“Literally anyone can make butterflies, my niece can’t even talk and she’s got a zoo of them,” Della said, incorrectly.
It was true that most kids in St. Martin’s spent their pre-school years in a haze of self-projected imaginary friends. It was also true that their parents had sat them on up since their first few steps and and babbles, putting their hand inside theirs and gently molding it into a few simple shapes. No matter where they were from or what they would one day learn to day every magician’s child started making figment butterflies appear from their palm.
Joe was an accountant’s child, he had played patty-cake.
“Okay, I could make butterflies come out my ass if someone in this town would show me.”
“Fair enough,” She shrugged, “It’s like this.”
Her hands went through a flurry of movements, quickly obscured by a growing monarch.
“Okay, try that again, but at a speed I can actually see,”
“Quit your bitching, it only works if you do it fast, now watch this,” she formed her fingers into a tent, “First you make a steeple.”