Luna likes collages. A collage is, essentially, a magazine quilt for her to lie in her lap and add to and add to until there isn't a single white space of parchment left.
Poignant sentences from The Prophet (or better, the Quibbler) layered upon themselves once, twice, three times; ragged edged models preening and fluttering against a backdrop of smattered text. They lower their eyelids coyly and flick their hair, proudly announcing the death of a well known politician, or an upcoming event in London.
Theodore doesn't seem to enjoy making them as much, but she can't help but lure him out to help her. The boy has, it seems, an inherent gift with scissors. His lines are perfect and business-like, no uneven edges—or worse, missing parts or corners. He denies ever having studied collage-ing in depth, but Luna has her suspicions.
No one is that good.
