AND DESPISED
- VI
- LIKE THE LEAPING OF FROGS
- VII
- INTERLUDE—ANOTHER MISFORTUNE
- VIII
- A SACK OF CABBAGES IN THE DARK
- IX
- NO WORDS
- X
- THE MORNING PERAMBULATION OF THE SHEPHERD, OR THE HAREBRAINED AIRMONGER
- XI
- TENDER MANDIBLES
- XII
- FUR
- XIII
- HEARTH
- XIV
- THE LIMBS OF ANTS AND BEETLES
- XV
- THE WAY A BEAR LICKS HER CUBS INTO SHAPE
- XVI
- WHAT ANIMAL?
- XVII
- TRUTHS, OR TWO WHEELS SHEEP CHEESE
- XVIII
- ALL-TOOTHY FUR
- XIX
- AN EMPTINESS ALMOST UNEMPTIED
- XX
- A DELICATE ANIMAL
- XXI
- AH, THERE YOU ARE
- XXII
- NEVER MIND WORDS AND MAGIC AND MEANT TO
- XXIII
- THE FLOWERS THAT BLOOM IN THE THICK MUCK OF PIGS
- XXIV
- THE ROUND GOODNESS OF EGG
- XXV
- JUST A LONE MALE
- XXVI
- INTERLUDE—AN INFESTATION IN THE PRIESTS’ LIBRARY
- XXVII
- INKY BEETLES OF TRUTH
- XXVIII
- LOVE MAKES HER LIGHT AS A LAMB
- XXIX
- THE PIGLETS GROW FASTER TO PLEASE HIM
- XXX
- A MOUNTAIN TO MAKE THE SOUND MM
- XXXI
- WITH SOOT LEFT FROM FLAMES
- XXXII
- ANOTHER PANCAKE, PERHAPS?
- XXXIII
- SLIPPERY FISH SCALES
- XXXIV
- INTERLUDE—A MASSAGE OF THE TOES AND A TONIC OF BEETROOT
- XXXV
- A FAT, FLABBY RAT IN ITS MOUTH
- XXXVI
- A LITTLE CLOUD
- XXXVII
- A LIE, A SEED OF UNCERTAINTY
- XXXVIII
- NOTHING-FULL
- XXXIX
- THE SMELL OF BIRDS IN THE AIR
- XL
- ONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIX
- XLI
- THE KING GROWS TIRED OF HIS ACROBATS
- XLII
- A GREASY SHRIEK
- XLIII
- TSPTSP, OR THE VIOLENT NOISE OF NATURE
- XLIV
- THE FEELING OF TEETH IN HIS MOUTH
- XLV
- A TERRIFYING EAGERNESS, OR CURDS ROUNDING IN WHEY
- XLVI
- DORMICE, FLAMINGOES, HONEYCAKE, PLUMS
- XLVII
- SAUSAGE-GREASED FINGERS
- XLVIII
- ALL BELLY EMPTY AND FULL
- XLIX
- A PLATTER OF MEAT
- L
- EMPTY, EMPTY, EMPTY
- LI
- SOFT, FAT, AND GHOSTLY
- LII
- DRIP
- LIII
- THE NO-LONGER-A-BOY-BOY-KING, OR TTHHHRRRP
- LIV
- THE UNPICKING
- LV
- A MIRAGE, A FEVER
- LVI
- HOW CURIOUS: A WAY IN
- LVII
- TOO-HASTY SEAMS
- LVIII
- HE LEAVES THE BONES
- LIX
- NO-LONGER-A-NO-LONGER-A-BOY-BOY-KING
- LX
- SHE SPEAKS! SHE SPEAKS!
- LXI
- WRRRR
- LXII
- INTERLUDE—FRAGMENTS AND EPHEMERA
- LXIII
- LIKE SLEEPING, LIKE DREAMING
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by Christiane M. Andrews
Illustrations copyright © 2022 by Yuta Onoda
Leaf pattern © greenga/Shutterstock.com; vector border © mrs_kato/Shutterstock.com
Cover art copyright © 2022 by Yuta Onoda. Cover design by Jenny Kimura.
Cover copyright © 2022 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Andrews, Christiane M., author.
Title: Wolfish / Christiane M. Andrews.
Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2022. | Audience: Ages 8–12 | Summary: “A young shepherdess, her wolf companion, and a young oracle-apprentice must stop a king’s reign of terror after he receives a frightening prophecy”— Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021056401 | ISBN 9780316496063 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316496070 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Prophecies—Fiction. | Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction. | Fantasy. | LCGFT: Fantasy fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.A5327 W65 2022 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021056401
ISBNs: 978-0-316-49606-3 (hardcover), 978-0-316-49607-0 (ebook)
E3-20220920-JV-NF-ORI

For my parents and my sister

I
ELEVENTH, OR COOKED CREAM
Once, long ago, in a distant, more brutish age, lived a boy with a face as flat and blank and soft as a dish of cooked cream.
Cooked cream was, in fact, the most interesting part of his days: He ate it in the humid evenings alone in his chamber while the mosquitoes whined behind the linen-wrapped windows; he ate it, sometimes, in the mornings, on the little shaded stool beside the door, when his governor had been convinced he had learned enough—if not all—of his lesson; he ate it furtively, in quick, gulping bites, in the afternoons in the kitchen when Cook had taken herself off to the ponds to splash water over the redness of her face and arms. He liked to crumble honeycomb over it, or smear fig paste into it, or swirl plum passum around it… he would hold the sweetness on his tongue and close his eyes and listen to the distant sounds of Gardener or Governor or Cook, or, rarely, Mother, moving about the house and grounds. Yes, his flat, blank, soft face hovering over the dish—cooked cream over cooked cream—would nearly smile. Yes.