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seven extra bones in its neck, which allowed it to swivel its head in a wide arc and flip it straight up; they all made the same movement at the same time. Now their faces were where the tops of their heads had been, seconds before. Mrs. P. looked up, too. How very odd , she thought.
    “What is it?” Soren asked.
    “Not a bird,” Otulissa and Twilight both said at once.
    “No, definitely not a bird,” Digger replied.
    “It’s not a living thing,” Mrs. Plithiver said. For had it been, she knew she would have detected the vibrations from the beats of its heart.
    “But it’s beautiful,” Gylfie said as they all looked up at this colorful thing that danced and skipped above them in the eddies of the River of Wind.
    It was triangular in shape and made of some sort of material—possibly parchment—that had been stretched over a frame. From the lower point of the triangle flew a tail, or perhaps it was a banner, made from brightly colored rags.
    “Look! There’s another!” Twilight said, spotting a second such contraption below them.
    “There are strings attached! They lead downward.” Coryn cried out. “Let’s follow the strings!”
    “Follow the strings!” they all cried out.

CHAPTER TEN
Conversations with a Blue Owl
    B ut your feathers—why are they blue?” Bell asked as she finished a winter-skinny mouse. Normally, she would have scoffed at such fare. But this was the first food she had eaten since she had been spun out of the scuppers of the gale. Until now she had been too weak to eat anything of substance at all.
    “And why are your feathers brown and the ones on your face white?” the blue owl replied. Striga’s Hoolian had become more fluent as Bell, despite her condition, asked endless questions.
    “Because my mum’s and da’s are,” she answered.
    The blue owl churred softly.
    “Oh, I get it!” Bell said, her dark eyes sparkling. “Your mum and da were blue. So that’s why you’re blue.” She seemed momentarily satisfied with this answer. But then the tiny delicate feathers on her brow began to pucker up. Oh, dear. Here comes another question, the blue owl thought.
    “But I’ve never seen a blue owl before.”
    “I think there must be a lot you haven’t seen,” the blue owl replied.
    Bell nodded thoughtfully. “I guess so.” There was another pause. “Is there a lot you haven’t seen?”
    “Well, I am older, of course. So I have seen more.” But, he thought, I have never seen a black-eyed owl. He resisted saying this, however. In this part of the world it would open up too many questions.
    “Tell me, what have you seen?” Bell asked.
    The blue owl sighed. He had seen so much but yet so little. There was no way he could explain. He believed she was what they called in this world a Barn Owl. He had found that with this inquisitive little owl it was best to answer her questions with as few words as possible. It was better to just let her fill in with her own notions and ideas. It had actually worked quite well. First, the little owl whose name was Bell had quite by accident given him a name. When she had asked what he was he had merely answered with the generic name “Striga,” which he knew his kind was called. She had assumed it was his personal name, and the blue owl loved it immediately that Bell had thus named him. He much preferred the name Striga to his real name, Orlando, which had always irked him. Itwas one of those fussy, overly fancy, typical court names. Through such conversations, the blue owl was never really forced to lie outright.
    Bell began to make assumptions derived from the short answers he gave her. He had artfully led her into believing that he was from a very remote part of the Northern Kingdoms and was a Glauxian Brother. Talking passed the time, and she was a pleasant little owl. Her port wing was badly damaged, and he knew it would be quite a while before Bell could fly home. And she did miss her home. She often woke up in the middle of the day