《The Winged Ones》


 Chapter 1. Good Luck

    They say it is good luck if a Winged One lives in your tower.


    My father¡¯s house had three. Towers, that is, not Winged Ones. I lived in the second tallest, beneath the sloping eaves at the top. The very tallest, and the grandest, was the Observation Tower, the door to which was always locked. Sometimes, my father invited the more academic of his dinner guests up for a glass of brandy and a look through one of his telescopes while Renella played harpsichord and sang in the music room with the remaining guests below. She never displayed the slightest inclination to climb the spiral staircase to the upper reaches of the Observation Tower. My father never asked.


    The shortest tower was used mostly for storage, as mine had been before I moved there. Dilapidated furniture and moldering strychnine-laced cheese covered most of the floor, spotted with guano from the bats that had claimed the ceiling. They flew in and out through a window whose shutters had blown off. I used to watch them from my nursery window, a great flapping stream of darkness against the burning sky as the sun set over the sea.


    This was how I first saw Sheshef.


    Sheshef was not the first Winged One I had seen. On a clear day, distant winged figures could always be seen floating in lazy spirals over the obsidian mines. My father told me they liked the hot air that rose from the exposed black rock, baked to scorching by noon, snatching at the large dragonflies that blundered into the inexorably rising air and devouring all but the prickly legs. When the nights were moonless and the stars burned cold and steady, the immense wings whispered overhead and human shadows landed barefoot on the narrow stone windowsills of the highest room in the Observation Tower, letting themselves in through the windows my father always left unlocked.


    Sheshef was neither riding thermals nor fluttering to the Observation Tower¡¯s windows. She was perched on the very edge of the shortest tower¡¯s roof, toes gripping the mossy slate as she cleaned her nails with her teeth. Nobody seemed to have noticed her, other than myself.


    I was alone in the nursery, silently pitting my painted wooden tiger against the washcloth as I waited for the bats. I didn¡¯t see Sheshef glide in. I looked up from my play only when I heard the crunch of an old roof tile grinding against its neighbor as Sheshef settled on her haunches, wings furled against her back.


    I didn¡¯t move. I hardly breathed, afraid she would see the rise and fall of my chest and take fright. I stayed kneeling on the pillow before the nursery window, tiger and washcloth forgotten before me in mid-battle. Evidently, she was waiting for the same thing I had been, for as soon as the bats emerged¡ªfirst one, then dozens all at once¡ªshe began grabbing at them. More and more poured out of the empty tower room, clicking and twittering. Over and over she snatched at the creatures, but it wasn¡¯t until the last rays of the sun had disappeared that she finally caught one. It hardly had a moment to struggle before she broke its neck with a twist of her hands.


    It was only after she had squatted back on her heels to eat her dinner, scooping her fingers into the bat¡¯s gut and snapping open the ribcage, that I realized how young she was. She looked to be eight or nine, no older than myself. Her toes curled into the moss in pleasure as she lapped the bat hollow and moved on to one of the legs. She stood when she was finished, catching the blood smeared on her nose and dribbling down her chin with her fingers and licking them. It looked black against her pale skin in the moonlight.


    She entertained herself for a moment using it as ink on the canvass of her naked flesh, drawing a spiral around her navel and finger-streaks across her ribs. I watched, still not daring to move, although I was almost bursting with the desire to call to her. I cannot imagine what I could have said. I did not even know her name yet. But the opportunity never came; just as Sheshef washed the last of the living paint from her body with rainwater caught in the tower¡¯s gutter, Renella walked in and screamed.


    All in all, Renella was not a bad woman. If she was dull and unimaginative, it was no more so than any of the gentlemen¡¯s wives or daughters I¡¯d met at the innumerable dinner gatherings hosted at the house. She was properly but not overenthusiastically pious, and had a good head for things like finance and what kind of fork to use for crab minc¨¦e¡ªeverything, essentially, my father did not. It was she who quietly brought prosperity and social esteem back to the family name while my father continued as ever, tinkering with his telescopes and star maps and only appearing for meals when a servant had been sent three times to knock on the Observation Tower door and shout through the keyhole that the guests would be arriving any minute.


    I cannot think of a single person, other than my father, who would not have screamed at the sight of Sheshef, naked as all her kind and standing on bloody tiles over a thirty-foot drop. Even through the thick glass of my nursery window, Sheshef heard Renella¡¯s shriek. The rest of the house did as well, and they came thundering into the nursery with whatever they had at hand as a weapon; the cook was swinging a ladle, the butler a half-eaten baguette, and one of the maids was brandishing a large silver candelabra that smelled of polish.


    I saw this all reflected in the glass, for I did not tear my gaze away from Sheshef. At Renella¡¯s scream, she whirled to face the nursery window, flinging her arms out for balance and her wings out for flight. Although her face was mostly in shadow, Sheshef¡¯s eyes gleamed, gray as the sea and whiteless as a hawk¡¯s.


    I pressed both hands to the glass just as Sheshef took flight. Muscles I did not have in my own back strained in hers to beat wings broader than she was tall against the cooling evening air. I do not know if she looked back as she flew over the peaks of the house to the seaside mountain cliffs, for just then I was grabbed around the waist by Renella and hauled to my bed.


    Normally a quiet, even painfully shy child, I troubled the entire household over the next few days by upholding a ceaseless litany of questions. Where did the Winged Ones come from? Why did they have wings and we didn¡¯t? How come they had feathers and hair at the same time? Were they born like normal babies or did they hatch from eggs like birds? If they hatched from eggs, why did they have bellybuttons? Why didn¡¯t they ever wear clothing? How big were their nests? Could I go see one of their nests? Could I build a nest and live in it?Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    This last question rattled Renella so badly she immediately sent a letter to Father Perego, the new pastore from the village, inviting him to come ¡°tutor the young Master deRye in all manner of thyngs suitable for a growing lord.¡± She also sent a note to my father informing him of her actions, to be slipped under the Observation Tower¡¯s door by a servant. She then sent for a glass of brandy.


    I was thrilled. I wasn¡¯t old enough for the village school, so thus far my education had consisted of reading from Renella, figuring from the butler, and fencing from the local drunk, who sobered up enough to don a doublet left over from his glory days in the Queen¡¯s First and halfheartedly wave an ep¨¦e at me whenever it happened to cross my father¡¯s mind that I should learn this most noble of arts.


    When Father Perego finally arrived, his feet nearly dragging on the dusty ground as he spurred his squat little donkey up the road, I felt my heart would leap from my chest with excitement. I had waited by the window every evening since the first I¡¯d seen Sheshef, wondering if I could press a note against the glass¡ªif she could read it, if I did¡ªbut the bats flew out every evening and in every dawn alone. The Winged One would not be answering any questions of mine. Here, at last, was the only other person who could. If Renella had summoned Father Perego because of my questioning, my reasoning went, surely it was because he was particularly good at answering.


    Father Perego was as squat as his donkey, and ate nearly as much. He sat at my father¡¯s left hand and answered the polite questioning of Renella, seated across the table from him on my father¡¯s right hand, with slurping yes¡¯s through his soup and no¡¯s whose accompanying headshakes sprayed wine over his plate.


    My father didn¡¯t notice this lack of table manners. He was staring out into space, head filled with the stars¡¯ cosmic dance to music only he and they could hear. Renella did, and her lips compressed with the effort of saying nothing. I noticed but didn¡¯t care; I was busy trying not to wriggle with impatience.


    My first lesson started the next morning. Father Perego sat at a bench in the kitchen gardens, sipping fresh milk and spooning the last of his runny eggs into his mouth.


    ¡°So, young Master deRye,¡± he began, mopping the grease on his lips with a spotted napkin, ¡°I hear you¡¯re a curious one.¡±


    I could think of nothing to say, so I merely clasped my hands in front of me.


