She walked toward the far edge of the space and peered out. Insects, half her size, with bulbous human heads carried on tiny silver shoulders and armored bodies stared at her with tilted intrigue. Enamored by these bugs which were not of the fumigating variety, she waved. The one who tended her raindrop gave a wiggle of its arms, antenna twitching.

"And what are those?"

"The Zipkinn," Crispen said.

"And they usher the rain and help it tumble to the ground? It's no joint feat of the water cycle and gravity?"

"Yes."

Peneloper watched the creature's wings, which ran the length of a very broad, muscular back, as they strained to keep the bug astride while its four arms all worked in tandem, rolling the drop toward the ground. Sweat slicked its brow. "Amazing." She walked away from the water wall, as strokes of sickly yellow filled her vision. "We've fallen inside, haven't we?"

Crispen's words conveyed the smile undoubtedly tugging on the corners of his mouth. "That wallpaper stands out, even when it's just blurry streaks."

"It also reeks of mold and bird dander and—" she sniffed the air, "freshly brewed floral tea."

"Of course," Crispen said, his voice taking a turn for the serious, which Peneloper instantly recognized, and hated, as it was the tone all teachers took when wishing to impart their 'wisdom.'

Her reaction, honed from years crammed behind a desk and listening to some self-important adult's crooning, put on its Kevlar, leveled its gun and went on the defensive. A barricade erupted in her mind, shielding her from the potential wounds a teacher's words could inflict. She gritted her teeth, and waited to advance on the next opportunity to fight against whatever words Crispen spewed next. Thankfully, and uncharacteristically of all Peneloper's prior experiences, they made sense.

"Chant and I ride the rain with you, your lesson, therefore, is to harness magic and locate us, before the rain falls into one of my pails and we go splat."

Peneloper's mind relaxed, her curiosity piquing. "I'm to do this with minimal instruction?"

"Thought that was the only way an Auttsley learned."

"Maybe with matters less magical, but this —"

The Zipkinn, who'd been ferrying her particular drop, zoomed aside, as another flew up to take its place. This Zipkinn was noticeably more delicately cut than its predecessor, its thorax slimmer, its carapace streamlined. It wore gloves upon its hands and had a particular glow in the face which reminded Peneloper of girls caught in the thrall of first love's initial blush.

She waved, meaning to show this newest Zipkinn the cordiality she'd shown the last, and it responded in kind, raising all its hands and giving her a brief flex of its fingers. Peneloper smiled, the creature's mandibles rubbing together in a high-pitched trill.

"Peneloper," Crispen called out from the ether. She returned her attention to him, as the Zipkinn seemed to return its attention to the work at hand, and pressing palm to drop, kick-started the descent. "You have to calm your mind."

Easier said than done, she thought, exhibiting in real-time how hard a request that would be for her.

Crispen continued, as though he hadn't read that last thought of hers, though he had, "Close your eyes. Feel the magic."

Doing as she'd been instructed, she felt nothing, aside from the cool chill associated with a mid-October rain when temperatures hovered around freezing. "Now," Crispen continued, "Picture yourself doing what you love most."

Peneloper envisioned herself in her bedroom, resting on a hill of pillows, cradled by a mound of blankets, her notebook open on her lap, her pen scratching away furiously.

"Good, good," Crispen whispered, his voice closer than it had been, and though it was only a voice, Peneloper found the hairs on the nape of her neck agitated, her cheeks filling with a blush as she imagined Crispen in full beside her, inches away from her ear, breath hot and pleasant, ticklish, but in the right way. "Keep picturing what you love. Magic responds to emotions, love being the strongest."

Peneloper shook her head loose of Crispen and returned to the task at hand. She thought of all the things she loved: her mother, horrendous cooking and all; Carmichelle, scowls and all; Chant and his entire family, who were exactly where they were supposed to be at all times; her story; Captain Stormholden, a character she'd modeled after her father, bad puns excluded;

The man himself – Rayburn Auttsley – who had imparted with Peneloper an unparalleled sense of good humor, and an outlet to make her wildest dreams and zaniest thoughts come true; Gale, and her twenty-one and over mugs of apple juice, who shared a skewed, albeit truthful, impression of the world; Miss Laddie's garden - a place of such majestic, manicured beauty it had proven to be magic long before Crispen had landed in the Oaks.

