The weekday comics were small, black-and-white strips, maybe seven panels at the most, concerned with a gag a day or an incremental advancement of an intricate plot. The Sun’s Day comics, on the other hand, were vast — multiple pages with full colour and halftoning.

The good paper had them in full motion, with cloud swirls of a little boy’s dreams, rolling ocean storms, rippling savanna grass, or even a man in his backyard with blue sky above him, stepping repeatedly on a rake.

The Daily News just had the still versions, which were not unimpressive, but sometimes Maggie felt like she was missing out. Today, leafing through the pages while sitting cross-legged outside of Ann and Milo’s door at the top of the stairs, she wasn’t paying much attention.

Erik stepped out of Room 102 and smiled up at her.

“Are we go for bird?” Maggie asked him, a stage whisper. Mordecai was behind that door, and Milo and Hyacinth were right there in the basement, building things with the radio on. Calliope, presumably, was in her room doing art stuff and looking after Lucy, though she must’ve been up earlier to make brownies. The kitchen still smelled of chocolate, with no brownies to be found.

Erik held up his hand and displayed two silver quarters and three sols. He nodded. He couldn’t say it, he was too excited.

“Yes!” Maggie said. She folded up the comics and made for the hall wardrobe, a few paces away. In one of the drawers, balled up in a stained nightdress she never wore anymore, was a bottle of bright-green absinthe.

Barnaby’s note had been quite helpful, once they had some context for it. Soup’s lessons in shoplifting had proven indispensable. They had confirmed they were in the correct liquor store by checking that the absinthe was located on the left-hand side of the third shelf from the bottom (it wasn’t Fae Verte, the brand was Bellacqua, but maybe Barnaby didn’t have an ad for that), Erik asked to buy a corkscrew, and Maggie had ample time to snatch up the bottle. Easy as walking into the kitchen and grabbing a can of spaghetti.

The timing was the hard part. That was why it had taken so long, from coming up with the idea to actually taking the steps to implement it.

The absinthe theft could be accomplished any Sun’s Day, as Erik and Maggie were often out messing around and had yet to be arrested for anything. Before they could do that, they had to find the right god, find out what it wanted, and decide whether or not they were going to do this. That required hash brownies, Erik being told to go to the movies, and Maggie having the day off from school — all at the same time. The second Sun’s Day in December had provided such an opportunity.

Then they needed to wait for all that to happen at once again, so they could sneak out and actually have some fun.

Yule had seemed so promising, with much celebrating and baking in general and a bank holiday mixed in. Uncle Mordecai was out of commission for a couple days after Erik’s birthday, but that was in the middle of the week, and Erik damn sure wasn’t going back to the place with the gods without someone nearby to yell for help if he got himself in trouble somehow. (Someone who was, of course, willing to help him get into trouble in the first place.)

There was always something happening. Ann’s actor friend showed up with those shoes and Erik got some new sheet music to play and there were various big dinners and then Seth got sick and they had to lock him in the basement — which meant no access to the shrine. And then everybody else got sick — which just sucked in general — so they decided to have Twelfth Night a week late and invite people over to the house — which was nice and all, but it ate up yet another Sun’s Day.

Now, finally, things had settled down enough for Erik’s uncle to consider recreational drug use an option, so they could get away with some stuff.

“So how are we gonna get Cin and Milo out of the basement?” Maggie said.

Erik rocked back on his heels and folded his hands behind him. “I feel bad about it. Milo doesn’t have fun and listen to music anymore since Calliope got mad at him. I want him to do that.”

“Well, I wanna mess around with you as a bird!” Maggie said. “We need the shrine for it. I dunno how long they’re gonna be down there. I don’t even know what they’re trying to make.”

“We don’t really need it,” Erik said. “It’s not like a radio. I’m the radio. It’s just like training wheels.”

“Erik, you have only been on this bicycle two times.”

“Three. I just didn’t come back with anyone last time.” And, since that was what they were trying to do, he considered that another point in favour of his accuracy. “If we try it away from the shrine and I can’t get there, we can still go back to the basement and get me my training wheels, it’s not like I’m gonna mess it up and get lost.”

