Zephyr stepped into the Bakers' house and let the door fall shut behind him. Light slanted across a swept floor and a table that had been wiped and left to dry. The room was still in the way of places that expect their people to return by noon: kettle turned mouth down, two cups on a shelf, a shawl on the peg. Nothing broken. Nothing hurried. Leaving, but proud.
Alexander rose under Zephyr's skin like a hand on a hilt. We should be running, the wolf urged, impatient. Trails cool.
In a moment, Zephyr answered. Houses speak when you listen.
He listened. Soap, cooled broth, rosemary. The father's iron and pine, the mother's lavender and yeast. And Amelia—wildflower after rain, and beneath it the clean sting of salve. Her scent ran along the table's edge and faded at the doorframe, as if a
