"I’d assumed she’d be here by now," Ash said, "but we’ve just been told she’s unavailable. And that we’ll wait." Briefly, she cawed to Ossian, in some coarser birdsong. He lowered the lid over the peppermint pistols. "In the meantime," Ash said, "we think we’ve solved the problem of Flynne’s lacking the gift of neoprimitivist curatorial gab."