“And you are extremely sure that isn’t a thing that can happen?” Maggie said suspiciously.

Erik sighed. “If there was a way to get hurt like that my uncle would’ve told me about it ten times already, Maggie.”

“Where do you wanna do it?”

“I dunno… I guess the warehouse behind us in the alley? Then we’re already outside. It’s pretty quiet.”

“I guess that’s not too far for me to run back home screaming if we mess this up.”

“Are we doing something dumb, Maggie?” Erik said.

She patted him on the shoulder and turned him towards the kitchen. “No, we are doing something extremely smart. Dangerous, but extremely smart. And fun.”

“Grab that book with the picture in it,” Erik said.

◈◈◈

Erik and Maggie both had meticulous personalities, and they had put their due diligence into this stupid thing they shouldn’t be doing. When Erik came back with the name of a real historical human who would like to turn him into a bird for a drink of absinthe, they looked him up.

“Frey Bartolomeus of Falkenrath,” Maggie read from beneath the woodcut. “‘Mad’ Bartholomew. Circa 1098. One of the Fathers of Modern Magic. Pisses my mom off they still haven’t decided on the Mothers of Modern Magic,” she added, aside. She wiggled the book into the crumbly ground and set it up against one of the half walls, so Erik could see it easily. “But we’re not even sure it’s really him.”

“It doesn’t… matter for the… picture,” Erik said with an irritated gesture. It was uncomfortable kneeling here, he only had stockings and short pants. The splinters and gravel dug into his legs. “He… says he looks like that.”

Actually, he said he preferred a top hat and a cape and white spats instead of a hooded fur coat and leggings, but the wavy black hair and the droopy moustache were the same. Sometimes Invisibles who’d been around hundreds of years decided they liked or wanted new stuff, like fun clothes or cupcakes with cream filling.

“Yeah, but, you know, inasmuch as he says he can turn you into something,” Maggie said.

Erik sat back with a huff and hugged one leg against him, it was a little more comfortable like that. “If I’m being totally honest here, I’m not real happy he says he’s the guy we talk about when something is really messed up.”

“By all accounts he was trying to make a whole bunch of dogs with weird appendages and their heads screwed on backwards,” Maggie said, “so it’s not like he got it wrong. It’s not messed up that way, it’s just everyone was so upset about it, they burned him at the stake. People like dogs.”

Erik touched the reproduced woodcut of a dog with two heads at the front end and the graceful upper half of a swan emerging from the tail end. An Early Experiment in Grafts. It didn’t move, pictures didn’t used to do that in olden days. Probably just as well. “It’s not exactly turning people into birds.”

“It is the practical basis for all Transmutations and Mergers!” Magnificent declared in her bold lesson-voice. “Ball of Swannes and Quercus with Hyaena Centre was a feat of living tissue manipulation that has never been equalled!” She cleared her throat and shrugged self-consciously. “And, I mean, he’s had over two-hundred years to get better at it. If it’s not just some weird god with a fake ID.”

They’d been over much of this before, of course.

“He seemed nice,” Erik allowed.

“Yeah that, uh, that’s the part that makes me wonder if we’ve got hold of the same guy,” Maggie said.

She picked up the textbook and flipped through the pages. The march of progress through living tissue manipulation didn’t really get any less creepy. The last bit from five years ago was about the use of plant material as prosthetics for wounded soldiers. There was a photo of a guy with a twisted mass of ivy holding his guts in his belly. Grape Ivy, Fast-Growing and Non-Toxic, a Popular Filler. He was smiling and waving at the camera but, you know, still…

“Maggie, the… picture,” Erik said.

Maggie startled and set the book up again. “Yeah, I don’t want you to show up with the wrong guy…”

Erik broadly shook his head, but it took him a moment to collect his words, “I’m not picking them out of a… line-up like the police. It’s more training-wheels stuff. I’m used to praying. It gets my brain in gear — like the car has ‘go forward’ and ‘go forward faster.’”