Magic's call, what Crispen had referred to as its 'caw,' took Peneloper by surprise, but, instead of recoiling,  she extended her hand, and a thread of light purple floated toward her. She grabbed the thread, wove it between her fingers. Her skin ignited and her heart kicked into overdrive. She pulled more, gathering it around her forearm.

"You're getting it," Crispen said. "Now use that magic. Create something from those strands that will take you to where Chant and I—"

"—Nells? Is that you?" The sound of Chant's voice so abrupt, caused Peneloper to falter, some of the magic unraveling from around her arm. "Hey, Nells, listen up. I don't mean to interrupt your lesson or anything, but we're getting pretty close to colliding with one of Heavensley's pails and I don't know about you, but I'd hate to burst and drown in what can only be a few inches of rainwater. Doesn't make for a very good obituary."

A skirmish ensued, some rustling of cloth, shoe scuffles, and annoyed grunts filling the raindrop. "Forgive the beast," Crispen said, cool and collected. A whimper came from Chant. "No pressure. Take your time."

"Yes," Chant rasped. "Lots of pressure."

Another thud, an angry hiss, then a shush.

Peneloper blocked out everything: the Zipkinn, the pained yelps of a punished Chant, the slow, monotonous breathing exuded from Crispen. She focused on the magic in her hands, the purple spreading out to wrap around itself like a warmed bath towel. She felt its yearning to be acknowledged, to be used, and given shape. She obliged that desire with a thought - become a vehicle that can take me to Chant and Crispen. The magic pierced her mind, latching on to the first image to coalescence.

Her magic appeared before her as a horse-drawn carriage. Two horses of light purple whinnied, their long, wispy manes flowing in a wind absent elsewhere in the drop. Before she could soak any of this in, invisible hands scooped her up and the carriage barreled through the rain with the speed and fury of the youngest Auttsley's typing.

Peneloper sat inside the carriage, everything emanating that same shade of purple. The furnishings, fine for a thought given at whim. Her bench had cushions, which molded to her butt, back and neck, and provided a great deal of comfort. The window came curtained, though the fabric was pulled back, so Peneloper could witness the outside world whirring past. The sensation of riding in a creation of her mind, of it coming to life at her prompting, was something she never would have thought possible.

You were given the tools to create, Nep. Do so within these pages and the worlds.

The carriage pierced another drop, to the astonishment of two Zipkinns, whose antennae were pristinely swept away from their faces and kept in place by a sweet-smelling lacquer, Peneloper posited was honey. They zipped out of the way as the water ruptured. Peneloper hurried to stick her head out and yell an apology, but the drop had reformed already, the damage done, her apology unheard. With a final whinny, the horses stopped, the carriage dissipating. Peneloper fell to the ground.

Crispen, in all his Heavenseliness, came to her side, eyebrows drawn into his hairline. "A horse-drawn carriage? Not exactly what I had in mind."

He extended his hand and Peneloper gripped it pulling herself up. "I've never done what's expected of me," she brushed off her bottoms and smirked, "Why start now?"

Crispen nodded toward the fading purple of Peneloper's magical ride. "Your magic reeks of lavender."

"Is that bad?"

He shook his head. "No, but I'm sure the dog isn't too fond of it right now."

Peneloper turned, and there, nestled in the curve of the rain drop's wall, was an enormous red wolf. It sat with its muzzle between paws that were each the size of Peneloper's face. She stepped toward it; it whimpered, showing her a dismissal display of fang. "Is that—"

"The Luric boy?" Crispen slicked back his hair. "It could be no other."

"Ch-chant?"

The wolf howled, its gaze familiar, no matter how canine it was. Peneloper held her hand out, unsure if Chant would still recognize her in his current state. Crispen nudged her. "He retains his humanity no matter what form he takes. Don't worry. He's all snarls and fangs because he's embarrassed. Red's an unusual color for werewolf fur."

She got to her knees, looking Chant in his wolf-eyes. "I think," again, she held out her hand. Chant slunk toward her, sniffed her fingers, his hot snorts tickling her palm. She continued, "that you are splendid, no matter what form you take." Chant licked her fingers, and Peneloper found herself wrist-deep in soft, auburn fur as her fingers scratched behind one of Chant's ears.

