Wise Aria waits in the trunk. She lifts her nose to Giovanni. Rising from the skin of her person is a volatile scent. The chili-and-vinegar tang of his fury has fermented into a sulfuric miasma. Frustration is as sharp on her nose as the galvanic brew of an incoming storm, the kind of smell that calls on a crack of thunder. She reads the puckered lines above the gentle gray eyes of her owner. A tightness in the brow tells Aria that her person needs calming.
