Deepwood Weald arctocephalus

The frozen wariness of the stranger made Dutch want to turn and run — it felt sinful to stand here and accost her, even if he felt he was being as kind and friendly as possible. But though her anxiety was palpable, it was not clear to him yet whether she considered his company unwelcome. It would be awfully lonely, he thought, to fear every wolf he came across.

"Aren't we all spirit underneath our flesh and fur?" he asked with another smile that, if it could be called reserved, was only so for the strange young woman's sake. "A spirit does not leave a trail to follow. But see my pawprints? And my scent — living blood. Body heat. It tells you who I am, and where I have been. With a spirit, this is not so."

He wove slowly through the trees, coming just a little bit closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that each cloudy breath could be marked by sound as well as sight.

"And a spirit does not have a name," he told her, his voice very quiet — as if this were a secret he shared. "And you must never tell them your own, lest they take it from you. But I will tell you mine, yuva chhaaya — I am Dutch, of the village Moonsong."

In the silence, the implied question rang: Now what is yours?