“That’s far too late,” I snapped. “And also too early.” The gargoyle was sniffing vines of greenery, unaware that he was roasting his own wing in an open torch. “I say, what sort of ivy is this? It’s wonderfully robust. Putalian? Wurspurt? Surely it’s Gowanth?” “Get a hold of yourself,” I hissed, swatting his wing out of the flame.