“‘Go forward with passenger,’” Maggie muttered. “Well, we’re already trying it without the shrine. Let’s not push it and get rid of everything. The point is the bird.”

“If I don’t get it, we can try again,” Erik said. He sighed and drew his knees under him again on the uncomfortable ground. But it is gonna be way easier when I can just shut my eyes… my eye and do this standing up…

“If you don’t get it at all we can try again,” Maggie said. “If you get it wrong, we’re in trouble for no good reason.”

“Sh,” Erik said. He drew two fingers down the bridge of his nose, clasped his hands and closed his eye — the one he could. The metal one traced the edges of the book, and then meandered through the exposed brickwork of the wall. Erik was getting pretty good at doing concentration and random lines at the same time, he just preferred not to if he could cover the eye.

Oh, darn. I should’ve taken it out and given it to Maggie. If he takes it out…

But he thought he was starting to go a little and he brushed past the idea of dirt and splinters in his iris mechanism.

The thick black lines in the background of the woodcut wavered and distorted, crops in a hilly field rippled by the wind. It was cold, and there were dark flecks of fall leaves borne by more lines that swirled and blew. He fell past them into inky blackness and the pages closed around him.

◈◈◈

It was less scary. Now that he’d done this a few times he was getting used to it. It was fast and it knocked the wind from him like being thrown into a cold pool, but he didn’t need to worry about swimming, or even breathing. Like the room he had built in his head with the goofy flamingo lamp, he let it be.

It was dark. Not like there wasn’t any light, but like the fabric of things was darkness. He couldn’t see his hands in front of his face — if he even had those. It was too bad there weren’t any mirrors. He wondered if he was a green light like everyone else, or maybe he was nothing at all.

He wanted to laugh, but he clamped down on it and tried to focus instead. It was less scary because he was used to it, and he was less worried because he wasn’t trying to help anyone, and that made it more dangerous. He could end up with one of those guys that wanted to eat kittens if he wasn’t careful.

Come on. This isn’t fun. That’s the next part.

They were already coming nearer. The balls of flame. Swirling green flames because he was green. Something in the nature of him was green, and that made them green too. They were all sizes, some big burning suns and some tiny candle flickers, but it was hard to tell distance in the darkness. He waved a hand that he couldn’t see and might not have, reflexively trying to shoo them away.

Little boy…

He shook his head — or maybe he couldn’t do that, but he meant that. He meant shaking his head at the lights. Uh-uh, he said. I want Mad Bartholomew and I’m going to be a bird for an hour. So the rest of you are S.O.L. That means shit… outta… luck! He slowed down just to emphasize, he didn’t have to be slow here.

Some of the lights retreated, muttering disconsolately. Some of them drew nearer, but he folded his arms (or meant folding his arms) and stood his ground. They didn’t scare him. They couldn’t make him. He wasn’t hurt like that anymore. All they could do was say stuff at him. Silly things.

One of the lights, smallish and rapidly churning, slid forward in front of the others like a showman elbowing his way through a crowd. Erik! said the voice.

You remember me? he said.

I remember lots of things! the voice said. Do you have what I want? Let me see it!

I don’t have it with me, he said.

Of course you don’t, the voice said jovially. Picture it. Hold the image in your mind. And don’t lie to me, I can tell.

Erik pictured it: A clear glass bottle with dark green liquid in it that seemed to glow. The label was black with elaborate gold script reading, Bellacqua, and beneath that, Absinthe. He couldn’t remember how many oz it said, that was at the bottom. It knew it was oz, though, like the Emerald City.

The B is backwards, said the voice.

I do that, he replied firmly. My brain’s broken, it’s not on purpose.

Do you still want to be a bird?

Yup! He caught himself. Wait, just an hour. Just for an hour, not forever!

Erik, I would give you all day for that much absinthe!

Uh-uh. He shook his head again. Just an hour. We’re having an experiment. And I still want to eat and go to the bathroom and stuff. Then you go away.

All right, please yourself. A bird for one hour! Is it a deal?

