The Occamy turned. Its beak opened, and a jet of blue flame shot toward a group of children huddled near a temple.
The next morning, the villagers found the well filled with clean, sweet water. The blue flames were gone. In their place, someone had left a single, beautiful feather that shimmered like a mehendi cone under the sun.
Kavya laughed. “Aur woh kahan milte hain? Everywhere. Especially where you least expect them.”
“Describe it,” Newt urged, opening his case just a crack. A warm, humid wind escaped.