    ¡°It¡¯s all right, my son,¡± he said. He leaned back against the sun-warmed stone and rested his hands on his paunch. ¡°Natural for a boy your age to be curious about any number of things. Curious about your father¡¯s telescopes?¡±


    ¡°A little, Father Perego.¡±


    ¡°Ever had a look through ¡®em?¡±


    ¡°No, Father Perego.¡±


    ¡°Keeps ¡®em locked away, does he?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Father Perego, most of the time.¡±


    Father Perego nodded to himself as though my answer pleased him, although I could not imagine why. He raised a hand to his jowls and belched discreetly. ¡°Curious about girls?¡± he asked, suddenly sly. Then, as an afterthought, added, ¡°Or other boys?¡±


    I hesitated. Did the Winged One count as a girl? ¡°Not especially, Father Perego.¡±


    Father Perego squinted at me. ¡°Lady deRye wrote me you¡¯d been asking¡­ questions.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Father Perego.¡±


    ¡°Well then, what sort of questions have you been asking?¡±


    ¡°About the Winged Ones, Father Perego.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Father Perego¡¯s face held a mixture of relief and confusion. ¡°What about them?¡±


    I scuffed my shoe in the dirt, thinking over my answer. ¡°All about them,¡± I said at last. ¡°I mean¡­ why are they¡­ like that? With wings and hawk eyes and no clothes?¡±


    ¡°That,¡± said Father Perego comfortably, ¡°is how God created them.¡±


    I stared at him mutely. He stared back, blinking at me through kind, watery eyes, apparently unaware of how useless his answer had been.


    In the following days, it became clear to me that Father Perego¡¯s answers were emptier than all the household¡¯s professions of ignorance combined. The pastore didn¡¯t know he didn¡¯t know. He was well enough versed in the human histories, and delighted me with his tales of battles fought in heathen seas for beautiful women, the wanderings of lost tribes through infinite deserts, the cruelties of ancient kings as their empires rose from the bloodshed of their people. I lay on the nursery floor with my wooden soldiers arrayed around me, marching them through the deserts of the stone floor harvesting dust-bunny mana from beneath the bed or sailing the blanket seas on a pillow warship in illustration of the tales Father Perego told from the corner chair with a plate of grapes and cold mutton.


    But there were strange gaps and inconsistencies in his formidable store of knowledge. He knew as little of kangorous and lightning as he did of the Winged Ones, or the Feather Folk, as he sometimes called them. He thought mice spawned from rags sprinkled with grain and that if you sailed more than seven leagues out to sea you¡¯d tumble from the edge of the earth. I laughed at this last pronouncement, thinking he had made it in jest, but he immediately grew very grave and asked me what I found so funny.


    ¡°A flat earth,¡± I laughed. ¡°I like that idea, Father Perego, I think I shall make a drawing of it with my oils. The seawater would fall over the edge until the whole earth was dry and all the fish would lie gasping on the bottom! Oh, what a stink!¡± I laughed again.


    ¡°I am not making a jest, Master deRye,¡± Father Perego said, turning red.


    ¡°Of course you are,¡± I replied, smiling and pushing my soldiers over the world-edge of the bed and watching them clatter to the floor. ¡°The world is round.¡±


    Father Perego turned even redder. ¡°That¡¯s heresy.¡±


    ¡°It can¡¯t be,¡± I said dismissively. ¡°It¡¯s true. Otherwise, ships leaving port for the open seas would just get smaller and smaller, but you could always see them through a spyglass. But instead they disappear behind the horizon, around the curve of the earth. When ships come in, you see the very top of the masts first, and then the rest of the ship. Wouldn¡¯t be any point in having a crow¡¯s nest for lookout up there, otherwise.¡±


    Something in Father Perego¡¯s face, which was now going rather purplish, warned me not to mention it was my father who had explained this to me.


    I think it must have been this conversation that ultimately drove Father Perego back to the village two days later, where his more compliant flock awaited him. Every time I mentioned the Winged Ones after that he breathed heavily, almost wheezing, and looked at me out of the corner of his eye.


    I¡¯d gotten that look before. It was the same look Renella had every time she insisted I have an extra glass of milk to fortify bones she seemed to think were always at the point of breaking, the look the maids and butler tried to hide when I¡¯d been swimming naked in the pond under the hot sun all day and burned my back. In retrospect, I find it hard to believe I didn¡¯t realize there was something odd about this until much later. I assumed it was all part of growing up a lord¡¯s only son, and I had no experience to tell me otherwise.


    Until I turned eleven and went to school.

 Chapter 2. School

    The school lay in a dusty crevice of the mountain village. Sheer rock walls towered over the schoolhouse¡¯s peeling roof on two sides, and an equally sheer if shorter drop on the other two necessitated a low stone boundary wall set well back from the edge. Punishment for crossing this wall, either over it or through the gate that opened onto the switchbacks leading to the village proper, was a thorough caning with the dreaded rod of Master Norelli. No gnarled mountain pine could have produced that evil thing, which left its victims unable to sit for days on end, and rumor had it Master Norelli ordered it special from river gypsies who¡¯d crafted it from the branch of a haunted willow.


    It was a spectacularly bad location for a school. I think it must have been founded by community members who secretly wished to do their brats in¡ªif not by falling to their deaths, then by asphyxiation from the impenetrable dust that billowed round and round like a tornado within the curve of the rock walls. When the winds were especially strong, the dust devil picked up larger gravel and pelted it at the schoolhouse, making both glass windows and outdoor play impossible. Instead, Master Norelli bolted the shutters and made sure we were suitably miserable as we huddled in the candle light away from the spurts of grit that filtered through the cracks.


    The only method by which we could not perish was avalanche, since any loose rock upon the clifftop ridge had long ago crumbled to dust, but none of us knew that. During recess on a day when the air was still, the older boys exerted their brutish superiority by grabbing a youngster and holding him on the ground at the base of the cliff while others beat against the sheer rock with their fists or kicked it hard enough to knock themselves over, yelling ¡°Avalanche! Avalanche!¡± at the top of their lungs. Transgressions meriting such a sentence included things like throwing gravel, tale-telling, and being fat. When a large boulder failed to land precisely on the squirming, often squealing boy being punished, he was pulled up by his ear and informed that he got lucky this time, but he¡¯d better not throw gravel/tattle/be fat ever again.


    I kicked and yelled at the mountain with my fellows a fair few times, but I neither dragged anyone to the cliffs for punishment nor found myself held down. I never got a caning for scaling the boundary wall, but I didn¡¯t escape a few sharp raps across the knuckles for passing notes and looking out the window when I ought to have been studying Signore Redicci¡¯s Anthropologica. I was picked neither first nor last for sports and I got good marks but not spectacular ones.


    In all ways, I was a normal boy of eleven, completely defying all expectations.


    It had been immediately apparent that everybody expected something unusual from me. Parents and children alike craned their necks and stared when Renella led me from the carriage on the first day of term, and whispers burst out in my wake. She ignored the attention with her head held high, but I could not suppress a growing sense of unease. This couldn¡¯t all be a byproduct of my nobility; I wasn¡¯t the only highborn boy there, I knew, even if I was the highest. Yet they inspected me like a pig at a fair, gazing into my eyes and pointing at my back as I went inside to meet Master Norelli. I could hear the whispers swell to a murmur as the door to his office shut.


    Master Norelli was the only person as prepared as Renella to completely ignore whatever it was that had set the others alight with curiosity. He barely glanced at me as he stood and bowed over Renella¡¯s hand to brush it with a whiskery kiss. Within five minutes I was sent out to stand awkwardly in the yard with the other nervous newcomers. Two older boys immediately dropped the gravel they were stuffing down their unfortunate victim¡¯s trousers and walked over to me.


    ¡°Hello,¡± said one without preamble. ¡°Are you mad?¡±


    I stared up at their curious faces, terrified at being addressed with such a question. ¡°N-n-no,¡± I stammered. ¡°Why would I be mad?¡±


    The boy stroked his budding lip fuzz contemplatively. ¡°Me mam said you¡¯d be mad,¡± he explained, and then added for clarification, ¡°as a March hare.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± I said with as much conviction as my rattled nerves could muster, ¡°I¡¯m not.¡±


    ¡°Here, Johnny,¡± said one of the other boys suddenly, ¡°let¡¯s have a look at his back.¡±


    ¡°My back?¡± I instinctively backed up against the wall of the schoolhouse. ¡°Why d¡¯you want to look at my back?¡±


    ¡°Hain¡¯t got nothing wrong with his eyes,¡± said Johnny, sounding vaguely disappointed, ¡°prolly nothing wrong with his back neither. Anything wrong with your back?¡± he asked, now addressing me.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°See? Just a frosh in fancy pants.¡± Johnny turned and walked away, already reaching down for another fistful of gravel.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    The other boy hesitated. ¡°How¡¯d we know for sure without looking?¡± he said, but contented himself with a longing glance at my shirt before rejoining his friend.


