This would be basically week 3 of her pregnancy: mood swings, but not necessarily any noticeable belly.
mature for mentions/emotions regarding death
The scent was stale but unmistakable—like the increasingly volatile moods, vomiting, and appetite that could not be ignored—wrapped around the shivering trees like fine spider's silk. She glanced next to her at Alastor, who had been her shadow even more so than usual these last few weeks. Laurel had been here, was all her look said or had to say. Maybe it had been a week, or more, but the boy had been here in Quaking Vale.
They had traveled back here on a whim, not really expecting to find any clues, though they admitted they had not given the territory a good hard look. There might be some rock, some snapped twig, something to indicate what direction the Vale wolves had departed in. So far there had been nothing like that, just Laurel—Laurel everywhere. Sahalie was sure they would not have missed his markings the first time around. He had not been here before, but he was also not here now. She was chewing on her lips, thinking about how she would even begin to explain to the boy what had happened and what their plans were, to box him on the ears and ask what his plans were. To apologize?
It was all too complicated.
But he wasn't here.
And as she approached the central clearing, the place they had all once laid their heads to rest under the open sky, she saw what Laurel saw. Her heart hitched on her ribs. Wordlessly, mouth open, her head turned towards her companion and then she charged forward, sliding to a stop on her stomach at the opening to the fallen, hollowed tree. Her dear friend was laying there, in a sorry state, thawing and rancid and lifeless. There were marks in the soft, muddy ground where he had been dragged here to be laid to rest. Laurel had done this. Her breathing was shallow and quick. He was dead, her advisor, her confidant, her friend. There was no sign of a struggle. He had been dead for a long time. All winter maybe.
The Vale wolves must have left quite awhile ago, to not even notice. Maybe.
"Oh, Alastor," she couldn't even think of what to say. Sahalie turned and buried her face in his fur. None of this was what she had wanted. Larkspur was old, and he was sick, but he had always endured. The man was a lot stronger than he looked. She couldn't even tell him, now, that she would finally give him the grandchildren he'd asked her for. He was gone.