A peeler, she says again and Lancelot has a few absurd moments to consider what peeler might mean if it wasn't (as he assumed) something to do with his job. A professional orange peeler. Someone with sun burn. Lily shies back a step from Pel and he snaps out of it, holds out a hand to pull her against his side and ruffle her thick mane of fur. One of ours.

"I'm not a witch," he begins cautiously, following along behind her even as his radio chitters and tries to pull his attention. He hesitates. Amends. "Warlock," he corrects, is that the right term? He honestly has no idea. Sorcerer? Magician? "I can't... do what you do."