Charity did not analyze her uncle's tone, for her attention was centered on every flap of the creature's wings and ever call that came from its beak. She could envision it—a rowboat closing in on the edge of a waterfall, only for the mighty thunderbird to sweep in and rescue them from the river rapids. How convenient being able to tame one would be; sadly, she doubted anyone would ever be capable of it. With power came danger, and Charity's eyes went to its claws.

"Do you think it hurts to be grabbed by one?" she asked, watching as it clutched the rocks beneath its feet. "Their claws are so sharp; I imagine it would hurt me even if it intended to rescue me." Not that she would ever blame the creature; being killed by falling on rocks sounded more painful than being sliced up.

She looked up at him inquiringly. "Do they live in Britain, or just America?"

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