He heard a soft whine and a wet sneeze. And then, after a moment, the patter of paws retreating into the night.

With the wolves gone, they sat and shared water. Perry’s fear was wearing off, leaving a heavy fatigue. He couldn’t stop looking at Aria. He couldn’t stop wondering.

“What did you say to them?” he finally asked.

“I have no idea. I just tried to copy their howls.”

Perry took a drink of water. “It’s a gift you have.”

“A gift?” She looked lost in thought for a while. “I never thought so before. But maybe it is.” She smiled. “We’re alike, Perry. My voice is called a falcon soprano.”

He grinned. “Birds of a feather.”

With their nerves settling, they ate a quick meal of cheese and dried fruits they’d packed from Marron’s. Then they wrapped themselves into their blankets and sat against the planks, listening to the wind stir the branches around them.

“Do you have a girl in your tribe?” Aria asked.

Perry peered at her, his pulse picking up. It was just about the last question he wanted to answer. “No one important,” he said carefully. That sounded terrible, but it was the truth.

“Why isn’t she important?”

“You know what I’m going to say. Don’t you?”

“Rose told me. But I want to hear it from you.”

“Mine is the rarest Sense. The most powerful. It’s even more important for us to keep our bloodline pure than it is for other Marked.” He rubbed his tired eyes and sighed. “Crossing Senses brings a curse. It brings misfortune.”

“A curse? That sounds archaic. Like something out of the Middle Ages.”

“It’s not,” he said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

She thought for a moment, her small chin jutting out. “What about you? You have two Senses. Was your mother a Scire?”

“No. Aria, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Actually, I don’t either.”

They fell into silence. Perry wanted to reach for her. He wanted to feel like he had for the past day, with her hand in his. But her temper had become weighted, cool as the night.

Finally she spoke. “Perry, what would I scent now if I were a Scire?”

Perry closed his eyes. Describing their differences wouldn’t bring her any closer. But neither would refusing to answer. He inhaled and then he told her what his nose told him. “There are traces of the wolves. The scents of the tree carrying a winter tone.”

“The trees have a winter smell?” she asked.

“They do. Trees know first what the weather will do.”

He already regretted speaking. Aria bit her lip. “What else?” she said, but he scented how it hit her, all the things he knew that she didn’t.