    I looked around at the other new boys who had stood gaping at this bizarre exchange. They all hastily became engrossed with the scenery.


    I asked Renella the question as she picked me up at the end of the day: ¡°Why did people think I was going to be mad?¡±


    ¡°Because they are ignorant gossips who don¡¯t know what¡¯s good for them,¡± she snapped, gripping the windowsill of the carriage so hard her knuckles turned white.


    I swallowed the rest of my questions and stared out the window at the dust kicked up by the horses.


    Once again, nobody in the house answered my questions, but this time it was clear their silence was not for lack of answers.


    ¡°Best ask Lady deRye, little Master,¡± said the butler.


    ¡°Not my business to say, Master deRye,¡± said the cook.


    ¡°Don¡¯t know what you mean, Master DeRye,¡± said the maid, polishing the silverware furiously.


    Obvious as the answer was, it was only an accident that I found it out that day at all.


    Angry at everybody for their silence, I growled my way through grace, scowled at the soup, and sulked over the meat. When I sighed explosively after being requested to pass the butter, I was banished from the table without dessert. Stinging with injustice, I stomped up to the nursery and flung myself onto the bed, scattering charcoal pencils to the floor. It was in this position, still fully clothed, that I woke up in the dead of the night with a strange red light glittering through my window.


    I rolled over, stiff and sticking to my school clothes with sweat. The light twinkled and shifted, throwing dim rubies onto the charcoal monsters drawn on my nursery wall. All the villa was dark except for this rosy glimmer from the Observation Tower.


    I stared at it for a moment, breath steaming up the window. I had never seen these lights from my father¡¯s tower before, but I had never been awake at this hour. Perhaps the Observation Tower always twinkled red in the middle of the night.


    The stairs felt especially cold under my bare feet as I crept down from the nursery, trailing the edge of the blanket behind me as it slipped from around my shoulders. It offered little protection against the chill in the courtyard. I tiptoed past the goose pen and skirted the stables, which I could recognize only by placement and smell; the night was moonless and dark as the cellar except for a few stars twinkling through the haze above. The door to the Observation Tower loomed ahead, heavy with wrought iron fittings. I pulled on one of the handles, and found it just as it always was: locked. I turned to go, but hadn¡¯t taken more than a step when I heard the bolts drawn behind me and the hinges creak.


    Dimly silhouetted by a faint red glow stood my father. He held a strange wrench-like contraption loosely grasped in one hand and a rag in the other. ¡°Oh,¡± he said, looking down at me. ¡°You¡¯re the one rattling the door.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, sir,¡± I whispered. ¡°I didn¡¯t know I was rattling it.¡±


    He waved the wrench dismissively. ¡°I just wondered who was prowling about the tower at this time of night, thought it might be someone. What brings you out?¡±


    ¡°I saw light coming from inside,¡± I answered, noting how much more alive his hands were, how they darted from pockets to hair to rag. His eyes, too, shone with a fullness I¡¯d never seen, for once devoid of empty stars. I felt he was actually talking to me.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m adjusting one of the refracting mirrors on the parascope. Red light is the least obtrusive. It keeps me from burning my eyes.¡± He drifted back into the room, drawn like a moth to flame. I followed.


    Red lights winked at me from all over the room, reflected from tiny spinning mirrors and refracted through facets of cut glass. Spindly metal springs coiled and uncoiled themselves with the delicacy of a butterfly, twitching brass gears around one tooth at a time. A vast pendulum swung majestically over a patch of floor marked with chalk and littered with fallen brass pegs. Everywhere I looked, burnished surfaces shone and light flickered.


    ¡°Are these telescopes?¡± I asked, gaping at the metal parts strewn across a workbench that curved around half the circular room.


    ¡°No,¡± my father replied. ¡°All the telescopes are upstairs.¡± He indicated the staircase that spiraled up through the ceiling, the banister of which was draped with annotated charts.


    ¡°What are all these things?¡±


    ¡°That pendulum is charting the rotation of the earth. That device over there with the wooden knobs is a catadioptric focal tester, and this bench is where I clean and repair all my equipment.¡±


    ¡°What about the thing with the gears?¡± I asked. ¡°Or the machine over there with all the spinning glass?¡±


    ¡°I have no idea,¡± my father replied softly. ¡°Your mother made them.¡±


    I stared, first at the mysterious contraptions and then at my father. ¡°You don¡¯t know what they do?¡±


    He shook his head gently. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°She never told you? You never asked what they were for?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I asked,¡± he replied sadly, ¡°but I never understood the answers. She was quite mad, you know.¡±


    My throat felt as though it had suddenly grown a melon. ¡°My mother was mad?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± My father looked at me in surprise. ¡°You didn¡¯t know? Everybody like her is. So they say.¡±


    The melon was so swollen I could hardly speak. ¡°Like her?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know?¡± For the first time I can ever recall, my father looked perturbed. ¡°Nobody¡¯s ever told you?¡±


    ¡°Told me what?¡±


    ¡°Your mother was half Winged One.¡±

 Chapter 3. Observation

    The tinkle of a peg knocked over by the pendulum sounded like a hammer blow in the silence that followed. My father was looking at me as though waiting for me to confirm that, yes, I had heard that before, I¡¯d just forgotten. When I found my voice again, all I could do was mutter, ¡°Nobody ever told me.¡±


    ¡°Never? My goodness.¡± He sounded shaken. ¡°I¡¯d imagine that¡¯s an important thing to know. Renella never said anything?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°My goodness,¡± he repeated uncomfortably. ¡°Well, that¡¯s¡­ well.¡± He pulled off his glasses and rubbed them with the rag, adding smudges that hadn¡¯t been there before. ¡°My father found her in the gutter of the short tower¡¯s roof when she was just a baby, wrapped in a hairy blanket and tucked into a basket filled with leaves. She¡¯d been cooing at the doves.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯d just been left there?¡± I asked, aghast. ¡°On a roof?¡±


    My father nodded, still absently wiping his glasses. ¡°That¡¯s how we knew it must have been her mother who was Winged. They consider fraternization between our peoples just as abhorrent and forbidden as we do, so I can¡¯t imagine what it must have cost her mother to brood her for months and nurse her for another one or two after hatching until she was just strong enough to be deposited on a roof.¡±


    ¡°How did her mother know your father would take care of her?¡±


    ¡°She didn¡¯t.¡± My father smiled dreamily. ¡°It was an enormous gamble. My father had good relations with the Winged Ones, but taking in a half-breed orphan left in the gutter would only offend them and his human household. There was even talk that she was my father¡¯s bastard, although since she was as dark-haired and fair-skinned as my father was blond and tanned, and grew to look less and less like him as time went on, that talk soon died. Still, my mother wouldn¡¯t speak to him for three days, and the servants refused to touch or care for the baby because of her eyes and the marks on her back. They said she was cursed. So I was the one who fed her goat¡¯s milk from my old bottle and carried her about the nursery when she woke in the night, crying like a sea bird. I must have been about your age.¡± His smile widened with the memory. ¡°I used to sing to her, silly songs I¡¯d make up about moon lizards and lily pies. She¡¯d gurgle for a little and then fall fast asleep.¡±


    ¡°Did you know she was mad?¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s rather difficult to tell with a baby.¡± My father finally put his glasses back on, squinting at the smudges. ¡°But everyone watched her anyway. It didn¡¯t take long to see the legends were true. She didn¡¯t speak a single word until she was four, and when she did it was usually nonsense. She often escaped her evening bath by soaking the maid trying to wash her hair and then running naked all over the house. Sometimes she¡¯d hide and we¡¯d find her curled up in the larder licking cream out of a bowl, or sitting with her legs dangling from an upstairs window singing at the sky. Eventually it was decided it was easier to let her play with the craft and smithy tools she stole from wherever she could find them and let her build her strange senseless contraptions in her room.


