Goodie lay sobbing underneath her quilt, the late afternoon sun slanting through her window, spearing and exploding dust mote after dust mote.
“Don’t cry,” Avarice pleaded as he poked at her with his beak.
“I hate you!” she screamed from under the cover.
Avarice hopped close to her head and said, “I’ll tell you a story if you stop crying.”
Goodie slung the quilt aside and glared at the crow. “You knew,” she accused him.
“Not all are born to do magic,” he said as he rubbed his head against her arm. “Some are born to be a hidden princess.”