She licks his cheek one more time before burrowing under the cloak. Even now, changing is -- private. The stretching and compressing of bones, the itch of fur disappearing, the shift of muscles . . . it isn't painful, precisely, but it's the least pleasant part of the whole process, and she doesn't like to think of what it must look like to someone else. The bulging and shifting and glimpses of fur and skin under the cloak are probably strange enough.

By the time it's done, she is absolutely ravenous and freezing cold. Shivering, she wraps the cloak around herself with clumsy fingers and sits up. Her hair is a wild tangle around her head.