Page 50 of The Spellreader and the Phoenix

“Yeah, I’d be in a lot of trouble if I breathed as heavily as a human in bird form.”

Max snorted, shifting around. “I suppose that wouldn’t work.” He was silent for a moment. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“You’re very welcome,” Rory assured him. “I just hope it all works out.”

They were meeting Mr. Jones tomorrow, but who was to say if he’d actually let Max see the collection or that it would be what Max hoped for.

Almost like Max had read his mind, he said, “It’s more than I’ve ever gotten to do before. I really appreciate it. Goodnight, Rory.”

“Goodnight, Max.”

It had been years since Rory had slept in human form. No other animal required as much accouterments as humans did. Although he supposed that there were others who liked comfier options when they could find them. And babies often had accommodations, of course. But humans had box springs and mattresses and sheets and blankets and pillows—and sometimes canopy beds with velvet curtains.

They’d invented such interesting things, and Rory hoped that they would continue to invent good and interesting things in the future.

He listened to Max’s breathing even out and deepen, and the knowledge that Max had fallen asleep soothed Rory and allowed him to fall asleep as well.

Max’s alarm woke them in the morning, and they practically tumbled out of bed, took turns in the bathroom, threw clothes on, and then called to be retrieved so that they wouldn’t lose themselves on the way to the kitchen. Max had seemed a little tense as well as grumpy and barely conscious when they’d woken, but it had slowly faded away as Rory had treated him exactly like he normally did.

Rory was going to convince his mate one day that he wasn’t ever going to put pressure on Max to do anything he didn’t want to do, but Rory knew that would take time.

The smells coming out of the kitchen were so amazing that they could almost have navigated there with their noses. Rory knew not everyone agreed, but he thought pumpkin spice was the best invention ever. It made everything smell warm and cozy. Cinnamon was the best. Also ginger. And nutmeg. Rory inhaled deeply. They were all the best!

When they reached the kitchen, everything looked as good as it smelled, too, an array of breakfast foods that would outdo the diner Rory and Max had gone to with Alex. (And this time, Rory got to eat the food!)

Rory piled a bit of everything onto his plate: scrambled eggs, bacon, a pancake, a waffle, a piece of French toast, and yogurt with fresh berries and granola on top.

“Wow,” Rory exclaimed. “This is amazing! Thank you so much for such a fabulous breakfast!”

The cook waved this aside, though she looked pleased. She was a plump, round-faced woman with pale skin who looked to be in her forties. Her energy said she was a witch, though, and Rory was pretty sure she was actually in her sixties. It wasn’t an exact art, knowing how old someone was, but Rory had been around for long enough that his feelings were usually right.

She introduced herself as Fiona Finch, and she was a witch who had a little golden finch as a familiar. The bird flitted around the room but came to cuddle against Rory and twitter his curiosity.

Mrs. Finch looked surprised but pleased. “Buttercup is often a little hesitant around strangers, but he clearly likes you.”

“I’m very likable,” Rory told her with a wink.

She chortled and brought him more food.

She also had lots of coffee for Max, which he drank gratefully, a look of bliss on his face. Shifters usually metabolized stimulants too fast for them to be particularly useful, and Rory had never quite understood humans’ love of coffee and tea or that weird new desire for energy drinks. Food gave you energy. Why would you need to market a drink like that?

For Rory, Mrs. Finch made steamed milk with lots of spices in it.

After a sip, Rory asked, “Would you like to come work in a bookshop? We could get a fancy coffee maker.”

She laughed merrily.

Rory cleared his whole plate and had seconds. He might even have tried for thirds, but then the secretary showed up, ready to take them to their meeting. They obviously couldn’t be late because Rory wanted to stuff his face with more delicious food.

Mrs. Finch smiled at him. “I’ll have lunch and dinner for you later. And you can always stop by if you need a snack. Not to worry.”

“That’s so generous. Thank you. I can’t wait!” Rory assured her.

“Thank you,” Max echoed, looking faintly amused by Rory’s enthusiasm and maybe grateful that he didn’t have to say more.

Mr. Jones’s secretary was tall, blond, pale-skinned, blue-eyed, and incredibly handsome. He looked to be in his early thirties, but he was a shifter. His aging was beginning to slow, and he was probably in his late forties or early fifties.

He shook hands with both of them.