For Anya, the seed, the question was a scent.
It was the clean, green smell of new growth, of a seed just beginning to unfurl.
Lyra’s inquiries were the sharp tang of ozone after a lightning strike, and Kael’s certainty was the rich, loamy scent of fertile earth.
Anya, who had always known the slow, silent language of roots and sunlight, was now learning the symphony of the open air.