It's easy enough for Aly to adjust her Sight so that her vision is as good as a cat's. The darkness worries, but doesn't frighten, her. No, it's what's out there in the dark that Aly is concerned for. The woods whisper and skitter in ways that remind her of spidrens and gryphons, all sharp and foul. She's clever enough and deadly enough against normal humans; it's the Immortals that worry her. The beasts are big and deadly and she's only one small mortal.

At last Angeron, dear dear crow, is on her shoulder. Reassuringly, he preens her hair and whispers contingency plans into her ear with Trick. Between the three of them, she knows, they're clever enough to find a way. If only Angeron could fly away without making them feel ill, then they'd truly be able to get a lay of the land and learn how to proceed.

"Angeron, my dear," Aly whispers, running a finger down the back of his glossy wings, "I do not like this place."

"Nor do I, Aly-child," Angeron agrees, tucking a lock of hair behind Aly's ear with his beak.