[snapshot]

[illgotten]

The trouble with feather-borne crackplots, of course, is that feathers get everywhere, blown on the lightest breeze, even when they're not carried awhile in the pockets of unsuspecting children

Comments

[fingersofleaf]

"Hey," Percy says from behind him, smiling. "You okay?" He's on his way to the Mansion; his hair's full of dirt and grey powdery dust, which also smudges his face, and his hands are blistered a bit from building.

[illgotten]

He swings about, literally on his toes; but about Percy, at least, there is absolutely nothing fey. "I'm lost," he says.

[fingersofleaf]

He makes a sympathetic noise. "Where'd you come from?"

[illgotten]

"From the castle. My mother--"

[fingersofleaf]

"Who's your ma? Maybe I know her."

[illgotten]

He debates answering that, visibly: more questions, arguments, protocols. "She'll be angry if I don't come in."

[fingersofleaf]

"Mas always are. Mine was too. How about which castle, then?"