We knew that it would be a Hashaa holy night because my father uncovered all the telescopes on the top floor.


    Sheshef had no foreknowledge of which nights were holy, and which were mundane. When I asked her about it, she simply said, “I am not a priest,” and left it at that. Presumably, my father kept a schedule somewhere, a celestial almanac of some sort, but he did not share it with us.


    We had removed Sheshef’s satin bindings that morning. The look of relief and joy that suffused her face when she stretched her wings for the first time made my heart light. Her wings appeared to glow in the sunlight, soft and pearlescent, and the muscles in her chest slid beneath her skin like water under oil. It would be another day or two before she was fit to fly, but even the gentle rowing of the still air in the center of the tower seemed to elate her. I had to dodge around the sweep of her wings when my father finally ordered me out to school.


    Sheshef only fully folded her wings again when she saw my father ascend to the top floor with his lens-cleaning kit that evening. After a day spent glorying in her wingspan, it made her look small.


    She seemed a touch more distant than usual that night as we kept each other company on the lower floors. I was filing a pin-slot in a baseplate, which wasn’t particularly interesting, and she was idly spinning a piece of scrap copper on the steps where she perched. When she eventually drifted up to the next floor, I assumed that she had simply gone to sleep, as she often did, nesting in the chaotic cyclone of rope and tapestry and ratty old pillows she had cobbled together. I was glad; I imagined it was far more comfortable to sleep there than the random corners she curled up in when she stayed in the workshop.


    It was an hour before midnight, and I had just set my file aside and debated going to bed myself, when a sudden serrated shriek split the night.


    There was no question where it was coming from. I knew, with a sickening punch to my gut, exactly what must have happened. I shot off my seat so fast the stool clattered over.


    When I burst through the opening to the top floor, heartbeat thundering in my ears, feathers were literally flying. One Winged man was being held back by his comrades—fellow priests, presumably—as he gesticulated furiously at my father, and the crouched form behind him; Sheshef, cowering on the floor, wings half-raised to shield herself from the verbal assault.


    As soon as I appeared from below, the Winged man’s accusatory finger redirected itself at me. He half-raised his wings threateningly, and the feathers that lined his neck in a crest to the base of his skull stood on end. His bitter, rasping words were unintelligible, but the meaning was abundantly clear. His gray eyes burned.


    Whatever it was he said, my father would not countenance. His voice, which up till now had been a placating murmur, abruptly grew hard and sharp. The soft sounds of breath and teeth became heavy, crushing. The Winged man looked back at my father, face twisted in rage, and took a step towards him, but another Winged man pressed a hand against his chest warningly, and shook his head. He contented himself with an angry wing-lash, shaking his comrades off, and a flare of his nostrils, before relaxing his feathers again.


    The blood was thrumming through me so loudly, I almost didn’t hear my father’s next words: “Leo, go downstairs.”


    I balled my fists. “No.”


    “Now, Leo.”


    “I will not.”


    Sheshef peeped at me from under her wings, but her face was too shadowed for me to read her expression. I only saw the glint of red light from dark eyes.


    “NOW!” Father roared. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    I had never heard him raise his voice before in my life, let alone yell. It sent my heart straight into my throat, robbing me of speech.


    But I stood my ground.


    The next sound in the room was a repetitive clucking noise. I looked over at the Winged men, astonished. One of them, the one who had held the angry one back, was laughing.


    “It seems,” he said, voice low and hoarse, “that both fathers suffer from the same curse: willful children.” He reached his hand out to Sheshef and said something in Nahashaaf. It sounded commanding, but not cruel. Sheshef lowered her wings warily.


    Father stepped aside, exposing her.


    I moved forward instinctively, but Father’s hand shot out and gripped my arm. I halted.


    The Winged man’s eyes flickered over at me, and he gave me a ghost of a smile before turning back to Sheshef. “Come, child,” he said; Romanci for my benefit, it seemed. “The time you spent hiding here, away from the sky, is far worse than any punishment we would have levied upon you. Come home.”


    Sheshef stood slowly, her face a tumultuous mix of defiance and chagrin, and took a step forward. I twitched. Father’s grip upon my arm tightened. I held my tongue until she reached out and placed her hand in the priest’s.


    “Wait,” I blurted, voice cracking. “She can’t fly. Her ribs are broken.”


    The Winged Ones looked at Father.


    “They’re well enough now,” Father countered tightly. “As long as she is careful.”


    “We do not have far to go,” the priest said reassuringly. “Come.” And he led her to the window.


    She didn’t look back at me even once before jumping out.


    I twitched again, fighting the urge to run to the window and see her fall—but then she was rising again, graceful as a swan, and spiraling into the night.


    One by one, the priests all left by the same window, silent but for the beat of their wings. Sheshef’s father spared one more glare for me, eyes like agate, before sliding into the night. And then he too was gone, taking his shadow with him.


    A final feather drifted softly to the floor.


    I turned around, kicked the crate that housed the lens caps into the wall, and stormed down the stairs.


    “Leo.” Father was right behind me.


    “You let them take her!” I shouted, rounding on him. He stood three steps above me; I had to look up. “You didn’t even try to stop them!”


    “She had to go sooner or later. It was time.”


    “She’s hurt!” I screamed. “They’ll hurt her again! They broke her ribs!”


    “They did not break her ribs.” Father sounded weary. “She broke them herself on your bedroom floor.”


    “You don’t know that!”


    “I do, because I asked.”


    I fumed in impotent rage. My foot lashed out again, catching nothing more this time than a drop cloth.


    “If you persist in kicking things, Leo, you will not be permitted to stay in the tower.”


    “Why did you even let her go up there?!” I wasn’t crying. I would not cry.


    “Why did you?” Father replied, voice sharp. The rebuke cut like a whip. I ground the heels of my palms into my burning eyes. I wasn’t crying.


    “Her brothers—” I choked, and had to stop.


    Father sighed. “Her whole flock will be glad to have her back safe, including her brothers. I have no doubt of it. They were very worried. And we are very lucky that their High Priest decided to de-escalate the situation. I may be making amends for a long time.”


    I kicked the iron bannister. It vibrated.


    “All right, Leo, time to leave.”


    “Fine!” I shouted. “I’m leaving!”


    “Please be mindful of your volume. It’s nearly midnight.”


    I stomped down every stair and slammed the door shut behind me.


    My bedroom was cold. I flung myself into bed and shivered under the sheets, warming myself with fury and despair. The window was fixed now; the pane had been replaced, every shard of glass on the floor swept and mopped. There were no feathers in my bed, no strands of tawny hair on my pillow; I had made sure of it, to keep Sheshef safe.


    The only sign that a Winged One had ever visited my room were the lighting-rod holes I had drilled in the floor.