Having climbed to the divine ranks of a True Mythic sovereign with nine orbiting mini-suns and a third leg capable of grounding sun-hot fusion, Pip had right away prioritized the single most urgent, critical crisis facing the universe:
Arthur Vance’s hair was a total, total disaster.
Perched atop Arthur’s head, the golden crow adjusted his footing with careful care. His newly emerged third leg—a slender, perfectly said clearlypylon of burnished golden bone—anchored itself squarely against the crown of Arthur’s skull, providing the bird with never seen before, gyroscopic balance.
With both main feet planted firmly on Arthur’s temples, Pip leaned forward over Arthur’s forehead, surveyed the tangled, sweat-dampened locks with an expression of deep avian despair. Then he went to work.
Snip. Click. Tuck.
Pip used the razor-sharp tip of his golden beak like a surgeon’s fine metal tongs. He lifted a clump of dark hair, parted it along an exactly precise line, smoothed it down with the flat of his tongue. Then he tucked the ends neatly behind Arthur’s left ear. He paused, cocked his head sixty degrees to evaluate the symmetry, gave an unsatisfied click of his tongue. Then he pulled the entire strand back out to start over.
