"Friend," Secret replies cheerfully (and unhelpfully). Further explanations can wait; it'd waste even more time if they had to spell it out for every single Andrew they find instead of waiting for him to put himself back together and then going through it once.

And oh, foot cramps, just what they both need. Your lips to the gods' ears, Daine thinks disapprovingly. Perhaps it's just as well that her gods probably aren't listening, but that doesn't rule out any mischievous native gods. Not that there seem to be any of those, either, but better safe than sorry.

The last few yards of her descent aren't as graceful as they could be - hawks are wonderful at catching and carrying, but keeping their quarry alive and unbruised isn't often part of the plan, so she has to take extra care not to drop too quickly. Once she's a scant few inches above the ground, she releases her grip, dropping Andrew onto the fluffy heap of the discarded bathrobe. Then she backflaps a little so she can land without landing on him. Folding her wings, she lowers her head to give him a concerned once-over. He seems relatively unscathed - physically speaking, anyway.