You are Mad Bartholomew with the messed up dogs who got set on fire, right? he said suspiciously. He couldn’t remember if he’d made sure of the name.

The very same! said the voice.

Okay. You’re my huckleberry. Let’s go!

◈◈◈

Erik gasped and straightened like he’d just plugged his finger into a wall socket. His metal eye spun around once, showing the blank gold back, and then settled into place, whirring softly to adjust its lens.

Maggie was holding a purple fireball and bouncing it lightly in her right hand. “Okay,” she said. “Who are you and do I need to get rid of you?”

Erik shot to his feet and bowed deeply. He looked up at her with a smile. “Mad Bartholomew, at your service! And to whom do I owe the pleasure…?”

“Magnificent D’Iver.”

“Magnificent D’Iver!” he cried. He pressed both of Erik’s hands to his face. “A new generation! I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Is your mother well?”

“We are not getting anywhere near my mother, Mister Bartholomew,” Maggie said darkly. She did not extinguish the fire. “This is a covert operation. So if you guys know each other, you’re gonna hafta wait a little longer for a reunion.”

Erik smiled. “I don’t think she was particularly fond of me, Miss D’Iver. I was merely a means to an end. Nevertheless, each new generation of your family brings new wonders, and I feel privileged to meet you at such a young age. I understand now why Erik is so anxious to have an avian form. What species is your preference? I will select something for him that can keep up.”

Maggie blinked. Her hand went down to her side and the flame fizzled out. “I mean… Doesn’t he just get one? Because of the material inertia? My mom is really annoyed I turned out a magpie…”

“Material inertia can be overcome,” said Mad Bartholomew. “It is power-intensive, but I have little trouble with that now.” Erik flicked an elaborate gesture at thin air. “I think he would tend towards something reptilian if I took the path of least resistance, but a bird is only a slight sideways jig. What do you think of a sparrow?”

“Uh, sure,” Maggie said.

“And may I inquire as to the nature of this delightful object that is providing him with binocular vision?” Erik lifted a hand and poked his metal eye with a curious finger.

Maggie took an urgent step forward and put out her hand, “He really needs that. It’s gears and magic and it’s really complicated. I’ll hang on to it if you don’t want to bother with it.”

“It does you very little good, Miss D’Iver,” Mad Bartholomew scolded her. “I see no reason to flatten Erik’s bird hour, not after he has been so generous with me. I will account for it, you needn’t worry.”

Maggie proceeded to worry. “You’re gonna change it?”

Erik shook his head with a smile. “Miss D’Iver, you have no concern over the numerous mergers in this boy’s head…”

“My mom has a bunch of those and they never give her any trouble!” she cried.

“…this is only a little more metal, with a different function. Am I still one of the Fathers of Modern Magic or have they given up on such outmoded ideas?” he asked.

“Still,” said Maggie. “It’s in the textbook.” She pointed.

“A textbook!” he said. “How fortunate! Do you mind if I read it?”

“Uh, we don’t have a lot of time…”

He had already picked up the book. He bent it open past one-hundred-eighty degrees, making the spine crackle, and flipped rapidly through the pages. Erik’s eye made a noise like an automated coffee-grinder. Maggie cried out and darted forward to snatch the book away.

Erik handed her the book. “Gott in Himmel, Miss D’Iver. That poor man was patched up with grape ivy only five years ago? They have left him with an open wound for the rest of his life.”

“It’s the material inertia,” Maggie said weakly.

“I do wish you would have Erik call me again so I may leave humanity some notes,” Mad Bartholomew said with a frown. “I did, but most of them were burned in the fire.” He sighed. “Ignorance, Miss D’Iver. I do appreciate your family’s total war against it, but you have been denied some of the weapons you should have had. Shall we begin today’s lesson?” Erik smiled again.

Maggie growled and planted both hands on her hips, “Now you listen, Mister Bartholomew, today is not a lesson! This is supposed to be fun!”

Erik patted her companionably on the shoulder. “Every day is a lesson, Miss D’Iver. It can’t be helped. But we shall try to make it a fun one. Do you mind changing first? I would like to observe it with human acuity, I’m more used to that.”

