“Ach.” She gave him a surly look and rubbed the back of her neck. “Don’t let that hold you back. The crows don’t. But you won’t have to worry—sure that’s the last time you’ll ever win.”

“Oh, aye?”

“Aye, now hush your spathering. See anything?”

They peered through the slats of the fence at the rampant mess of herbs within. Eyebright and lavender, sweet basil and lemon balm, a great jumble of shivering leaf and flower. A gnarled apple tree hung heavy boughs over a bench where a human lass sat shelling peas, and a dozen hens scratched in a sunny dooryard where another lass tossed out handfuls of grain.

Just then, another human came out the door. A mountain of manny she was, cradling in her arms a cat as gaunt as she was huge. She tossed it and it twisted in air, landing among the scattering hens with its ears flattened back and tail lashing. The human barked at it in her unlovely language and it skulked away, low as a weasel.

“That meat looks mean starved,” Magpie said, eyeing the cat warily. “Don’t let him see you. I don’t like his looks one bit. Come on.” They prowled through the fence into the garden, taking care to keep well hidden as they scouted for any signs the imp had been there.

When Talon came across a human’s abandoned shoe, it really sank into his mind where he was. He experienced a moment of wonder. He was in a manny garden! He felt as if he’d slipped into someone else’s life the way he’d slipped into his falcon skin. And watching Magpie prowl forth with the stealth of a fox, he thought he had slipped into someone else’s life: hers. Or at least, he was tagging along with it. Spying, hunting down devils, vanishing into thin air, visiting the Djinn King, racing with crows, all in a day? What must her life be like out in the wide world?

She suddenly drew back even with him. “Bless me if that’s not a shindy,” she said, pointing at the cluster of hens.

“A what?”

“A shindy. Look, see the featherless one?”

He saw it, a naked chicken scratching among the rest. “Poor meat,” he said.

“Neh, that’s how they are,” she told him. “Wizards hatch ’em from rooster eggs they incubate in their armpits.”

“Rooster eggs?”

“Aye, shindies are mad rare. Wizards use ’em for servants. I’d guess his wizard’s passed on and he’s made himself at home here.”

Talon laughed and cocked his head. “You sure it’s not just a bald chicken?”

“Aye, and we’ll want to talk to him. Maybe he’s seen Batch. But skive, that cat’s keeping a cool eye over the place.”