Gwenaëlle is halfway up a shelf, partially to see if there’s a way over the top — her wings buzz behind her, moving too quickly to hold her up to be seen as more than a shimmering blur — which is where she’d been caught by a particularly tempting tome,

Cedric’s voice startles her out of it and she opens her hands, letting the book fall hard to the floor below, landing open face-down: last words, unknown speakers.

“I think we can get over the top,” she says, not dignifying his extremely good question with an answer, “if you start climbing now.”