    ¡°And her bones¡­¡± My father touched his own arm gently as he spoke. ¡°Her bones were so fragile. She was graceful as anything, she never tripped or fell, but when she fought against the maids when they tried to put on her frock, or braid her hair, she snapped like a twig. She broke her wrists seven times and fractured her collarbone twice. She¡¯d cry then, always that seabird call. I was the only one she¡¯d allow to set her bones. I knew childbirth would kill her.¡±


    He spoke without anger or regret, twining the rag around his fingers as gently as he must have caressed her broken limbs and kissed the tears from her eyes. ¡°She was never happier than when she was pregnant. She sang to her belly every day, the same songs I¡¯d sung to her.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t¡ª¡± I forced myself to swallow. ¡°Weren¡¯t your parents angry?¡±


    ¡°Furious,¡± he said simply. ¡°My mother fell ill as soon as the maids told her they hadn¡¯t had to wash her blood from the sheets for two months¡ªswooned into her bed and never got out again. My father swore he¡¯d kill me, and kill her, and you, but I¡¯d locked us in the tower. My father had just built this tower to be the most fortified part of the villa, so I locked us in and barricaded the door and deafened the sounds of his threats and sword-hammering with curtains torn from the windows. She never liked curtains anyway, they blocked out too much of the sky.¡±


    ¡°For seven months?¡± I asked. ¡°How did you eat?¡±


    For the first time, my father looked a little embarrassed. ¡°She called birds to the window,¡± he said. The red glow of the room masked any flush that crept over his face. ¡°She had always preferred raw food, and I stopped being sick after the first week or so. We drank rainwater from the gutters.¡±


    Nobody. Nobody had told me this. ¡°Nobody told me.¡±


    My father sighed. ¡°Well, I suppose they¡¯re better off pretending it didn¡¯t happen the way it did. I¡¯m not the first lord to emerge from the birthroom bloody, bearing his squalling son while the mother¡¯s body lies behind. The rest was routine from then on, or enough to be getting on with. You certainly seemed normal enough.¡±


    ¡°What about Renella?¡±


    ¡°Renella is a good woman,¡± he said sadly, ¡° and she deserves better than what she got. She was the best my father could find for me after the scandal¡ªthe youngest daughter of a Viettan sea-merchant. She wept through the whole marriage ceremony.¡±


    I tried to imagine Renella crying and failed. ¡°How come she never had children?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± my father replied wearily, sitting on the first stair of the spiral staircase, ¡°I suspect she¡¯s barren. Then again, I never tried too hard to make children. I would have enjoyed having a daughter or two, but I couldn¡¯t risk another son. You are my heir.¡±


    I sat down opposite him, leaning against a chest of drills and awls. I had cousins¡ªor some kind of relative¡ªamong the Winged Ones. Cousins who ate raw bats and bugs and pissed in midair and copulated in the clouds over the sea. Maybe Sheshef was my cousin.


    My father looked up at the hole of darkness the stairs spiraled into and twisted the rag into a knot. ¡°You are my heir,¡± he said again, ¡°and the townsfolk will accept you. Don¡¯t worry about the others at school. It doesn¡¯t matter.¡± I didn¡¯t ask how he knew about school. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± he repeated, still looking up. He did not look down, not even when I curled up and went to sleep with my head pillowed on a satchel reeking of linseed oil.


    I moved from the nursery to the tower the next day. Even before the butler and porter and maids could clear the old room of broken furniture and the dour portraits of my uglier ancestors, I slept there, cocooned against the draft in my old blanket as I watched the dusty cobwebs waft in the moonlight. I helped them daub the cracks in the wall and directed the placement of my furniture after the pieces had been levered up the stairs and rebuilt, mostly by myself. It was a miracle they¡¯d been able to successfully disassemble most of it, although I suspected some blind wrenching had been involved.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Most of the house thought I had decided I was a big boy now that I was going to school, and was leaving the nursery as a sign of independence. I rode out a number of hair-tousles and patronizing responses along the lines of, ¡°Of course, Master DeRye,¡± and, ¡°At once, Master DeRye,¡± in silence, glad they were blinded by their own condescension. Only the butler looked at the vast windows and wide sills of my new tower room with a frown on his face, and only Renella gazed suspiciously at my innocent face over dinner. She jumped every time a dove fluttered in the cote.


    After my new room was settled, I returned to my normal activities. I spent the after-school hours drawing or swimming or climbing in the orchard for apples and throwing the cores to the pigs. Sometimes, though, I shut myself in my room, ostensibly to paint with my oils or sketch with charcoal, but in reality I did this very infrequently. Usually I napped, watching the clouds or distant airborne figures until my thoughts drifted into dreams, and woke when a servant knocked on my door for supper.


    Those days when I napped, I spent the night with my father.


    As soon as the table had been cleared, I ran up to my room and watched the bats leave on their nightly hunt, always hoping for another glimpse of Sheshef, then waited for the villa to quiet. When the dogs had settled in their kennels and the servants retired to their quarters for sleep or gambling, I gathered the star charts I¡¯d penned and slipped into the Observation Tower. My father let me in and locked the door behind me.


    Through his telescopes, he showed me the celestial family that arced through the sky: gentle Cytherea, soft and bright, danced a counterpoint to her bloody lover Mar¨¦s as he paraded across the night; fat Joveus, swollen with his own weight as he spun, spurned his titan father Kronus and his mighty ringed court; the cold tide of the Moon waxed and waned through the eyepiece, recorded on parchment by my deft hand every day for twenty-eight days. I hung these pictures up in my tower, as well as paintings of meteors that flashed their molten gold over the sea as my father and I leaned dangerously far from the highest windows, straining our eyes through binoculars. My pair still smelled of the cold-oil I¡¯d used to mill the brass without warping or singing it. I burned my hands many times, working the metal too delicately for gloves. My father showed me the scars on his knuckles from his own burns and cuts while he helped me guide the flyblade over bluesteel shutters or polish ruby lenses.


    If the night sky was covered by haze or storm, we worked on the ground floor, mending or modifying or making. Often an entire night would go by without either one of us speaking, the only sound the patter of rain and the clink of our tools. When the midnight bell rang in the village, I set down my work or shuttered the scopes and returned to my tower, silent as a shadow. My father kept working. I undressed and lay in bed, coverlets pulled up to my chin against the cool night air. Sometimes, when I couldn¡¯t sleep, I heard the shush of feathers go by in the dark.


    One night, the soft sound of wings didn¡¯t wait for me to go to bed. The sky was particularly clear, rained free of gritty haze earlier that afternoon. Now it was cold, very cold; the first chill of the season. My father and I wore our coats in the tower and our breath steamed in the starlight, condensing on the lenses every time we forgot to hold our breath while looking through the scopes. I had ink and paper by my side, ready to capture the coordinates of the bright conjunction the celestial bodies had been slowly winding towards for the past few days. I had just unstoppered the ink bottle when I heard a rustle behind me and turned.


    A man stood in the window.


    I froze. The man didn¡¯t move either.


    Even with the light at his back, throwing his features into shadow, I could see the bundled silhouette of huge wings folded tightly to his back. The fine down at his shoulders ruffled in the breeze, mirroring the silver of the stars, as did the splitting tendrils of his uncombed hair. He was hardly an inch taller than I, but how old he was I couldn¡¯t say. I couldn¡¯t even see his eyes.


    My father¡¯s head appeared on the staircase just then, rising from the dim red glow below. He saw the Winged man at once, and gave him a cordial nod. The man nodded back, silent as the clouds, and stepped into the tower, making sure his wingtips cleared the sill. He crossed to the other side of the room to where one of the secondary telescopes stood. It was already angled at the same patch of sky. My father had set it yesterday.


    The Winged One began unscrewing the caps and adjusting the lenses as I watched without a sound. He spun the focal knobs as far out as they would go, searching for the point that would not ache his hawksight. When he found it, he blinked, slowly, right eye slightly preceding the left. He did not blink often. When he did, a moist translucent membrane slid across his whiteless eyes before his heavily lashed lids closed.


    Three more Winged Ones arrived, all men, all naked, each as soundless as the next. For the first time, I wondered if they could talk at all. Perhaps their mouths, as human as my own, were only for eating.


    I did not ask. Instead, I watched them.


    They watched me with equal curiosity, although they seemed to be taking turns leveling their dark gazes at me so that they were not all staring at once. The dim red light from below illuminated the planes of their body, taut and stringy, all hollow bone and ropy sinew. The muscles in their legs and arms and stomach were long and tight from twisting with the currents of the wind, arcing against the pull of the earth, but their chests bulged like a bull¡¯s. The great slabs of muscle rippled when they breathed or shifted their massive wings to squeeze by each other without knocking into any equipment. It was hard not to stare.


    The rest of the night passed, silent but for the scratch of my pen and the muted rustling of feathers. I didn¡¯t leave when the bell struck midnight. When the bright conjunction began to dim as the sky lightened to gray, the Winged Ones nodded to my father and stepped to the windowsill. Then, one by one, they leaned out, stretched their wings into the morning breeze, and slid heavily into the air.


