It was, Cézanne decided, quite the odd couple of minutes. The traces of her brother were suddenly far more interesting than the prospect of food, and she trailed along after the younger female uselessly, still contemplating whether or not to rise to the bait but never given the chance to finish deciding—because she just bulled on, spewing out bile and venom. Finally purging some old wound of all its pus and bitterness, and Cézanne listened with a mixture of concern, amusement, and roaring, vexing, black-hearted foul anger. The word envy was on the tip of her tongue, envy at this woman who had stolen the place that was hers, had stolen her brother from her, this false Queen who thought she was as good as Cézanne—but it was not envy. It was rage, fury at this thief, a twin purpose to her original one: to tear this pretender down and shove her in the dirt, and reclaim her brother.
But there were amusing things in the girl's tale, too, things which stroked her ruffled feathers and made her want to purr contentedly (and also gnash her teeth in anger, that Mapplethorpe had abandoned this promising girl for the sake of some other female idiot).
» Oh, I do believe he got rather close to his goal with you, « she said with a slight sniff, still speaking in that detached fashion, as if it was not quite worthy of her time to truly say it all. But, it was as close to truth (and praise) that you got with Cézanne; she saw, and heard, a lot of herself in this girl.
But then again, there's only one Queen, and her name is still Cézanne.
» This Naira can die there for all I care, « and I might even make sure of it myself, » but I will not let Death have my— « and the truth fell silent upon her lips, body tense all of a sudden, ears sweeping forward as her nose sampled the air.

She knew these sounds. She could've laughed it to the distant skies, howled a demented song of irony and victory—but she didn't, too anxious not to foil their hunt and lose their prey. Her bright, lantern eyes fell upon the girl—do you hear it, too? do you smell it, too?
Winter must've driven them mad.
Why else where they down here? Fighting? Not that she complained; their useless head-butting meant she had a better chance at filling her own belly. With a wolfish grin she lowered her head, the wicked smile curving her lips and revealing her teeth, and her muzzle drifted close to the younger wolf's ears. » They're all idiots, anyway, « she breathed, voice smelling of old deaths, and it was left up to debate whether she meant goats, or men.
Then she said nothing more; simply flicked her inky tail and set off at a cautious trot, moving silently through the thick snow. Hunger gnawed in her gut, cold seeped through her dense fur and into her joints (or was it the other way around? that the cold came from within?), but the exhaustion was burned away—she had one, final chance to make things right. One, final chance to show life that she would not go down, not this year, and, perhaps best of all—she had a partner-in-crime.
Truth to be told, she'd probably eat the poor girl if she botched this hunt and made them go hungry.

They danced their doom under that sky, those goats so far from home. Winter had driven them down just like it had driven the wolves to the edges of their existence, watching them claw, desperately, at opportunities and drifting-away echoes. They'd survived on their memories of yesterday and their dreams of tomorrow, and by everything that was still alive, Cézanne would rise above this miserable winter. So her breath was hot and harsh in her throat, steaming out into the cold, sharp air only to dissipate like so many other things, disappearing in front of her eyes. She heard them, and she saw them, and she knew what they tasted like, the heat of their flesh as their corpses steamed into the night air—it took more strength than it should to remain in place, and not rush the damn beasts and ruin it all.
She was hungrier than she'd ever been before.
Intent on their own futile battle they danced among the trees, and Cézanne ghosted there too, paws light, soundless as her partner; they had become little but bone and fur, silent and lithe. Deadly, she thought as they drifted along underneath the thick gray sky, the soft flurry of snow raining down as the bitter wind promised to pick up, and soon. So she skirted around the trunks, mindful of her scent, jaws open to bare her fangs. Her mind had roamed ahead to the gory feast to come, but the body still had a duty to perform: and which to pick, victor or victim? Would they batter themselves to near-death, or leave each other be while still hale?
She favored her gray shadow with a glance, but they were wolves: surely she knew how to hunt. Surely she didn't need Cézanne to babysit her through this.
Together, they would rise above.
It seemed far too altruistic for her, because she ruled sovereign, but she had to admit the young lady had a certain charming confidence. So, she grinned to herself in the impending darkness of a storm, drifted along, closer, eyes agleam in the lackluster light. Soon, she told herself, settling against a rough trunk to wait them out. Patience would feed her until their flesh could.