“The name, peregrine,” my father said. “It means ‘wanderer.’ ‘She that roams.’ ” He looked down at me, lines on his face drawn grave. “Do you know what her greatest strength is, Morgan?” “Yes. Her talons, for the crushing of skulls.” He had told me so on our very first flight—the beak is sharp and worth your caution, but never forget her talons: there death resides. But today, I was wrong. “Survival,” he said. “At any given moment she can fly away, knowing she can live. She doesn’t need me, the falconer, or the shelter of the mews. That is the greatest power of all.”
