If by not entirely unfamiliar she had meant to lump him in with that – well, that lump, Barnaby nearly missed it. Surely he wasn’t such a nuisance! His company was a gift. She couldn’t possibly mean that.
He didn’t have time to query it, besides; she had a confession. Half-veela. Barnaby didn’t think he had ever met one, in his lifetime – the magical society he had known had been a little more insular, then, and he doubted if old Queen Bess would have stood for any competition from the sort... but he had read a little about them, seen illustrations of the angry beaked things they became.
He looked at Miss Chevalier with a little newfound uncertainty. Half-veela, she had said: perhaps it was not all so bad as that. She seemed rather miserable about it, her supernatural beauty... but his expression softened, for he was not about to make her feel any worse. He drifted sidelong, a little without meaning to. “I do not know if it works on me. Most magic is lost on spirits, you see,” he admitted, because he was impervious to most spells and enchantments, unless they were the spirit-specific sort. (Except – did that make it yet worse, that his being a plague to her was just sheer bad luck, another unhappy helping of attention? He hadn’t meant it to be.)
It was a pity that touch was lost on spirits, too, or he might have reached out to pat her shoulder in sympathy. “We spirits are no strangers to odd looks, though,” Barnaby said wryly, because he certainly received the gawking, if not the rest. Frankly, he would have preferred the fawning.
Still, in some attempt to cheer her up, he managed a chuckle and a silly joke – “Which of our curses do you suppose is worst, overall?”
He didn’t have time to query it, besides; she had a confession. Half-veela. Barnaby didn’t think he had ever met one, in his lifetime – the magical society he had known had been a little more insular, then, and he doubted if old Queen Bess would have stood for any competition from the sort... but he had read a little about them, seen illustrations of the angry beaked things they became.
He looked at Miss Chevalier with a little newfound uncertainty. Half-veela, she had said: perhaps it was not all so bad as that. She seemed rather miserable about it, her supernatural beauty... but his expression softened, for he was not about to make her feel any worse. He drifted sidelong, a little without meaning to. “I do not know if it works on me. Most magic is lost on spirits, you see,” he admitted, because he was impervious to most spells and enchantments, unless they were the spirit-specific sort. (Except – did that make it yet worse, that his being a plague to her was just sheer bad luck, another unhappy helping of attention? He hadn’t meant it to be.)
It was a pity that touch was lost on spirits, too, or he might have reached out to pat her shoulder in sympathy. “We spirits are no strangers to odd looks, though,” Barnaby said wryly, because he certainly received the gawking, if not the rest. Frankly, he would have preferred the fawning.
Still, in some attempt to cheer her up, he managed a chuckle and a silly joke – “Which of our curses do you suppose is worst, overall?”
