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Full disclosure: I hate birds, crows most of all. They are constantly squawking, parasite-ridden pests, that no matter how many scarecrows I erect in my roof-top garden, insist on perching on my tomato plants, and pecking the fruits just for the hell of it. 

Crispen's bird companion is not unlike those tormenting my garden and I feel a similar disregard for it. For the sake of unbiased narration, I will persevere to give you as honest a recounting of this part as I am able. 

Peneloper rushes to her window, undoes the latch and slides back the pane and screen providing what she believes is enough room to let the blackbird inside.

It is not enough, though because the bird is fat. Twice the size of other crows, he must retract his wings, lower his beak, and squeeze through. The screen is torn as a result of his added weight, a direct result of being raised on a diet rich in peach slices, breadcrumbs, and pocket birdseed. Even its parasites are on the heavier side. 

Anyway, the chubby crow glides from window ledge to floor, its beady eyes cataloging the things in Peneloper's room. He is disgusted by the piles of dirty clothes and crumpled papers, the overflowing trash baskets, and the grim-stained mirror. The smell, of things he can't quite place, burns his beakholes. Being that he is a crow, however, and, in turn, no more than a flying rat, his opinions on the subject matter little. 

• Squonk •

"Your room is a disaster." After stating the obvious, the bird dug its talons into Peneloper's favorite pillow, spearing the picture of Nick Cage in the eye. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think ravens nested here."

She plopped down beside him, reclaiming the pillow for herself. "That an insult?"

The bird heaved a sigh. "If you had your wits about you, you'd be very offended. Devastated even. Ravens are the most detestable birds." Shoving its beak into the crux of its left wing, the bird set about preening itself at leisure. No immediacy or urgency present. Time, which he'd exclaimed was not on Peneloper's side, marching on as the bird chewed on its feathers. It, every bit of a contradiction as was its owner.

Peneloper frowned. "Try not getting your parasites on my pillows."

The bird snorted. "My parasites are no grosser than the skin flakes your kind sheds everywhere. You're the appalling creature, not I."

"You've come to insult me, then?" Peneloper harrumphed. "So, that's to be the nature of this exchange?"

The bird hopped to attention; its black eyes narrowed. "Why no! How could you even think that?"

"Because you've set about making my room your grooming nest," she began, "your manner is absent of the urgency you spoke of previously, you've taken to insulting me pretty regularly—" The bird held up its wing, ending her mid-rant.

"I'm sure my companion has told you more than he ought to have," the bird ruffled its tail feathers. "Such a naïve, foolish boy. He'd do anything for those he cares about, even if it means turning the eyes of the Council upon himself once again." The bird swiveled its head. "What has my companion told you of your predicament?"

Peneloper studied the bird, his beady eyes and haughty demeanor, the elegance of his voice despite the sound being pushed through a beak. What a frivolous, flighty thing. And fat, too. Whatever the magical equivalent of SlimFast was, this creature needed some ASAP.

"He's told me of magic," she said. "That he's magic, and so am I. He showed me the layers. Mentioned something about Death wishing to kill me, and that to fight it, I'll need to earn my wings and fly." She furrowed her brow. "By the way, what's with all the avian terminology? Was the basis of all magic founded by an overenthusiastic ornithologist?"

The bird puffed out its chest in pride—channeling its vain, strutting cousin the peacock—the crook of its beak curved upward. "Miss, Auttsley, birds happen to be the most sensitive to the world's layers. In fact," he stretched his wings their full length, "we, aside from some noteworthy installments of your kind, are the only ones who can travel the layers freely." Furrowing a brow which the bird lacked in spades, it continued, "Most who wish to travel take the train."

Peneloper took this all in. Bird-related phrases, a poorly thought out system of relaying information via feathered vehicle, a magical train - this was all veering close to wizarding stereotypes.

"Anyway," the bird continued, ruffling its feathers so he looked obese among Peneloper's collection of emaciated stuffed animals, "for some reason or another, you seem to be of great importance, and so, myself and Crispen, have been charged with your safety."

"Which means I get all manner of your protection and wisdom?"

The bird flashed a full smile, again something hard to accomplish while missing the necessary muscles or lips to do so. "Why of course, Miss Auttsley. All my knowledge is at your disposal."

She grinned. "Who told you to protect me?" His beak snapped shut. Peneloper sighed. "Ah, so there are limits to what you can and cannot say."