    I¡¯d never been so close to a full-grown Winged man. It was still too dark to see each detail clearly, but I could tell that had the smallest of them spread his wings inside, he would have brushed the tower¡¯s walls.


    When I could no longer hear the sweep of wings though the rising mist, I looked up from my notes. My father was still bent over the eyepiece of his telescope, adjusting the dimmer to catch a last glimpse of the heavens, and sighed in defeat when a thin ray of pink reflected from the church¡¯s windows in the village below. He stepped away from the telescope and rubbed his eyes as a dog barked in the kennels.


    ¡°Why did they come?¡± My voice was a harsh whisper, little more than a croak after a night of wakeful silence. I stuck my fingers, numb from gripping the pen in the cold, in my mouth and tried to suck life back into them as my father began to cap the lenses.


    ¡°It was a sacred night for the Winged Ones,¡± he replied, voice equally raspy. ¡°The stars and planets are holy to them, and an alignment is a great omen. They take auguries from what they see in the heavens and think on how they can steer their lives by it.¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t they use their own telescopes?¡±


    ¡°They have none.¡± My father stepped back and threw a canvas cover over the telescope. ¡°They cannot work with metal as we do. Everything they possess is light, light enough to carry in flight, no heavier than wood or flint slivers. They do not go underground to mine. They cannot forge with bellows and fire and they do not trust clear glass.¡±


    He tugged the edges of the cover snugly over the sharp contours of the telescope and turned to me. ¡°But they love telescopes,¡± he continued. ¡°It opens the beauty of their sacred sky to them, and it draws them like all things that gleam and spin.¡± After a moment of idle thought, he added, ¡°That¡¯s why they like watches and weathervanes so. The old pastores put obsidian shard-gravel round the Rose-Crux on the steeple because the Winged Ones were always at it, urinating in the raingutter and molting on the congregation.¡±


    And that is when I got my idea.

 Chapter 4. Lightning Rod

    I hadn¡¯t seen Sheshef since the fateful night at the nursery window years ago.


    Not for sure, anyway. I knew she must be one of the smaller forms that lazily spiraled overhead on sunny days, blurred by the ripple of rock-heated air, and I had twice found the tough membranous remnants of half-chewed bat wings at the foot of my tower, but I neither heard nor saw her. Sometimes I thought of unhooking my binoculars from their brass peg in the Observation Tower and bringing them back to my tower, to seek her out in the flock from afar, but every time this thought crossed my mind, an overwhelming sense of preemptive peeping-tom guilt washed over me, leaving my face on fire and my stomach in a knot. What if her hawksight caught the flash of sun on lens and turned on me, my spying eyes magnified like a pair of brown-irised eggs? Shame, my burning face and taut stomach insisted, although I couldn¡¯t articulate why. Shame and scorn. So the binoculars stayed in the Observation Tower.


    But now I had a different way.


    I started with the old lightning rod. I simply took it one night, pulling it from under the drifts of metal shavings in the corner behind the mill in the Observation Tower, brushing it off, and walking out. My father watched me for a moment and then turned back to his work.


    It was heavy, scabbed with corrosion, and slightly melted at one end. Its replacement, I knew, was much slimmer and lighter, less likely to tear out tiles as it javelined down the slope of the roof after its mooring nails were melted to brittle spindles by a lighting strike so tremendous it blew out the glass in three windows.


    It hid under my bed until Solday, smelling so strongly of old pennies I couldn¡¯t believe the maid never discovered it while cleaning. I feigned sick that morning over breakfast, making what I hoped was a subtle yet persuasive show of picking at my food and swallowing with my eyes closed, and was summarily excused from the weekly hymn-mumbling with the rest of the household in the stuffy little chapel.


    As soon as I had shuffled around the corner, I broke into a silent sprint and tried not to think about what I was about to do. I didn¡¯t have much time.


    The silver was off-limits; the butler kept obsessive tabs on everything, down to the last demitasse. The one time something had gone missing¡ªa sugar spoon¡ªhe locked the entirety of the household staff into the dining room until it was located, three hours later, wedged in the hollow space behind the sideboard drawer. The maid he had originally accused of theft was bawling by the end, her great braying hee-haw sobs audible even through the stone walls. Renella herself had to make an apology on the butler¡¯s behalf to prevent her from quitting that very day.


    So it was to the Repair Room that I ran instead.


    Things of great value broke in the house all the time: chandeliers, candelabras, pocketwatches, earrings. The room, hardly larger than a closet¡ªit had previously been a pantry¡ªwas full of chipped corners, sharp edges, and clouded facests. They crowded every surface and spilled from shelves, unable to be contained, a grandmother pirate¡¯s trousseau of fussy old treasure.


    This was due to the fact that the items within were rarely repaired. The room would better have been referred to as the Closet of Broken Things. Nothing would be missed.


    And yet the monetary value within was staggering. So when I reached the door, slightly pink in the face, it was locked, as per usual.


    But oh, how locks opened to me. They were nothing compared to the inner workings of a telescope. The door yielded to the picks in my hands within a dozen rapid heartbeats.


    I had no light, and the room had no window; the door had to remain open to see. Quickly then, quickly. Cracked vanity mirrors, a cut-glass necklace missing a clasp, the orphaned hinge of a crystal matchbox. Anything that glittered¡ªor looked like it might, if scrubbed free of its patina and dust¡ªall went into the bundle I had made of my overcoat, streaking the lining with tarnish and verdigris. An old parasol, waxed paper riddled with mouse-nibbled holes, completed the ensemble.


    I paused only long enough to re-lock the door, trickier now that I had sliced my thumb on a shattered glass bauble, and ran up the stairs.


    I worked on my contraption all that day and into the night. When all the household but my father was asleep, I crept out to the Observation Tower. In full sight of his silent, expressionless regard, I took several fine-toothed gears and a roll of soldering wire and crept back out.


    I feigned illness all that day and the next, door barred with a deadbolt I myself had installed¡ªbut had not yet dared to employ¡ªpraying none would try to open it and discover what I¡¯d done. They would all see it, soon enough, and pitch their fits. I only cared that I got what I wanted out of it first.


    I worked in a state of fevered calm, somewhere between panic and bliss, immersed in a sea of concentration. Things fit together just so. And if they didn¡¯t, I rearranged them until they did.


    At last, I was done. It was evening¡ªdinnertime. All would be busy in the kitchens and dining hall below. There would be no better time than this. I lingered only a moment to rub my reddened eyes and check the tension on the guy wires before hauling open the shutters on every single window, raising my hands above my head, and pulling the cotter pin.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Weights dropped. Chains slithered. Gears spun. And then, slowly at first, but increasing in speed, my whirligig began to turn.


    Truth to tell, it wasn¡¯t much. The balance was off; the entire contraption wobbled as it rotated, and it made a sound like a drawer full of cutlery dropped down a mining chute. But I had bolted it to the floor, and it did not fail. Most importantly, it did what it was supposed to.


    It glittered.


    Light prismed from every facet, amber and gold in the setting sun, spattering my walls with flecks of light. They whirled around the inside of the tower like a shoal of minnows, a maelstrom of intangible delight. From the outside, it should appear as though my room sparkled. I sank down to my bed and watched, entranced.


    So mesmerized was I by my own contraption, I didn¡¯t notice that it had worked until the soft brush of feathers against wood startled me from my reverie.


    She crouched there on the wide windowsill, pale skin nearly luminescent in the sunset, split ends haloing her head in a tawny nimbus, as bright-edged as the down at her shoulders. She hadn¡¯t seen me yet; her whiteless eyes were fixed on the whirligig, following its motion with darting saccades. I held my breath.


    She perched there for a moment, evening breeze luffing her hair and feathers, before stepping carefully to the floor, keeping her wings tightly folded to her back. They were mottled tones of gray¡ªdove gray, storm gray, slate and cloud¡ªand the same buff color of the chickens that ran in the yard, same as her hair. The muscles in her chest slid beneath her skin like the haunches of a horse.


    She saw me then, though I hadn¡¯t moved. Perhaps my gaze was felt. She froze then, muscles tense, but she did not look away.


    I blinked.


    Cloudy membranes flickered across her eyes.


    ¡°Hello,¡± I said softly.


    She did not reply.


