I peer at the house, looking for cracks in its facade, delighted.
Rowan flaps his wings. “You’re nearly suffocating me with second-hand happiness.”
“How uncomfortable that must be for you.” I turn my attention to the gate. “How do we get in?”
Rowan makes a strange noise, and when I look over at him, he’s peering at the lock like there’s a problem.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“You have to open the gate with a spell.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, I know.” He hoots, annoyed. “You’ll have to use the call box.”
“There’s a call box?”
I look around, but I don’t see it.
“There.” He flaps his wing toward a bush near the car. “You’ll have to get out.”
“Okay…” I gingerly open the door and step outside. “What does poison ivy look like? Do you know? What’s that rhyme?Leaves of three, let it be?”
“I never studied botany. You’re a pixie—shouldn’tyouknow?”
I contemplate the vine. It’s wrapped around the bush, crawling like a bindweed. I can just make out the call box through the leaves, but it’s going to be impossible to reach the button without touching the plant.
“Not by sight,” I say, “but I can tell this green vine is angry, whatever it is.”
“Then don’t touch it.”
I shoot the owl a look as I tug my phone from my pocket and pull up a plant identification app I use on hikes. “Dang it.”
“What does it say?” Rowan demands.
“Poison ivy.”
“This wouldn’t be a problem if you were a mage,” he points out.
“Nor would it be a problem ifyouwere a mage.” I search the ground for a twig and gingerly nudge aside the vines and branches. When I spot the button, I push it with the end of the stick. Pleased with myself, I step back. “There.”
“Look at you,” Rowan says wryly. “Who needs magic when you have a stick?”
“This is why everyone says mages overcomplicate things.”
“May I help you?” a bored-sounding woman answers, her voice crackling in the seldom-used speaker.
“Yes, hello. I’m here to visit Professor Morris Bellview.” I almost add,if he’s still alive.
“The gate is charmed with a basic lock spell,” she says. “Come on in.”
She sounds like she’s about to end the call, so I quickly say, “Oh no, wait! I can’t. I’m a pixie.”
There’s an audible sigh on the other end. After several seconds, and with great reluctance, she says, “I’ll send someone out.”
“Thank y—” The speaker goes silent before I can finish. I turn back to Rowan. “She seems friendly.”
Five minutes later, a man wearing jeans and a dark blue T-shirt walks down the lane. His boots are brown, and his dark blond hair is short. He looks like a regular human, but I can sense his magic. It’s the same sort that enveloped Ansel.
