Arabesque: A Wings Companion

Chapter Nine

After that awful scene with Tamani, the call from Scazio had been anti-climactic. Their acceptance didn't much matter if Tam sent her home.

So she promised herself to be as accommodating as possible when Laurel handed her a glassy black slate that projected light from one side—like a slab of obsidian imbued with rudimentary Sparkler abilities. By touching the proper runes, a spell called Netflix could be invoked, which enabled the device to depict a variety of stories, several of which Laurel insisted Rowen watch from beginning to end.

These proved fascinating—much like the theatrical plays Rowen had been putting on in Avalon since she was young. Except the view stayed so close to everyone's faces, even though the size of some of their sets put even Avalon's biggest stage to shame. Close, then unimaginably far. Laurel told her there were "shows" about faeries too, but that humans got it so backward that it was entertaining for all the wrong reasons.

The point was for Rowen to learn to respect humans.

Rowen was wary of Laurel's plan at first, but the stories in these "movies" proved astonishingly engrossing. The humans portrayed odd mannerisms, did and said things Rowen could hardly understand, but most of the time their actions and feelings resonated within her on such a deep level that she was shocked and a little disgusted with herself.

Though she tried to squelch that particular emotion.

She spent hours each day watching human stories on the enchanted tablet. At dinner, instead of being peppered with questions by Laurel's father, she had questions of her own—questions, which Tamani insisted Rowen addressed to Laurel's parents.

This proved embarrassing—like discovering her undergarments had been peeking out during an entire performance. She knew that Laurel and Tamani must have talked to them about what happened at Chelsea's. Asking questions—favors, really, albeit small ones—of people who knew she considered them inferior, who she had to please if she was to be permitted to stay, was ... harrowing.

It was a tremendous relief when Tamani finally told her to pack for San Francisco.

"You're almost late," he said, scanning the street as he pulled to the curb in front of Scazio Dance Academy. "My apologies. Six months away and I forget how crowded the streets get. Oh, don't forget this," he added, proffering a golden-yellow envelope, thick with papers. "Give it to the secretary. She'll call me if she needs anything else."

Rowen accepted the envelope, marveling once more that there should be so many humans as to justify their complex rituals of identification—in Avalon, a name was always enough. Occasionally the matriarchal surname if one was visiting a seldom-frequented neighborhood. But she reminded herself to think of it as a simple fact, not inferiority. It was no one's fault; it just was.

"Got it," she said, sliding from the car and swinging her rucksack onto one shoulder. Laurel had offered a more human-styled bag—something called a duffel—but Rowen wanted a memento from Avalon and Tamani had argued that it looked European enough to escape notice. Whatever that meant.

"Right here at five-thirty," Tamani said.

Rowen froze. "Class gets out at five."

"Guess you'll have to socialize for a while."

"Tam—"

But he was already driving away, grinning and pretending he couldn't hear her even though the convertible's top was down.

Rowen fought the urge to scream—or maybe just cast an illusion to interfere with his vision so he had no choice but to stop. But though it would make her feel good, it would hardly be productive. She had a dance class to report to.