    The whirligig was slowing now, the weight nearly at the bottom of its chain. I gestured at it slightly. ¡°Would you like me to set it spinning again?¡±


    She said nothing; she only stared at me, gray eyes fixed and unblinking as the contraption spun to a stop. I remembered then how she¡¯d snapped the bat¡¯s ribcage, how she¡¯d painted herself with its blood. My hair prickled as it rose.


    But then, so faintly I thought I might be imagining it, she nodded.


    Slowly, slowly, I moved forward and winched the chain back to the top of its travel. As it fell, the whirligig began to spin once more.


    Three times I reset the chain, and set the sparkles to dancing around the tower. Her eyes never left the whirligig. My eyes never left her face.


    I had just reached forward to reset the whirligig for a fourth run when there was a knock on my door.


    ¡°Master deRye?¡±


    I jumped. So did my visitor.


    Our eyes met, somehow equally panicked.


    ¡°I¡¯m Leo,¡± I said, voice cracking slightly. ¡°Leonardo deRye. What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Master deRye?¡± The knocking on the door grew more insistent. ¡°Are you well?¡± It sounded like the butler.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine! No¡ªwait!¡± For no sooner had I shouted my answer than the Winged One I had so laboriously lured to my chamber had leaped to the windowsill, wings half-spread. I reached out to her, as though to hold her there.


    The door thumped; the butler had tried to open it against the deadbolt. There was a muffled oath. I ignored it.


    ¡°Wait,¡± I begged, ¡°what¡¯s your name?¡±


    But by the time I finished my sentence, I spoke to the empty air. She had flown away.


    There was no way to hide what I had made. I didn¡¯t even try. I simply slid the deadbolt back and opened the door to await my fate in silence.


    The butler took one look at my contraption and sucked his lips into the tightest lemon-pucker I had ever seen. My stomach sank.


    ¡°Wait here,¡± he said curtly, and marched down the stairs.


    When he returned, not five minutes later, Renella was marching right behind him. The blood drained from her face as she looked upon what I had wrought. I thought she might faint.


    The butler evidently agreed, and reached into his vest pocket for what I presumed must be smelling salts¡ªhe kept them on hand ever since a soft-stomached maid passed out and fell down a flight of stairs after watching a grisly death match between a particularly large rat and a foolishly determined kitten¡ªbut Renella waved him off irritably.


    ¡°Fetch his Lordship,¡± she said, voice tight.


    My father was evidently not pleased at having been interrupted in the middle of whatever it was he had been doing. He emerged from the stairwell scowling, fingers busy with re-settling his glasses on his face after what appeared to have been a prolonged bout of lens-polishing. But as soon as he saw the whirligig, his expression, too, changed. He grew extremely grave, but he said nothing. He took his glasses off, fiddled with them absently, smudging them once again, then put them back on. Then he approached, moving as slowly as I had with the Winged One¡ªas though I were a Winged One he was trying not to frighten off.


    The cracked vanity mirror was still twisting slightly where it hung, agitated by the evening breeze blowing in through my still-open windows. Father reached out and grasped it gently, then let it go again.


    Then he looked at me with a tenderness I had never before seen. ¡°How long did it take you to make this?¡± he asked softly.


    ¡°A day and a half.¡±


    He looked back at the whirligig and fingered a chain. ¡°May I see it?¡±


    Renella made a noise. Father ignored her. He watched in silence as I pulled the chain once more, and kept his silence until the whirligig had once more spun to a halt. He looked down and scuffed his feet at where I had affixed the lighting rod to the floorboards. There was still sawdust from my hand-drilled holes.


    ¡°Make sure you clean up any grit,¡± he said, and walked out again, shutting the door behind himself.


    He and Renella had the argument right then and there, outside my door. She started low, with a clipped hissing, but within five minutes she was screaming so loudly I couldn¡¯t hear my father¡¯s responses. I simply sat on my bed and stared sightlessly out the window. It wasn¡¯t until my cheeks began to ache that I realized I was smiling.

 Chapter 5. Dinner Guests

    A long time ago, in a castle on a cliff overlooking the sea, a princess was born that was half Mer.


    ¡°Princess¡± was a bit of an overstatement. Given the size of her rocky kingdom, she would perhaps be considered a marchese, at best. But peerage didn¡¯t work that way, as my deportment tutor reiterated time and again. She had the blood. She was a princess.


    Even though she was the bastard child of a Mer-Man.


    Her mother was the queen. She hadn¡¯t been queen for very long, though. Only sixteen years of age, the rest of her family¡ªher kingly father, queenly mother, and two elder princess sisters¡ªhad perished not three months hence. They had plunged to their deaths in a cataclysmic carriage accident involving a rainy day, a skittish horse, and the king¡¯s own refusal to make any attempt to moderate what he thought of as particularly magnificent and monarchical sneezes. The king¡¯s youngest daughter, the only surviving member of the family and now queen, had been left at home due to the unfathomable disgrace of having gotten herself pregnant.


    She had been ungovernable since birth. Wild, disobedient, and intemperate, she terrorized the household with her tantrums. At age four, she cut her hair down to the scalp with shepherd¡¯s shears and, when confronted, turned them on the nurse. At age seven, she opened all the stable doors while everybody else was at Michaelmas and switched the horses until they galloped away, frothing and white-eyed. At twelve, she set fire to her bed. Her family despaired.


    By age fifteen, she still refused to take up needlework or music, but her wild furies had been replaced by nothing worse than long walks by herself. She would take herself down the steep cliffside switchbacks to the rocky shores below the castle and find treasures amongst the tidepools; sea-glass, driftwood, abalone shells. She brought thread, and a sharp awl, and strung shells into necklaces through the holes she patiently bored. She whittled combs for her hair of mother-of-pearl.


    It was with more a sense of resignation, therefore, moreso than shock, that her family received the news that she was pregnant. Of course she would go and get herself with child. She had simply found an inventive new way to plague and burden them all. Who was the father? The stableboy? The chandler¡¯s son? The traveling deacon with whom she had so shamelessly flirted?


    She vehemently denied every specific accusation, but refused to provide an answer.


    The princess took refuge in uncharacteristic silence. She took her walks and strung her shells. When she lost the entirety of her family and abruptly became the ruling monarch, six months gone with child, she simply sat unmoving for a full five minutes after being informed, then shrugged in what was admittedly a very regal manner and strung the next shell onto the line she was slowly winding into her long dark hair.


    The little princess came into the world screaming even more loudly than the storm that thundered outside, and almost as loudly as her mother. She had a full head of dark hair, gills on her throat, and a smattering of iridescent scales glinting on her chubby little thighs.


    One midwife burst into tears. The waiting wet nurse ran out of the room. And one midwife, the oldest by far, simply stared for a long moment before saying, ¡°Well, we can¡¯t kill her now; the whole castle has heard her scream bloody health.¡±


    At this pronouncement, the teenage queen, who had taken a moment to catch her breath, renewed her own screams and floundered about on the birthing bed for the nearest weapon¡ªher hand happened across the candlestick on her bedstand¡ªand threw it at the midwife. The midwife ducked, unphased, and handed the squalling baby to her mother to suckle. Both of them instantly quieted.


    Due to a complete dearth of even moderately acceptable alternate heirs, and the evident fact that, unlike their half-Winged equivalents, half-Mer were of sound mind, the scaly little princess grew into a very capable and relatively even-tempered young queen. She governed fairly, married well, and went on to have a daughter of her own, a whip-smart little girl with no gills and no scales; only a series of striations on her throat, almost like scars. She married a nearby Duke, and became a Duchess.


    That Duchess was coming to dinner.


    I found out all this and more in bits and pieces, snatches of conversations overheard between the household staff as they ran to and fro, airing out the guest quarter linens and clattering about in the buttery. She was old now, the last vestiges of her throat striations lost to wrinkles and liver-spots, but still as sharp as ever. And she had a granddaughter about my age who would also be in attendance.


    There was some unspecified Trouble with this granddaughter. Nobody knew what it was.


    I was not tall for my age. I had to stand on tiptoe to see the retinue as they filed into the dining hall, trying to catch a glimpse of this Troubled girl, wondering vaguely if she was aware that I was now considered somewhat Troubled myself. I wasn¡¯t sure what anybody hoped to accomplish, putting two such Troubled youngsters together. But here we were.


