“I see,” Phyri echoed, at the story. She had travelled a little, herself, but still, Australia and America felt like worlds away, alien landscapes – and Bastien’s story was a perilous adventure indeed. “A runt and a stray!” she exclaimed, sympathy and fondness getting the best of her: a tragic orphan of a bird, indeed. No wonder he had attached himself to Eva for all these years, if he was to be alone in the world otherwise.

Not that there was anything wrong with being alone in the world, of course – although Porphyria had never felt very alone, with all her family so fervent a presence in her life, and all the endless people she knew, within society and without. “Well, I can’t say I blame him,” she admitted, lifting a foot to ever-so-gently nudge him teasingly with her toe, “I do much the same thing.” When she liked somebody, they truly were stuck with her – hence her longstanding friendship with Amelia, in spite of all class differences; hence her inviting herself to Eavan Miller’s realm in the zoo without a care.

“It’s a pity he can’t speak,” Phyri mused lightly – almost joking, but not quite. Even in the body of a wren, she hadn’t been able to communicate properly with native birds. But she was rather interested in what must be going on in Bastien’s diricawl brain now. “I’d like to get in his head.”

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