Fletcher approached the birds cautiously. “Hello,” he murmured, feeling like he ought to be saying something polite to his rescuers. “Nice to meet you.”
The phoenixes hopped into a loose circle. Fletcher noticed they each clutched a vine in one of their clawed feet. The vines connected to a dark oilcloth, intricately threaded through its edges. Once the birds were assembled in formation, Roxanne strode into their midst and stood at the center of the cloth. She gestured again for Fletcher and he jolted himself out of his stupor. He moved to join her with Seba in tow.
“What is all this?” Seba asked faintly. “What’s happening?”
“Phoenixes are like ants,” was Roxanne’s nonsensical reply.
Fletcher scrunched his nose, nonplused. Staring at the majestic creatures surrounding them, each one im
