She holds her breath, then lets the second word fall from her lips before courage can retreat. It sounds nothing like the first — rounder, lower, like the moment just before thunder. The vibration in the page travels up through her fingers and into her wrist, a cold thread of sensation. Above her, something drops from the canopy and lands on a low branch with the soft precision of intention: a crow, larger than common crows, its feathers shifting from black to midnight blue in the pale dawn light. A thin silver band circles its left leg. Its pale grey eyes fix on her — not the wild regard of a startled bird, but the measured attention of something that has heard its name called. Ember Fox sits perfectly still beside her. The book's pages tremble faintly, as though a third word is deciding whether to appear.