Handy was about to say something back but stopped himself. Looking over the pony’s head and off to the right side of the stage, he spotted something disconcertingly familiar beyond the cheering crowd. A hawk-headed griffon, whose feathers were a soft brown that were fading to white and keen eyes no longer bloodshot, was surveying the crowd impassively from beneath a much healthier-looking shawl of black cloth. Her eyes met the human’s own, and he thought he could detect a slight smile on her beak which was no longer cracked. She turned off and walked away, the crowd filling the space she left in her wake.