    The Duchess was a tiny old woman. Her hair was completely white, and she used a cane to walk. Yet still she exuded an air of vivacity; her gaze was sharp as it found mine, and she gave me a little nod. It was the nod of one equal to another: quarter-breed to quarter-breed, I realized. I didn¡¯t know how to feel.


    Her granddaughter was tall and blond, and equally sharp. The look she gave me was appraising, but not malicious, and she strode forward right away to offer me her hand. I bowed over it clumsily. She was older than me by a year, it seemed, and half a head taller.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    ¡°Good evening, Master deRye,¡± she said. Her voice was loud, but not unpleasant. Melodious, almost. ¡°I hear you¡¯ve made the most marvelous contraption in your chambers. May I see it?¡±


    I stared at her, mouth agape. My experience with young ladies was minimal, practically nonexistent, but I was quite sure they were not supposed to invite themselves into young gentlemen¡¯s private rooms. My deportment tutor was uncompromising in this opinion, as was the pastore. I hadn¡¯t even introduced myself yet. Perhaps this was her Trouble.


    The butler, standing at my back, stiffened with offense¡ªevidently he shared the same opinion as my tutor and the pastore vis a vis young women in my room¡ªbut curiously, neither the Duchess nor Renella batted an eye.


    ¡°Perhaps after dinner, Francesca,¡± the Duchess said.


    ¡°All right,¡± Francesca replied amiably, and reclaimed her hand. She looked around the dining hall curiously. ¡°Gosh, d¡¯you always keep it this dark inside?¡±


    ¡°Francesca.¡± The Duchess¡¯s voice this time was sharp. ¡°Take your seat.¡±


    Francesca rolled her eyes and¡ªfor my benefit, it seemed¡ªand strode back to her grandmother¡¯s side. Her skirts swirled. She hitched at them uncomfortably.


    Francesca spent all evening fussing at her dress; the waistband, the collar, the cuffs. I couldn¡¯t tear my eyes away. Not due to any prurience on my part¡ªalthough she was comely enough, I supposed, in a bony sort of way¡ªbut because she genuinely appeared to be painfully uncomfortable. I¡¯d never seen a girl act like she longed to be rid of her clothes, as though she were trapped in them like a sermon on a summer day. She looked like she¡¯d shuck them off the instant she thought nobody was looking.


    It made me very nervous about showing her my room.


    But I needn¡¯t have worried. Although we were curiously unchaperoned, Francesca was focused solely on racing up the stairs to my room. ¡°D¡¯you really live in a tower?¡± she called excitedly. Her voice echoed from around the curve. I hurried to keep up.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I said, but my reply was lost to her breathless follow-up: ¡°I suppose you have to do lots of towers here, with the terrain. Nowhere to go but up. Or down. D¡¯you have any anti-towers?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    She stopped and peered down at me. ¡°Anti-towers. They¡¯d go down, not up.¡±


    I was taken aback. ¡°Is that a thing?¡±


    Francesca considered this thoughtfully, drumming her fingers on her lips. ¡°I think some dungeons are like that,¡± she said at last.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have anything like that.¡± I rubbed my nose. ¡°Unless you count the well?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t live in a well,¡± she declared, and turned in a rustle of silk skirt¡ªshe pulled at it irritably¡ªand continued up the stairs.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with your clothes?¡± I almost clapped my hand over my mouth. I hadn¡¯t meant to ask aloud.


    This brought her up short. ¡°What?¡±


    Too late now. ¡°You keep pulling at your dress.¡±


    For once, she seemed chagrined. She plucked fretfully at the hem of her sleeve, realized what she was doing, and clasped her hands together tightly, a flush starting up her neck. ¡°I suppose I am,¡± she admitted. ¡°I don¡¯t normally wear dresses.¡±


    ¡°What do you normally wear?¡±


    ¡°Trousers,¡± she replied, promptly and with no reticence. ¡°Trousers and shirt.¡±


    I stared. ¡°They let you wear trousers?¡±


    ¡°Oh, they¡¯re mad about trousers at Annie¡¯s!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I was completely lost. ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°All the girls. At Saint Annunziata¡¯s. It¡¯s where I go to school¡ªa boarding school for girls. They encourage us to dress in a way that defies our natural susceptibility to vanity. And what better way than trousers!¡± She was grinning now. ¡°They¡¯re so useful! Some of them even have pockets!¡±


    ¡°Dresses don¡¯t have pockets?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Francesca replied, voice twisted with disgust. ¡°Not the ones I¡¯m made to wear, anyway. Like this one.¡± She whisked angrily at the silk.


    ¡°Oh. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Not your fault.¡± She turned again and pointed. ¡°Is that your room?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    She looked enviously at the door. ¡°I wish I lived in a tower.¡±


    ¡°What do you live in?¡±


    ¡°A boring old normal room.¡±


    I opened the door. Francesca crowed with delight and bounded in. I was momentarily terrified that she would go blundering into my whirligig, but she stopped well short of the contraption and looked at it carefully, noting how it was bolted to the floor. ¡°Gosh. They let you just build this in here?¡±


    ¡°No. I did it in secret.¡±


    ¡°Gosh,¡± she said again, clearly impressed. I felt my spine straighten, and added, in a slightly surer tone, ¡°I did it in a day and a half. I pretended to be sick.¡±


    ¡°Brilliant,¡± Francesca breathed. She reached out carefully and touched a chain. ¡°Where¡¯d you get the supplies?¡±


    ¡°Just stuff lying around.¡± For some reason, I didn¡¯t want to tell her about the observation tower. It was my father¡¯s domain. His to speak about, not mine. And he never would.


    ¡°What¡¯s it for?¡±


    ¡°Um.¡± I rubbed my nose again, suddenly overwarm and itchy. ¡°It¡¯s just interesting, I guess. Here, look.¡± I made it spin, to distract her.


    She had me reset it twice, and made appreciative noises each time it whirled around. There was no sunlight to reflect, but even the candles and fire in the hearth were sufficient to set it glittering. When her attention began to wander, I asked if she wanted to go back down.


    ¡°Oh,¡± she said, voice carefully neutral. ¡°Oh, no, I¡¯m supposed to stay up here.¡±


    I looked at her, abruptly uneasy. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    She gave a little shrug. ¡°I¡¯m just¡­ supposed to be here now.¡±


    Her response irritated me. It was hardly a response at all. ¡°Says who?¡±


    ¡°Grandmama.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± And then, before she could answer, emboldened by her familiarity and my own irritation, I added, ¡°Isn¡¯t she worried that we¡¯re not chaperoned?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Francesca replied, somewhat acidly. ¡°That¡¯s the point. I¡¯m supposed to kiss you.¡±

 Chapter 6. Objectively Terrible

    It took me a moment to find my voice, and when I did, all I could say was: ¡°Why?¡±


    In later years, I would come to understand that this would, under ordinary circumstances, have been a devastating thing to ask a young lady. The ¡®correct¡¯ response¡ªor so I have been informed¡ªwould have been some variation on What a delightful proposition! Let us kiss at once! Sadly, I was twelve, and utterly artless.


    But I was the beneficiary of some very unexpected fortune. Rather than bursting into tears or flouncing out in a huff, Francesca rolled her eyes and sighed, ¡°Because they want me to stop kissing girls.¡±


    I was now completely lost. ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°Grandmama. Also the teachers at Annie¡¯s. And the headmistress.¡±


    When I finally found my words again, I stuttered, ¡°H-how many girls have you kissed?¡±


    ¡°Fourteen,¡± Francesca replied. ¡°Fifteen if you count Maria, but I don¡¯t think that should count because she chickened out of the dare and turned her head so it was just a peck on the cheek. I don¡¯t think that should count, do you?¡±


    ¡°I, uh¡­¡± I was struggling mightily. ¡°N-no? No, I guess not.¡± I coughed, and couldn¡¯t stop myself before adding, incredulously, ¡°You¡¯ve kissed fourteen girls?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    My brain was no longer providing verbal filtration services. ¡°I haven¡¯t even kissed one,¡± I mused aloud.


    ¡°Well,¡± Francesca pointed out logically, ¡°I am around girls a lot more than you are. I have much more opportunity.¡± I got the vague sense that she was, at least partially, parroting the words of somebody else.


    ¡°That¡¯s true.¡± I tried to rally. ¡°So. Um. You¡¯re supposed to kiss me now?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Is that going to¡­ help?¡±


    Francesca shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ve never kissed a boy. Grandmama says I need to quit playing around. She thinks a real kiss will make me realize it¡¯s better.¡± The sardonic emphasis on real was unmistakable.


