Wonder Made

Twelve, Part One

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Swooning has proven more refreshing than Peneloper initially thought possible, much like a slice of watermelon on a summer's day, or a shot of whiskey savored at the tail-end of a work week.

The act, as involuntary as a cough, sneeze, or tossing of one of Mother Auttsley's breakfasts into the bin, requires little in terms of physical exertion and provides a delightful nap, in miniature.

Peneloper could have done without the embarrassment, but when your friend looks like that and is looking at you that way, pheromones seem to have a way of wreaking havoc on your fragile, seventeen-year-old psyche, awakening latent desires and a flush of cheek, as it's a genre staple.

After awakening from her swoon, it takes her a moment to recall wherein the story she is. So much has happened, and yet there's so much more to come.

Chant sits at the foot of her bed, anchoring her to this time and place, knees pulled into his chest, pupils slitted, teeth pressed into his lower lip, his tell-tale worry wrinkle cutting a Mariana Trench across his forehead. If he had a tail in this form, it'd be swishing aside bedsheets and sending Peneloper's army of stuffed green aliens to explore the untamed jungles of her carpeted floor.

She reaches for him, squeezes his wrist. He turns, flashes a wry smile and returns the squeeze with fingers red-hot and rough yet kind. This interaction is small and nonverbal, but in those seconds, everything is conveyed that needs to be: it's okay; I'm fine; I accept you no matter what. Peneloper cocks her head and raises an eyebrow - a werewolf, huh? You'll have to tell me everything as research for my story.

Chantham chuckles, Peneloper's laughter not far behind. Genesis, on the other hand, watching the pair from the windowsill, impatiently struts, wings cross, eyes like melted gold, far removed from the moment being shared on the bed. Rain beats against the pane, each reverberating ping promising to soak his feathers, and his expression worsens.

He taps his beak unhappily against the glass. Having lived with a thirteen-year-old, Peneloper, and Chant, being the foremost authority in charge of twin, younger sisters, recognizes this for what it is: the tinny, staccato beats of annoyance.

Chant gets to his feet. Peneloper gathers up her notebook and newly acquired star. Together, with Genesis gliding over their heads, they make for Mire Hill.

Halfway through their trek, Chant's muscles - chiseled from years of track and the genetic makeup to be predisposed for unearned muscles and width, as all werewolves were - give out. Without so much as a huff or wobble, he crumples to the asphalt.

Genesis squawks his impudence, offering no help as birds do, and instead begs Peneloper to leave Chant for Monday's garbage pickup. Peneloper will not let her friend fester on the side of the road like roadkill until Monday, so, with resolve equal to that of this chapter's desire to begin, she picks her friend up and staggers the rest of the way to Mire Hill house.

Red-faced, out of breath, slimy, and pitted, she arrives. Finger trembling, she rings the doorbell. Crispen Heavensley answers before the first trill finishes as though he'd been waiting for this precise moment, and in truth, he had. Flashing a smile, he lets them in. Dragging Chant, Peneloper sets foot inside the mysterious house on Mire Hill, where her instruction into the wonderfully nonsensical world of magic is about to unfold.