Rowan settles on his kitchen perch. “You may.”
“First off, is Irish breakfast expensive?”
“Irish breakfast? No, it’s usually a budget-friendly blend of Assam. Why?”
“I need help putting my business things in order. Ash offered to assist me and said I could pay him with a free cup of it every day for a year. Do you think that’s a good deal?”
“A nice Irish breakfast is around fifteen to twenty cents for three grams, which is about what’s used in a standard cup. Multiply that by three hundred sixty-five days, assuming he’s going to show up on your days off, and on the high end, you’re looking at about seventy-five dollars.”
I turn to look at him, box of dry spaghetti in my hand.
“What?” he asks.
“Did you just do all that in your head?”
“It’s basic math.”
“Sure, but…”
“What?”
I shrug. “You’re an owl.”
“I’m amage,” he says, exasperated.
“Seventy-five dollars feels cheap for legal advice,” I say. “Why do you think he’s being so nice?”
“Men lose their heads when pretty girls are interested in them.”
“Oh, Rowan,” I tease him, “you think I’m pretty?”
“As far as I can tell,” he says, looking mildly annoyed. “But what would I know? I’m a bird.”
I laugh. “I’m going to start water, and then I’ll make dinner. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please.”
To keep the conversation going, I ask, “What did you do today?”
“What I do every day—fly around the town, find a nice tree, and sit in it.”
“Every day?” I set the filled kettle on the stove.
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. What did you do before?”
“I studied magic and read books.”
“Did you attend a mages college?”
“For four years,” he confirms. “In Albany.”
“What brought you to Moss Hollow?”
“I grew up here.”
I almost ask if he still has family in the area, but I stop myself. If he did, he’d be living with them. They must be gone now. And I don’t want to bring up anything painful.
