“I wouldn’t know one bird from another,” she replied. “That little bird is just watching. I did the red ones first, but there was a space, and next thing I knew, my hand was guided to put it there. Maybe the rest was its vision, not mine. The picture just came, happening too quickly.”
“Maybe it was my vision. But I am no small brown bird, nor are you, little one.”
She moved fretfully, wanting him nearer, but not sure how to tell him so. “Why do you insist on calling me that? I’ve said I am not little!”
“You have given me no name to call you, nothing I am permitted to use. Tell me how I should address you, and I will use it.”
She gave a sharp, gusty sigh. “Oh, for—my name is Arabella. It’s an old-fashioned name, one that came down in my mother’s family or so she always said.”
The shado