"Well, Miss Auttsley, dog," Crispen moved to the center of the drop, "much as this has been a heartwarming reunion amongst friends, I should recommend we take our leave. This drop's purpose is near exhausted, and will burst, any second now."

Peneloper jumped to her feet. Chant shot to all fours, tail erect, ears flat and back.

"And how do we do that?"

Crispen's eyes glowed as he reached for her and placed an arm snugly around her waist. Chant growled, back arched, hind fur standing on full alert. Crispen smiled. "If you're so displeased, dog, why don't you voice your feelings more clearly when you regain your ability to speak?"

The pair exchanged glowers as the air crackled between them. Peneloper, too preoccupied with Crispen's closeness, the feel of his warmth grazing her entire left side, invading her body like an unwanted army who set out to raze every sensible thought she had in her head, didn't notice the anger in Crispen's disposition – his brow, ever slightly, though regally wrinkled, nor Chant's predatory stance, which included saliva dripping from his jaws in gloopy waterfalls.

Instead, what she did take note of, was the way her stomach seemed to flop inside her, as she once again found herself in Mire Hill's leaky first-floor parlor, the rain catching in Crispen's water pails.

Peneloper sank to the couch, where a recently humanized Chant laid sprawled out, panting, sweat soaking through his shirt and careening off his face like bungee jumpers. Crispen returned to his tattered recliner, at which time Genesis flew to him, perched on the chair's back, and asked if he could be of any service.

Crispen flicked the bird's forehead in a kindly manner. "Your company is all I need, Gen."

The bird swelled with pride, making itself impossibly fat, then, lowering its body upon itself, settled into a position above Crispen, its beak resting on the boy's shoulder.

"Can I fly now?" Peneloper asked.

Crispen's brows raised. "Try it, and you're liable to meet Death far earlier than first thought." She slunk back into the sofa. "Though that was a good first showing. Magic must run in your family."

Her nose wrinkled. "If it does, I know nothing about it."

Chant groaned as he raised himself onto his elbow. Crispen eyed him, then Peneloper, though the severity in his gaze melted a bit when their eyes finally met. "Eldest Luric," he said, tapping his fingers against his recliner's armrest. "I believe you were about to extend a dinner invitation to myself and Miss Auttsley."

Chant's face flushed. For a moment he looked ill, so Peneloper took up a bucket and held it out, in case he felt the urge to spew. Chant turned down her offer. "I was—" he said, uncharacteristically riled up, "It was supposed to be just—"

"We accept." Crispen stood. "Well, Miss Auttsley. I'm sure you're famished after using your magic. What do you say to a good homecooked meal at the Luric residence?"

She looked from Crispen to Chant. Chant to Crispen. Crispen to Genesis and afterward to Chant. Finally, she asked, "Will there be fruit tart for dessert?"

Chant laughed. "I'm afraid I didn't have the mind to write down our cactus's recipe, but—"

"But if you ask nicely, Miss Auttsley," Crispen continued, whipping open the front door. A gust of fresh air blew through the rooms, knocking stacks of paper to the floor, and sending the moldy odor into hiding, "I'm sure it'll tell you everything you need to know."

"Just ask honestly," she replied, stepping onto the porch. "And honesty will be supplied."

Crispen nodded as he, accompanied by Genesis, and followed by a lackluster Chant who lurched every third step and looked greener the more energy exerted, headed down Mire Hill's curvy lane, a trio of magical misfits.

As the first droplet of rain pelted her scalp, Peneloper thanked the little Zipkinn who caused such a thing to occur and found herself skipping as the urge to sing Phil Collins overwhelmed her. "Now I, now I know I wish it would rain down, down on me," she began.

Crispen, surprised, took up the next line, "Oh you know I wish it would rain, rain down on me now." He smiled. She smiled.

And then, something extraordinary happened, more so than the ride on the rain they'd all just shared because magic occurs both when conjured and not: Chantham Luric, introvert and hater of public singing of any kind (including, but not limited to educational songs for children, couple's humming the songs that best represented their love, co-workers drunken karaoke outings) took up the lyrics shortly thereafter - Phil Collins being the universal language understood by all those in the know, no matter where it was they called home.