Excited, Pixit squeezed himself down the stairs. His much-wider-than-before body pushed the rope railing out, and he stretched his good wing for balance. On the plus side, now that he was older and more mature, he could control his sparks better, so he didn’t fry the rope. «Can I hug Papa today?»

Yes! She’d make sure of it. This time, she’d be Pixit’s voice. She smiled, feeling a fraction better at the thought of making him happy.

When they reached the ground, Pixit bounded to the cart. «Tell him I’m safe!»

Jumping down from the cart, Papa ran to Mina. He scooped her up, pack and all, and swung her in a half circle before putting her down again. “You’ve—​well, you haven’t grown. But Pixit has. Hello, Pixit.” Papa smiled broadly at Pixit.

Pixit was hopping from foot to foot. A little drool had pooled at the corner of his mouth. He licked it away with a quick jab of his tongue and kept hopping.

“He’d like to hug you hello.”

Papa drew back. “Now, as I recall . . .”

She tasted Pixit’s disappointment, like limp vegetables, and she thought of how she’d let Mother keep him from her bedroom after he was born. She kept disappointing him. Not this time. “He missed you too,” Mina said firmly. “After all that time with me talking to him in his egg, you’re like his papa too.” Her heart was beating faster as she spoke up. She couldn’t remember ever having interrupted her father before. “He’s learned control, and it would make him happy—​and me—​if you’d let him hug you.”

“Oh, well, in that case.” Papa opened his arms, and Pixit bounded up to him like a puppy, leaning hard against him. Papa patted his back as he hugged him, and Mina felt Pixit’s rush of joy.

Pixit hadn’t been safe to touch before, it was true, but Mina still wished she’d said something about how he’d felt, back when he’d first hatched. Maybe her family would have been happier to see him, if they’d known he cared about them, but there had been all the craziness with the fire in the fields and then the letter . . .

At least she’d said something now. Better late than never.

«Which is why you should speak up about the festival and the ten-year storms!»

That’s different.

She could feel him disagree with her—​it was like a whiff of curdled milk. She wished she could shut the feeling off. She didn’t want to argue with someone within her own head.

«I’m not arguing,» Pixit protested. «I’m having an opinion.»

Can you not have it inside my head?

«You’re inside my head.»

Oh.