Widge stared at the Guardian, then turned to hear Twelve’s answer, expectant down to the very tips of his whiskers.

Twelve winced. She would have brought a snagglefoot to ride if there had been any way of getting it across the training ground unseen. “One foot in front of the other,” she replied with more confidence than she felt. “Just like you.”

Widge gave her a rather dark look, his tail sagging with disappointment.

The Guardian barked another laugh, this time humorless. “Ridiculous child.”

Twelve bristled. “I know what to expect and I can look after myself.” She glanced pointedly at the sun diving behind the mountains. “Shouldn’t you be going?”

Instead of bounding past her as she expected, the Guardian began to pace, his agitation clear in every movement.

Twelve turned back to the tracks in the snow, trying to block him out as she examined them more carefully. Seven’s trail became more confused the closer they got to where the sleds had been. Her footsteps led toward a sled, then were scuffed and smeared before racing away again. Drag marks implied she had been pulled back to where she started. The last clear footprints caught Twelve’s eye—facing away from the sled, with the outline of Seven’s toes visible. It looked as though the girl had almost escaped, but then been hauled back by her captors, losing her boots in the struggle. Three sets of sled tracks raced away across the snowfield into the distance, heading straight into the mountains.

Twelve turned around and almost collided with the Guardian. He didn’t look happy.

“We travel together,” he said without preamble, an icy wind rippling his stone fur. “I cannot leave one student in favor of another. If I take you back, I will lose the last light. You must ride on my back though. It will be uncomfortable but faster. You will be safer than on your own.”

Whatever Twelve had expected, it hadn’t been this. The Guardian sat sphinxlike in the snow before her and nodded for her to climb onto him. Her mind raced. She didn’t want a travel companion, and this one obviously thought she was a helpless irritation. And yet . . . Twelve’s eyes flicked over the jagged peaks and a tiny, traitorous part of her admitted she didn’t want herself and Widge to face the dangers alone.

“I’m in charge,” Twelve said, her voice ringing with more authority than she felt.

She swore the Guardian raised his eyebrows. “You are Unblooded,” he said. His tone bordered on disdain and Twelve took grim pleasure in his affront.

“It’s that or leave me here in the wilderness”—she gave a shrug—“with only a squirrel and my wits for protection. . . .”