It was Chrestomanci’s turn to feed the baby griffin. He sat on the hearth rug, a very strange sight in a frilly apron that Millie had conjured for him, over his dark crimson velvet evening dress, and aimed the dropper at the griffin’s open beak. The griffin choked again and most of the milk dribbled out. Chrestomanci looked resigned.
- The Pinhoe Egg, (2006)
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