Liya could not bring herself to meet Helygen's eyes, but cautiously shook the proffered hand, which felt like driftwood--almost beaten soft by wind and water and time.

"I'm...I'm Liya," she murmured, eyes fixed on the ground.

"Well, Liya, what can I help you with?" Helygen asked amicably, guiding Liya to the now vacant stone chair. She fumbled with the papers in her hands, extracting a small unmarked envelope.

"I have, uh, a note for you. From Captain Marinos."

"Ah!" Helygen sounded pleasantly surprised; it--he? she? they, Liya thought, maybe they--took the envelope, opening it deftly with fingerlike roots.

Reluctantly Liya sank onto the stone chair. There was a small table rooted deep in the grass beside it; on the surface stood an odd terra-cotta figure of what Liya assumed was a bird, just with a strange rounded face, a pair of bulbous copper eyes, and--upon further inspection--two very tiny antennae like feathers, made out of something shiny and yellow.

"He did tell me a young human would be coming to see me," Helygen was saying, unfolding a small sheet of paper, "Although that was nearly two months ago, I was beginning to think you'd never come."