He could smell it on her: the magic. The wolf probably read the whole scent like a fragrant guitar riff, but he couldn't remember that. Human, all he smelled was the Willow-smell, apples and incense and organic fibers. But in the seconds-long dusk between, he caught the tang of other things, rich and deep, and it was no wonder to him how she could love them. He could distrust that tang, but he couldn't hate it. What he hated was how it seeped into the Willow-smell until, in the last wolfish moment before dark, he couldn't find her at all.