I lay in bed and stared morosely at the ceiling.


    So much for being circumspect.


    I pondered how the expulsion would proceed. Would they send someone? The dean, since it was a disciplinary action? The admissions officer, to retroactively un-admit me? The groundskeeper, perhaps, with his thick leather gloves, to roust the vermin? Or would they simply send me a note and presume that since I had sufficient grace to get myself this far, I could be relied upon to see myself out?


    Good God, Paffuto would be insufferable. If nothing else, I hoped the process proceeded in such a fashion that I would never have to see him again.


    I wondered if I ought to be packing. But I didn’t move. The ceiling had a purple splotch where spores had blown in. It looked a little like a rabbit.


    The room grew dark.


    Voices in the common room: Paffuto, loud as always, conversing with someone responding too quietly to make out. Barti, most likely. Later: Otto, making a single offhand comment before closing himself in his room. Shuffling, clattering, more voices as they went out again, and then silence once more. Nobody came to see if I wanted to get dinner.


    I slept through their return, and woke in the middle of the night in a sudden, unbridled panic. I had to pack. No—I had to escape. I could not be here. An image came to me then, of Sheshef, years ago, leaping from the windowsill, flying into the night—but no. I could not do that. I had no wings.


    And for the first time in my life, it made me angry.


    It had made me sad before, of course. Wistful, melancholic. Who among us earthbound creatures can say they have never yearned for flight? Many, many hours of my childhood had been spent gazing out the window, imagining how it must feel; the soft rake of feathers within the air, every nerve attuned to the slightest shift in balance, muscles straining against gravity in my chest with each beat of my wings. I had imagined what they would look like: pale cream, barred with charcoal gray, a bright splash of iridescent blue on the remiges, like a mallard.


    Their absence now made me furious. It was one thing to be denied the sky; that was a heritage I had never expected to claim. But to now be denied an education? By virtue of that same unclaimable heritage?


    One or the other; that seemed fair. But neither?


    My fists clenched. I wanted to kick something.


    I stormed to my door, threw open the lock, and wrenched it open, not entirely sure of what I was going to do next, other than go out for some air—but someone was in the common room.


    Barti.


    He had been sleeping on the sofa; the noise of my violent exit had awakened him. I could see by the light of the dying fire that he was still in his clothes.


    He pressed his finger to his lips, then nodded meaningfully at Paffuto’s door. Then he held out a folded note. It was faintly creased. He must have been sleeping with it in his hand.


    For a long moment, I stared at him. Then, silently, I stepped forward and took the note. My eyes never left his face.


    When I simply stood there, unmoving and silent, he gestured: open it.


    I unfolded it. It contained only a single sentence, in his fastidious handwriting:


    <blockquote>


    I won’t tell anyone.


    </blockquote>


    I looked up at him again, heart pounding. He held his hand out once more. Moving as slowly as I had before, I placed the note back in his hand. He turned and threw it into the fire.


    Only then did I begin to breathe.


    He jerked his head at the door, eyebrows raised meaningfully: Shall we go outside?The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    I nodded.


    Silently, we gathered our coats, threw our winter cloaks on over, and slipped out.


    The moon was bright on the snow as we made our way across the quadrangle. All was still; no students tottered back from the alehouses—it was far too cold for that, and a weekday besides—and no wind blew. The only noise was the squeak of our boots on fresh, dry snow. With no planning aforethought, we headed to the campus pond and sat down on a snowy bench, an arm’s length apart. We did not look at each other; we simply gazed at its frozen surface.


    Barti was the first to speak. “Your mother?”


    I nodded.


    “She’s half?”


    “Was,” I replied, voice flat. “She’s dead.”


    “I’m sorry.”


    “She—they can’t—childbirth is lethal.”


    Barti said nothing, but I could see him nod out of the corner of my eye. I picked up a pebble and threw it at the pond. It skidded and clattered on the ice.


    “Your father knew?”


    I barked out a mirthless laugh. “Of course. She was found on the roof of the villa when he was a boy, cooing at the doves. She had the eyes, and the bones.” I couldn’t bring myself to say she was mad. The words choked me. Instead I swallowed and said, “Everyone knew. It would have been impossible to not know.”


    “No, I mean—did your father know childbirth would kill her?”


    Oh. “Yes.”


    Barti shifted. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “That’s not right.”


    “He loved her,” I said automatically. But Barti’s words crawled into my stomach and sat there, turning it sour. I swallowed.


    He didn’t push it. He just nodded again and asked, “Who else knows?”


    “Here? No one. Just you. At home…” I shrugged helplessly. “Everyone. It’s just a matter of time before... I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing.” I threw another pebble. “I didn’t read the admissions paperwork. I didn’t know until Paffuto ran his mouth. I didn’t even know it was that… that hated… until I came here. At home it was just… odd. Like a two-headed piglet.” I searched around for another pebble, but my fingers came back empty and cold. I folded them into my armpits. “I guess I should leave. It’s only a matter of time.”


    “Maybe.” Barti found a pebble of his own and threw it. “You might not be the only one, though.”


    I turned to him then, startled. “Who else?”


    His breath steamed as he answered. “I don’t know specifically. Not for sure. But there’s a reason the board felt compelled to publicly ‘reaffirm their commitment to purity.’ I think a complaint of some sort was filed, and I don’t think it was about you.”


    I turned away again, afraid to look at him for my next question. “You don’t care that I’m a quarter Winged One?”


    He was silent for a while. My heart pounded. “I think it’s… interesting,” he said at last. “Biologically speaking. But I don’t care in the way Paffuto would care.” It seemed like Barti had more to say—a lot more—but that he wasn’t sure how to say it. He threw two more pebbles before finally bursting out with, “You’re a far finer fellow than he is. I won’t tell anyone else. Not even Otto.”


    “Thank you.” My voice was rough.


    Barti shrugged. “Paffuto’d probably try to get one of his louts into your room if you left. I’m not being entirely selfless here.”


    I smiled grimly. “You think they’d really want to stay in a room contaminated by a lowbreed?”


    “It would be tremendously hypocritical of them not to, given where they all claim their penne have been.”


    I was surprised into a laugh.


    “Also,” Barti continued, sounding sheepish, “I’ve always wanted to study Alii.” The Others. My heart warmed to hear Barti use the term. “But my father says it’s too unsavory. He didn’t even want me studying biology.”


    “Why not?”


    “Says it’s useless.”


    I laughed again, louder this time. “You should tell him to be grateful it’s not astronomy.”


    “Well, at least he’s got Otto to make him proud.” Barti didn’t sound bitter, just resigned.


    “I’d be proud of you,” I said instantly, “if you were my son.”


    Barti threw another pebble. There must have been more on his side. “Thanks.”


    “Thank you.” I rubbed my nose, quickly, before stuffing  my hands back into my armpits. “So what happens when the word gets out that I’m a quarter Winged, and that you knew about it?”


    “It will just be a rumor,” Barti replied, “like the other rumors. Lord so-and-so’s a sixteenth, Lady thus-and-such is a thirty-second. By the time you get to sixty-fourth, people might start to admit to it, or even brag. For that touch of exoticism.”


    “Ah, but you can tell with a quarter.” My voice was bitter. “They’ll ask.”


    Barti shrugged. “I’ll tell them I don’t spy on you in the bath.” He hesitated. “Your back—that is the only evidence, yes?”


    I thought of the whirligig. “Yes,” I said slowly.


    “So don’t take your shirt off, then.” He stood and turned to me, a wry smile on his face. “And keep your doors locked.”