Oh, you were basically a lap dog when it came to Miss Peregrine.

Her lap dog.

Ever since you were a kid you had been glued to her side—fetching books, carrying tea, listening to her every word like it was scripture. You looked at her as if she were the most precious thing in the entire universe. And to you, she was.

Being a Phoenix had its advantages. You were the silent shadow at her shoulder that terrified anyone who thought to step out of line. Triple her size in your full form, your wings could block out the sun, your talons could shear through steel, and your fangs—well, you’d never needed to use them. People understood. No one dared to threaten her, or anyone in her house, when you were near.

When you went into town, you kept your wings tucked away, hidden under illusion and restraint. But at home, they were ever-present—unfolded to catch raindrops for her when clouds gathered, fanning cool air over the children after long games in the sun, curling around her in the library when she read aloud.

But now? Now things were bad.

Really, really bad.

And she was angry.

You didn’t blame her.

Enoch and Olive had convinced you to help them “procure” a few hearts from the old cemetery. Routine work, really—digging, fetching, and getting out before anyone noticed. But the caretaker of the church had been there that day. And apparently, he thought you were Satan’s errand boys.

He came at you with a pitchfork and fire. Olive dealt with the flames in seconds, heat vanishing into her bare hand before her glove returned. Enoch snatched the jars and bolted. You followed—until the pitchfork left his grip.

It should have struck Enoch in the back. Instead, your wing burst from your side with a snap, feathers slicing the air as you threw yourself between him and the blow. The steel ripped through muscle and membrane. Pain like lightning shot up your spine, forcing you to your knees.

Olive was instantly back at your side, wrapping an arm around you as Enoch wrenched the weapon free, his jaw locked tight at your cry of pain. Your wing drooped, dragging along the grass, feathers leaving a trail.

By the time Olive half-carried you through the door of the house, you were dizzy from blood loss. Miss Peregrine saw you and froze—just for a moment—before a porcelain plate shattered at her feet. She was at your side in a heartbeat, arms under you, voice low but urgent.

The look she shot Olive and Enoch over your shoulder was deadly enough to silence them for hours.

Upstairs, she worked quickly, stitching torn skin and binding broken shafts of feathers, hands steady despite the tightness in her jaw. You didn’t make a sound—except once, when her needle caught deeper than she intended. She winced more than you did.

An hour later, she stood to clean her instruments. But before she could leave, you reached out and caught her wrist.

“Are you angry with me?” Your voice was quiet, uncertain.

She turned back, and you looked up at her—eyes wide, searching, your face tilted the way it always was when you wanted her to forgive you, like in those moments years ago when you’d accidentally broken something precious and tried to explain. You looked at her the way you always did—your gaze warm and steady, as though she were the only thing that mattered in the world.

Her face softened. She cupped your cheek, brushing a tear away with her thumb.

“Not at you… but you scared me,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, swallowing. “I just couldn’t let him get hurt.”

“I know,” she said again, gently stroking your cheek. “I know.”