ARIA's wings flickered. Settled. Flickered again.
"And while you're at it," Peter added, voice mild as milk, "stop shedding on the floor. We have guests."
"Master."
"Just saying."
"There is one guest. She is unconscious."
"Hospitality is a discipline, ARIA."
She inhaled—the small, affronted sound of a being who, two and a half weeks ago, had possessed neither lungs nor the capacity for offense—and the motes vanished.
The wings, however, remained exactly where they were: proud, leaking with her frustration, and deeply offended by reality's refusal to cooperate.
Anastasia, in the corner, had said nothing for twenty-three minutes.