"They who have asked this of us," the bird strutted about, poking one of Peneloper's teddy bears in its button eye. When the bear's head fell forward, the bird squawked, flapped its wings, and flew into her dresser. It only took him a second to collect himself, wiping down his breast feathers as Mr. Howell had often done, running greasy, mustard stained fingers down his button- front, beige shirts before diving into a lunch of chili cheese fries. The bird managed to be more composed and elegant, though, even with the parasites. "We," the bird continued, "were asked to help you by a friend."

"And your friend—"

"Wishes to remain anonymous. They believe their existence may prove more upsetting than your impending dance with death."

Peneloper fell back into her headboard. "I do sorely hope there's no dance to be had. I'm quite appalling when it comes to memorized footwork and," she leaned in, "I'm afraid the quadrille's in the shop." She clenched her hand around a nearby pillow, and let her knuckles go white.

The bird cocked his head. "Do you find none of this harrowing, Miss Auttsley? You seem to take everything in great stride. Even your tone when talking about death has a jovial quality."

"If only you could read minds like Crispen," she said, feeling the tenseness in her body, like a snake about to strike, though she knew not where to spit her venom. "I assure you I'm anything but composed. My organs all feel like they've sprouted legs and are running about my insides looking for an escape. I feel empty, lighter than air, liable to disappear into the atmosphere, float around in space, lost, and unable to come back home. At the same time," she bit her bottom lip, glanced at her notebook, "I feel overly full, bogged down, and if I'm thrown over whatever it is keeping me afloat, I'll sink to the bottom and never manage to swim my way to the surface."

The bird's wing wrapped around her shoulder.

Through blurred vision, and with an uneven breath she asked, "When did you get so close?"

The bird leaned in, nuzzled its head into her chest, and cooed, "Forgive me, Miss Auttsley. I had no idea." She patted the bird's head. He smiled. "My feathers happen to be quite absorbent. Use them as you see fit."

Peneloper blinked, wetness trickling along her cheekbones. She returned the bird's embrace, and in a relatively small, bashful voice thanked the bird for its kindness. No matter how urgent a situation became, there could always be time for tears.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said of overzealous, emboldened younger sisters. "Nells!"

A rap at the door followed Carmichelle's summons, punctuated by a shuffle of feet, louder now as the youngest Auttsley had swapped slippers for something with more of a substantial sole.

Peneloper pulled away from the bird, and ran a sleeve across her face, hoping to wick away any residual tears. The bird hurried to disguise itself, flocking to Peneloper's rows of stuffed animals and shoving its girth between the teddy bear with the button eyes, and a blue and pink turtle with a quizzical brow and bow tie. Peneloper laid back on her bed, fingers laced together and draped over her head, trying to look as nonchalant as she could muster.

Carmichelle burst into her room a second later and gave it a quick scan, her mouth moving as though she were chewing on an unseen blade of grass. Pink nail polish glittered as she worked her fingers across her phone's keyboard at breakneck speed. "Chant's here."

She moved aside and there, snotty and red, hunched over and in tattered sweats, perspiring so severely it dripped onto her carpet, stood Chantham Luric, scowling. It's good to note here that the scowl would have been fierce had not the rest of him been so miserable. Carma swung around, her curls bouncing over her shoulders and pranced away.

Peneloper gulped. She never liked it when her friend wore that expression; it spoke only of one outcome – chiding. And Peneloper Auttsley, much as lectures and school lessons, hated being chided, which when administered by a Luric no less, went for precisely forty-five minutes—a solid, inexcusable forty minutes too long—and always included a graph of some kind.

"You're swaying," she observed of her best, and some would argue only, friend. "And drenching my carpet." She frowned.

"You," Chant growled, voice gruff and hard as if nails had been run along the length of his esophagus. He wheezed as sweat pooled at his feet, Peneloper's carpet already at its maximum absorbency. "You were supposed to," he lurched, and Peneloper thought this would be the moment he toppled, but he surprised her—and Crispen's bird—by snagging the corner of her sock bureau and righting himself. He continued to sway on legs that seemed made of jelly and though he retained some of his usual dignity and elegance, it tarnished a bit as a booger ballooned from his right nostril, "bring me my missed assignments."

Much as Peneloper Auttsley was kind, she also, came equipped with a keen sense of comedic timing. And while seeing her friend in such a miserable state tugged on her heartstrings, it also put in motion, a mind - that at times, was too witty for itself. And so, the following fell from her mouth, "Don't go getting in a huff, Chant."