“It’s just a bright light,” Maggie said.

“To you,” said Mad Bartholomew. “I’m not so limited.” Erik gestured down at himself. “I’m more than what you see… As are you. But you will have to take it on faith. Will you indulge me?” Erik clasped his hands. He almost looked like himself that way, but the expression was wrong. Less wide-eyed. More calculated. Not excitement over a candy bar but a big thick book with a lot of citations.

Maggie shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” She paused and rubbed her arms with both hands. It was weird with a god watching. What could he see?

What if she got the math wrong?

Well, he’s not shooting at me, Maggie told herself. If he doesn’t like the way I do math, he can go to hell. Or wherever. She took a breath and vanished in a flash of light.

When her vision cleared up (it was different as a bird, less defined, and with moving objects dragging at her attention like a bunch of red balloons) Erik was jumping up and down and applauding.

“Splendid!” said Mad Bartholomew. He laughed. “Glorious! Magnificent! Excuse me.” Erik covered his mouth with a hand. “You are a true virtuoso,” said Mad Bartholomew. “I only wish I could better explain the instrument. Within another two superlatives you shall have it exactly, I have no doubt! You may wish to cover your eyes. The light is unavoidable, and of little benefit.” Erik bowed again, just as deeply as before.

Maggie turned her head aside and tucked it under a wing. There was a tearing sound of air filling a sudden space, which she was quite familiar with. Maybe a bit louder. Sparrows were small.

A little green bird fluttered down and alighted on one of the crumbling walls.

You shall have an easier time telling him at a distance this way, Miss D’Iver, said Mad Bartholomew.

“Tha FACK?” said the magpie. She rattled her head and scratched it with a claw.

Oh, I do apologize, said Mad Bartholomew. You’re not used to speaking this way. It’s been a long time since I was a grey person. I assure you, this is my voice and not any kind of mental breakdown…

“Gr-r-r-ey?” squeaked the magpie.

I’m sorry. To me, you are grey. It’s not meant as an insult. More of a metaphor. It means, for one thing, that you can’t talk to me like this, but I get a blurry sort of impression of what you are thinking. For instance, that you are offended and annoyed with me and you were hoping to fly over the harbour, and also you are concerned for Erik and for his eye.

The sparrow hopped down and drew nearer to her, so she could examine it. One eye was a bright black pinhead, the other a speck of gold surrounded by grey feathers. The lens functions quite well at this size, but the inner workings are operating in slipspace.

The little dart of a beak stayed closed the whole time, but Maggie already knew she wasn’t hearing words. Or hearing anything at all. It was almost like those stories she heard about people who could pick up radio signals on the fillings in their teeth, but she didn’t have any fillings — or any teeth!

“OK,” she said. She had a limited number of things she could say, and What the hell do you mean the gears are operating in slipspace? How the hell do you do that? was not one of them.

Let’s make this fun for him, Miss D’Iver, Mad Bartholomew said on her total lack of fillings and teeth. Then he’ll want to call me again and you can ask him to make a deal for some notes!

Before she could even attempt to articulate her sudden doubts that one of the Fathers of Modern Magic had any idea how to safely operate a bird, he took off.

And she had to follow him. She was the only one who had any capacity to keep this god-person honest while he dragged Erik’s extremely tiny body around for an hour, even if she couldn’t do much more than stay nearby and yell, HEY! at him.

Oh, my gods. Did Erik say this guy had to bring him back home after, or is he gonna fly for an hour and drop him wherever? I don’t have enough bus fare!

She did have the absinthe in her pocket, which she could retrieve when she had pockets again. But there were logistics beyond payment that she couldn’t account for, like what the hell Erik had said to this person and how much leeway he had.

When she went out flying with her mom, she had confidence that they were both rational actors and they would deal with any unforeseen circumstances in a reasonable way. With Mad Bartholomew, she and Erik (especially Erik) were trapped in a car with a stranger driving, and she had no idea if he might decide to run over a pedestrian or crash into a wall.

