Aria's POV

The storm started before dawn.

Wind tore at the thin shutters, creating a harsh, urgent sound. Rain pounded the roof steadily and stung. I recognised the weather by the cold that bit through my blanket and my fluttering pulse like a trapped bird. The room smelled of wet wool, herbs Jorge dried, and a metallic edge of fear.

"Breathe," Jorge said, and his voice folded around me like an old coat.

"This one's coming," he said now, checking me with hands both gentle and efficient. "Not ...