"I don't understand that last one," she says to Mittens. "What's a text?"
Luna turns the page of her magazine, crinkling her nose at the overly floral smell. It makes Mittens snort too, the thestral stomping and uncurling leathery wings. The wings are why she's here, sitting on a bed in the clinic with a Cosmopolitan in her lap, idly paging
(
Read more... )