The green sparrow slid confidently into the area of lower resistance at the edge of her left wing, seriously freaking her out. He rode out the turbulence from the resultant flapping with ease.

Worry not, Miss D’Iver, said Mad Bartholomew. If I should crash the car or even annoy it, I’ll not be invited to drive it again. Erik is disarmingly artless but steadfast in his negotiation. Even if not specified, getting you both home safely after an enjoyable experience is implicit. I think to the harbour and back with a stop for food is reasonable in an hour’s time, as the bird flies. You lead the way!

He dove away from her and settled about ten feet below and slightly behind. This still gave him a good clearance over the trees and rooftops, but it was harder to make him out against the close-knit chaos of the city. She knew he had done it to make her out more easily against the sky, which was clotted grey with clouds. She often followed her mother from below — it wasn’t like she was going to get mixed up and start following some other golden eagle, even in silhouette.

I’ll give you a shout if I should feel in any danger of falling behind, Miss D’Iver! said the voice in her head, perfectly audible even at this distance.

Okay, fine, Maggie thought. It wasn’t like he could hear her if she tried to say it. It was weird having a one-way radio for tandem flying, she was used to paying attention and guessing what she ought to do. She was also used to it being a whole hell of a lot quieter.

She angled into the wind and banked east.

The air was cold and damp. It smelled of salt and smoke. It was either going to rain soon or snow. She was hoping for snow. Her dad was going to be home in a few days, technically early enough to have real snow on pretend Yule. Snow would make the pictures prettier once they gave him the camera.

All the colours below were washed out, pastels and shades of grey with faint shadows that left the landscape looking like a matte background in a cartoon. The city was just begging for embellishment, some white lace over the sooty rooftops and gutters.

From this comfortable altitude, she could make out the hilly backdrop of uptown and the masts and smokestacks of ships in the harbour. Beneath her, Strawberryfield’s haphazard mess of squares had already given way to SoHo’s winding streets and attached buildings.

It was sort of nice to have a chance to look at things. She was used to looking for people, either her mother’s bird form or easily-lost humans on the street — because it wasn’t like her friends could fly up here and find her. Now she didn’t have to follow or barrel through the streets at tree-height. It was oddly peaceful.

You can really see the war from up here, Miss D’Iver! said Mad Bartholomew.

…Peaceful except for the god-voice in her head.

But he was right about that. You could see where they’d filled in all the holes. The repairs and new buildings didn’t quite match, and from above the edges of them blended together and showed where craters had been filled in and streets rerouted. Strawberryfield was still pretty much blasted and uptown was almost all new, but between them in SoHo and downtown, you could see the cracks. A map of desolation on the mend, like a bone with pins in it.

As she was contemplating the permanence of damage versus the impermanence of it, a green blur did a barrel roll right through her line of sight, causing her to cry out and make an awkward dive in reaction.

Miss D’Iver, you are being so boring! Mad Bartholomew said. The sparrow dropped into the slipstream off of her left wing, then dove and came up under her right one. I appreciate your desire for safety and control, but I must assume Erik does not. He is with us, even if he can’t move or speak to you. Why don’t you play with him?

Because you’re weird, I don’t know you, and you’re freaking me out, Maggie thought but could not say. She bobbed sideways and came up behind him, not so much to play with him as to get a look at him. It was not a comfortable position, a sparrow didn’t cut much air compared to an eagle.

Let’s go fly a kite! sang the voice in her head. The sparrow dove down and looped around her, coming up behind and above. Do you know Mary Poppins, Miss D’Iver? I must admit a weakness for musical theatre, on those rare occasions I can take advantage of it. I suppose I should say ‘fly like a kite,’ under the circumstances.

He sang again, No tuppence, no paper, no string! We really are birds on the wing! Say goodbye to the ground, we have feathers and flight! We shall see all the sights, and we shan’t need a kite!

She could detect an orchestra. And, on the next verse, Dick Van Dyke’s detestable Elban accent.

