She tittered a laugh at his hesitation, and, even quite used to being conceived of as weird, it did not escape Phyri that this was a weirder situation than usual. For the both of them, perhaps.

Though Mr. Fisk, little that she knew him, did not seem like the sort to have his friendships at the mercy of fair weather all the time. The adventuring kind should be made of stronger stuff.

Calling him a friend was about all she could do to ease the indignity of it, but she hopped onto his hand, the better to give him directions as they went. “Shame I can’t spirit you in that way,” Porphyria remarked, tilting her head up at the window, though she was not in the least worried about anything so mundane as appearances. Rather, she was remembering his making that little boat skim through the air once, and wishing she might have been able to repay the favour. “It would be my turn to send you flying.”

Instead, it was round to the doorway, Phyri issuing directions and breezing past the confused looks of the Dempsey staff. She was not the only eccentric in the house. (Though they were not much used to her bringing in strange gentlemen, wren or otherwise.) When they reached the staircase, she fluttered off his palm impatiently and led the way to her room - because someone was going to have to go rifling through her drawers to secure the sketches and she had no hands. “Just here,” she said, with a flick of her beak.

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