“Is that…?” Corban said. “It can’t be,” Brina breathed. And then the crow was flapping its wings, slowing its descent, heading straight for them. “BRINA,” it squawked, “CORBAN.” “Brina, Brina, Brina, Corban, Corban, Corban,” Craf was crowing jubilantly as he landed on Brina’s shoulder, hopping from foot to foot, cawing, flapping, running his beak through Brina’s hair, rubbing his head against hers.
