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Clarissa scrunched up her nose. She held out a hand for
the basket, but the man hid it behind his back. “Gimme that
back. I need it.”

“For what? Going to chuck it at some innocent pheasant
next?”

“I need to practice my flower throwing,” she whined,
folding her arms and thrusting her chin up high.

“Flower throwing!” he barked a humorless laugh. “Good
heavens, child, you have no respect for nature whatsoever!
Who raised you?”

Clarissa ignored the question and lunged toward the man,
her small hands outstretched like the talons of an owl. The
man easily evaded the attack and placed his hands on his
hips. The girl blinked and stared with wide eyes that made her
owlishness even more apparent.

“My basket’s gone. But...”
He waved his hand. “You can have it back when you learn
to play nicely. Now, hang on, I can’t place your accent.…”
“Who are you?”
“Ah, sorry. The name’s Batch. And I could ask you the
same question.” He knelt in front of her. Clarissa was one of
the tallest girls in her class, a fact that she was very proud of,
and down on one knee, Batch could look her right in the eye.
He seemed confused. “I’ve never met anyone who speaks like
you before. Where do you come from?”
“America.” Her answer resulted in a disappointed grimace
on the man’s face. “Well, where are you from?” she asked,
trying to distract him from his seeming displeasure at the
news.
Batch scoffed, then flopped backwards so that he was
seated on the ground, wearing a goofy grin. “Why, here, of
course!” he patted the grass, almost affectionately. Clarissa
couldn’t tell if he meant Scotland in general or if he had
simply sprung up out of the soil. The latter seemed to be a
reasonable explanation for his strangeness.

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