“Mikhail?” Liza’s question held a combination of uncertainty, laughter and concern.
Mostly laughter, Mikhail decided. And he probably deserved it, even if all he wanted was a hot meat pie and a shower. Or even a cold meat pie and a shower. Mostly the shower, really, as much as any 12-year-old boy could want one. “The magical zoology guest lecture didn’t go well.”
“I’ll say.” She gave into her laughter, red hair bright in the setting sun. Behind her, Lefty and George moved closer from where they floated over her shoulders, the antique metal fire extinguishers ready for flying sparks.
“I know,” he said wearily. “Look, I’ll tell you all later.”
She snorted, and Lefty poofed a blast of white foam into the air. “Hey. Don’t be nervy. And c’mon. You look like you’ll fall asleep as soon as I leave you alone.”
“Fine.” Sighing, he decided she might follow him into the boy’s dorm if he didn’t spill. “I’ll tell you all about it if you come with me to sneak a late dinner.”
“Better hope Cook doesn’t see you,” she murmured, giggles still bubbling through her words. “What are you, covered in chalk?”
“This is on you,” he retorted. “I wanted to clean up first.”
They headed for the basement hall. Any Wizurg Academy student could raid the after-hours stores. Snacks were held in stasis by Cook’s spell, even though it rarely lasted more than a week. Some of those snacks were more substantial than others.
Mikhail held up his hand to the door scanner, letting the trailing arms of magic recognize his right to access the magical pantry. The scanner always reminded him of his mother’s garden – purple vines, sentient and glowing – which apparently also had a sense of smell. The vines recoiled.
Liza burst out laughing. “Go wash your hands next door. You look like you’re covered in chalk. I’ll get whatever you want.”
“Yeah! Pork pie. Cook’s pie is the best.” He darted into the room next door and trotted toward the sink. An abandoned sweatshirt rested on a nearby bench, and he snagged it without remorse, tossing his ruined t-shirt into the trash. The laundry pods would return it to its rightful owner, and it seemed justified.
The water, however, was brilliantly cold, zapping his fatigue.
“Got you a root beer float, too,” Liza called from the hallway. “Figured you needed it.”
“Thanks,” he said gratefully, snagging the pie and glass bottle.
They settled onto stools, his crackling with a layer of protective newspaper that appeared like – well, kitchen magic. “Now spill. Tell me about the sparkles.”
He choked. “Snarkles, not sparkles. They look kind of like turkeys, but with the extendable neck of a heron. They can lead you to water.”
“Or opals,” Liza added, and shrugged at his look. “Fire stone. It was in the advert. I remember the important stuff. Like fire.”
“Well, the famous scientist Dr. Tippi Hedron was bringing her whole flock, all 300 of the Thermopylae guardians’ descendants. And they’ve institutional herd memory, so they could reenact the actual battle for us. Which would have been cool.”
“So what happened?”
“Ahchoo.”
“Um…gesundheit?”
“No, I mean, she sneezed. Mid-spell. Apparently she’s also allergic to feathers.”
Liza stared, her mouth open, freckles shining in the odd mushroom lights that filled the kitchen.
Mihail shrugged, and stuffed the last of the pastry into his mouth. “And then the yard was filled with birds and Tippi Hedron was nowhere to be found. So we chased the birds, trying to trap them. And maybe find her.”
“Did it work?”
“Turns out, they can go invisible, and they thought it was a game. Snarkles are really smart. Otherwise, they’d have reenacted the battle and we’d never have made it back into the castle.” His lips drifted into a smile. “I’ve got to look into them more sometime.”
She smacked the counter. “And Tippi Lockingstocks or whatever?”
“Huh?” His dreamy thoughts of taking over the flock vanished into confusion. “Oh, yeah, no idea. She’s gone. Vanished. And the birds took off, all at once, maybe to follow. But it’d be so cool if they came back. You think maybe for next month’s session instead?”
“And the chalk came from…” Liza looked at him with growing horror. “The birds? Don’t birds poop when they take flight?” Her words squeaked. Lefty winced, banging into George with a clang. “And I had to tell you to wash your hands?”
***
Thanks to Becky for the prompt about Tippi Hedron! Mine went to TA Leederman this week. Check out the bloodwitch inspiration (and much more) over at MOTE!