I am flying over San Rosille with a two-hundred-year-old dead guy who likes top hats and musical theatre, Maggie thought. And he does impressions! She couldn’t laugh (Well, she could say Ha, ha, ha, but it came off sarcastic, so she only used it like that.) but she felt like it. Mom warned me about reality being absurd!

Internally, with his carefully constructed safe room dark and neglected, Erik could hear the music too. He was glued to the window, watching and feeling everything — like he wasn’t supposed to. He didn’t care if he forgot how to move after this! But it was a little annoying he couldn’t clap his hands or scream. It was like a rollercoaster! Except Maggie and Mad Bartholomew were making up the track as they went along and he had no idea where they were going to end up next.

Oh, Maggie, let’s do Papillon Island! It’s only a little bit farther… You can eat chips there! We can go around the WindRider and see the real rollercoaster!

Maggie did not appear to be making sufficiently northwards to hit up Papillon Island on the way to the ocean, but it was hard to tell when he couldn’t look where he wanted.

He’s right about Maggie being boring, Erik thought. But it’s… He tried to cry out as Mad Bartholomew zipped sideways and swept under her, and couldn’t.

It was worse than having a gag in his mouth, worse even than not being able to find a word, it was like someone snipped his vocal cords so they couldn’t move. Scary, but well worth the other sensations and the incredible view. Mad Bartholomew was in charge of his physical responses, too, but still dispensing plenty of heart-pounding excitement — if not quite as much as Erik might’ve had on his own.

…It’s just an experiment, we’ll get it better next time! Erik thought rapidly, not knowing how much space he had to be coherent between dives. Oh, gods!

Mad Bartholomew had decided to spice things up between endless improvised verses of “Let’s Go Fly a Kite” by dropping to roof-and-treetop level and navigating around the branches and chimneys.

Child endangerment, step in time! Maggie thought, although this had zero effect on the involuntary soundtrack. At least he wasn’t doing “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” which she had been sick of ever since her mother made her use it as a magic word.

She noted a line of fat pigeons making themselves comfortable at the edge of a peaked roof and plowed through them, sending them flapping in every direction. Her beak gaped open in her best approximation of a grin. Ha! My mom eats you guys for breakfast!

Mad Bartholomew took advantage of a black taxi creeping by behind a horse-drawn carriage on the road below, dotting the windshield with droppings.

That is the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me, thought Erik, momentarily detached.

He did specify that I allow him to go to the bathroom, Miss D’Iver! said Mad Bartholomew.

Maggie thought this was an excellent time to pull out her, “Ha, ha, ha!”

Behold, Miss D’Iver! The harbour!

It was hard to tell anything at this height and this speed, but the ground beneath had gone to dark wooden planks, and suddenly they were dodging between ships’ masts and smokestacks instead of buildings and trees. A deep-throated steam whistle moaned in the distance.

Maggie angled sharply upwards, not wishing to get caught in the riggings or blasted with coal smoke, and soon she was examining the tangled mass of piers and mooring from a much more peaceful distance, surrounded by circling gulls. Their cries were lonesome, and the sea beneath was deep green and churning with whitecaps.

The air here was different, smoother, without the frequent updrafts provided by buildings, alleyways and pavement. It rolled like the waves.

Beautiful, Miss D’Iver, said Mad Bartholomew, fluttering nearby. Neither of them were quite constituted to soar. The gulls dangled around them like ivory Yule ornaments.

Maggie curved their flight southwards, towards Candlewood Park. They didn’t have to land there. It was a lot prettier when you didn’t have to deal with the empty bottles in the gutters and the guys hassling you for change and people having sex in the bushes.

The piers and planking dribbled away like a dotted line, then it was just the silver smear of the beach fronting on grey overgrown grass. There were still white clots of snow clinging in it.

Snow, Miss D’Iver, noted Mad Bartholomew. Fine white flakes were drifting from the cold, clotted sky. They dissolved in the warmer sea and dusted the grass and beach and dilapidated buildings like casting sugar. A gingerbread town, albeit a dark one where the baker had decided to add urban blight.

I miss the world, said Mad Bartholomew, invisible somewhere behind her. Now, it is as if I only get postcards from it. I shall cherish this one.

The green sparrow dove down and Maggie detected him against the dark rooftops. Come, Miss D’Iver! We must feed Erik and put him back together before our hour expires. I don’t wish to make you walk home in the cold!

Not here! Maggie thought. She plowed urgently forward and took the lead. She didn’t even trust the mice and birds around Candlewood Park. They probably ate drugs. You know, like the people. Strawberryfield was a much higher quality of slum. They had a school!

She found them a newsstand much closer to home and safety, and she dropped down to land on its extended awning.

It is not the season for insects, said Mad Bartholomew. However, if you can hunt up a mouse or two, I will be able to…

“CHIPS!” Maggie said.

The owner of the newsstand, a mousy woman with brown hair and a green canvas apron, came running out and goggled up at them.

The sparrow cocked his head. You are aware that live prey can be used as a sort of sacrifice to…

“CHIPS!” Maggie said. She fluttered to the ground.

…All right, said Mad Bartholomew. He followed after.

She only had to holler “CHIPS!” a couple more times before the lady with the newsstand gave her a bag. You could really trade on weirdness and intimidation.

The newsstand lady opened the bag for her, which Maggie found a bit patronizing. Nevertheless, she drew one out and ate it in full view, cheeping softly and hopping around. You could also trade on cuteness and novelty. She was cultivating her image.

I believe I’d like some of those chocolate covered raisins, Mad Bartholomew said.

The newsstand lady shrieked and snatched down the awning, closing up shop and hiding within.

Maggie had to share her chips.

◈◈◈

They changed back among the ruins of the warehouse. Although they were cutting it a little close to her mother’s lunchtime, the increasing snow and low visibility meant she’d be stuck inside eating canned soup and not out looking for pigeons. They’d timed it perfectly!

“It has been my pleasure, Miss D’Iver,” Mad Bartholomew said.

Erik began another bow, but Maggie snatched both his arms and counted his fingers before yanking him near and peering into the lens of his eye so she could see the gears moving.

Mad Bartholomew laughed, a polite, old-world chuckle very much like what Barnaby did, only a couple octaves higher from Erik’s throat. “All in one piece, Miss D’Iver. All in one piece! If you are satisfied, I will collect my payment and go. Then you can check in with Erik himself.”

“Okay,” Maggie said doubtfully. The absinthe was still in her pocket. (Unfortunately, she had forgotten the textbook, which had gone soggy in her absence. She’d have to see about ironing out the pages later.)

Erik’s expression brightened, and he took the bottle in both hands. “Ah! Thanks awfully!” He twisted off the cap, tipped back his head and downed the whole thing like a glass of lemonade. “Bitter wormwood. It reminds me so much of the human experience. I do appreciate it.” He handed her back the empty bottle and the cap.

Maggie regarded both sickly.

“Do please let Erik know he may call me again any time. I do so love it when children call. And see if you can talk him into asking for some notes!”

Maggie fumbled the bottle and pocketed it. “Wait! Don’t you want to stay and be drunk or whatever?”

Erik smiled. “Oh, no, thank you. I just like the taste. I hope to see you again soon!” He bowed again, deeply.

Erik continued the motion on his own quite gracefully, wrapping both arms around his stomach and keeling over on the snowy ground. He curled up and groaned. His metal eye was mushed into the dirt.

“Erik?” Maggie said.

“Melly,” Erik said.

“Oh, boy,” Maggie said. He hadn’t called her that since he was really messed up.

“…that was super fun,” he said thickly, and without slowing down. He wasn’t scared or excited, it felt like his brain was in aspic. “No matter what happens it was awesome we did that, okay?”

“Okay,” Maggie said.

“Okay,” Erik said. He did not lift his head or attempt to get his eye out of the dirt. “Please go get my uncle before I die.”

“Okay,” Maggie said.

“Okay,” Erik said.

Maggie ran off.

“Awesomesauce,” Erik said.