    I had had it so thoroughly drilled into me that casually kissing girls was an unbecoming activity for a young gentleman that I was at a total loss as to how I ought to proceed.


    I coughed again. ¡°Do, uh¡­ Do you want to kiss?¡±


    She regarded me for a moment with a critical eye. I waited in silence, and watched the last of the whirligig¡¯s spin send flecks of light drifting slowly across her face. Her eyes were thoughtful and kind.


    It was therefore quite an unexpected blow when she replied, very frankly, ¡°Not especially, no.¡±


    My insult didn¡¯t even have time to show on my face before she added, ¡°But I think we ought to anyway. So I can say we did. I don¡¯t like lying.¡±


    ¡°Um.¡± The room was incredibly hot. Who had decided to stoke the hearthfire into such an inferno? ¡°All right.¡±


    We both stared at each other. The fire crackled.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to kiss me?¡± Francesca asked impatiently, after an excruciating silence.


    ¡°Oh! Do I¡­?¡±


    ¡°Yes, stupid. I can¡¯t very well be the one to kiss you, can I?¡±


    I had no idea what was going on anymore. I gave up on words and lunged forward into the most awkward kiss in recorded history. Her chin nearly left a bruise on my cheekbone; I was approaching from below. Then I staggered back again.


    ¡°Goodness,¡± Francesca said, fingers on her mashed lips. ¡°That was terrible.¡±A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    It was objectively terrible, but now my temper flared. ¡°Well you show me, then,¡± I snarled, ¡°if you¡¯re so good at it, after all your practice.¡±


    ¡°Fine. I will.¡± And with no further warning than that, Francesca closed the distance between us in two strides, grabbed me by the lapels, and pulled me into a deep, lingering kiss.


    When at last she broke it, I was lightheaded. She tasted like the tiramisu we¡¯d had for dessert.


    ¡°There,¡± she said firmly. ¡°That¡¯s how you kiss properly.¡±


    I looked up at her, heart thundering, terrified that she¡¯d do it again, hoping for it anyway with all my heart. But she stepped away, back to the whirligig; duty discharged. She fingered one of the baubles on the end of its chain. ¡°What did this used to be?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Was it better?¡± I blurted.


    ¡°Was what better?¡±


    ¡°The kiss.¡± I swallowed. ¡°Like your grandm¡ªlike the Duchess said.¡±


    She turned to face me, the pity in her eyes clear but not cruel. ¡°No,¡± she said, kindly. ¡°But I wouldn¡¯t worry about that. You just haven¡¯t had any practice, is all.¡±


    ¡°Should we practice some m¡ª¡±


    ¡°No thank you.¡±


    I stood there, defeated and flummoxed, hands hanging limply at my sides, while she concluded the rest of her examination of my whirligig to an inane stream of commentary. She finally concluded with, ¡°...and you have an armory here, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡± I said, so startled to suddenly be addressed directly again it came out as a question.


    ¡°Excellent! Let¡¯s go.¡± And without waiting for me, she skipped to the door, opened it, and disappeared down the stairwell. I hurried to follow.


    The armory was dark when we got there, of course. I lit some tapers and we carried them in our hands, two specks of light in the gloom, barely reflecting from steel so dull with dust it was practically matte. When we reached the ep¨¦e rack, Francesca crowed once again and began making a complex knot of her skirt between her legs, heedless of the damage to the silk, and threw the practice padding on over, urging me to do the same. I hastily lit more tapers in the sconces by piste and joined her.


    Here, I thought, I might redeem myself.


    I almost did. The local sot had not been a particularly good fencing teacher, but I had been an apt pupil nevertheless. I was not strong, but I was quick. This did not carry me to victory against a taller opponent¡ªone who had clearly had the benefit of significantly more routine instruction, at that¡ªbut it was at least a tie, in a simultaneous fifth touch.


    We were discovered shortly thereafter, grinning and drenched in our own sweat, by a slightly scandalized contingent of servants who had spent the last half hour searching for us. It was late. The Duchess was tiring, and wished to depart.


    The old woman¡¯s eyebrows shot up as she watched us traipse back into the dining hall, denuded of our padding but still flushed with exertion and shining with sweat. Francesca¡¯s coiffure had come thoroughly undone; blond hair ran straggling over her shoulders. Sweaty tendrils stuck to her brow and neck.


    ¡°Grandmama,¡± she cried, ¡°we must come back soon! They have a magnificent piste downstairs, all gloomy and dark! I am certain duels to the death have been fought down there. It¡¯s probably very haunted. May we come back soon, please? Leo is a very good fencer.¡±


    ¡°It would be our honor, Your Grace,¡± Renella said at once, voice smooth as cream.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure something can be arranged,¡± the Duchess replied, turning her eyes to me. ¡°Did you enjoy yourself with my granddaughter, young man?¡±


    The double entendre was not at all lost on me. I flushed bright red and muttered something so indistinct even I couldn¡¯t make it out. The Duchess looked immensely satisfied, and nodded at Renella. ¡°Let¡¯s keep in touch.¡±


    ¡°Yes, let¡¯s.¡±


    I could practically see the marriage contract reflected in their pupils. I stayed only long enough to relay the most perfunctory of farewells before racing back to my room in a panic, nearly caroming off the walls of the stairwell in my haste.


    I bolted the door and paced.


    Never had I been so perturbed and confused and vaguely insulted. What kind of person did they think I was? What was I meant to have done? Refused the kiss? Initiated it on my own as soon as I saw we were unchaperoned? Was I really that bad at kissing? Had I fallen into a trap, or avoided it? Surely nobody would become affianced at twelve, not in this day and age? Was the entire encounter engineered in an attempt to shock Francesca and I out of our unsavory obsessions¡ªkissing girls and building incomprehensible contraptions, respectively? Was I unusually bad at kissing for a first-timer? Should I practice? If so, with whom? Or, I thought somewhat miserably, what?


    I looked at my whirligig. The kiss with Francesca had a lot to recommend it¡ªthe second one, at any rate¡ªbut the sentiment was clearly not mutual. I doubted, at a deep and abiding level beyond explanation, that there was enough kiss-practice in the world that would render my kisses palatable to Francesca. And the thought of any further such kisses¡ªones that elicited only pity and scorn, and were never initiated by anything more than a sense of obligation¡ªleft a cold, hollow lump within me that no over-stoked fire could warm.


    I set my whirligig to spinning again, and felt my troubles begin to unwind upon it. It probably wasn¡¯t even that bad a kiss, given the circumstances; it was simply unfair to pit a rookie against a champion like that. And I had no fear whatsoever that kissing would replace my passion for tinkering. It was physically impossible to kiss so much that there was no time left for crafting wonders. You¡¯d run out of air.


    Both Renella and the Duchess had failed in their aim.


    Somewhere around the third spin of my whirligig, I realized I did want to see Francesca again, though. She didn¡¯t care that I was a quarter Winged. She hadn¡¯t asked me so much as one question about it, let alone a stupid one. And she was fun to fence with. We didn¡¯t have to kiss at all.


    Warmed by that thought, I banked my fire, climbed into bed, and slept soundly.


    Until I was awakened by a soft noise at my window.

 Chapter 7. You Can Stay

    I didn¡¯t realize what was happening at first.


    An old villa made many noises in the night. So accustomed was I to the sound of warping wood and settling stone that my dreams had long ago begun to incorporate them into their soundscape; the creaking of masts on a pirate¡¯s ship; the cracking of whips on a runaway carriage. It wasn¡¯t until I rolled over to settle myself in a brief moment of murky lucidity that I realized there was a figure at my window, and it was making the small metallic noises of lockpicking.


    Even then, I thought I must be dreaming. I watched with distant somnolescent curiosity as the window latch¡ªit wasn¡¯t a true lock, obviously, who would need such a thing on the outside of a tower window?¡ªtrembled, fluttering like a butterfly¡¯s wing, before rising from its catch and letting the window creak open.


    The slice of frigid air that cut across the room was enough to rouse me instantly. This was not a dream.


    The only muscle moving in my body was my heart. It began to gallop.


    Into the patch of moonlight below the windowsill stepped a small, pale foot, followed by another, silent as the wheeling of the stars in the sky. The shadows of the mullioned windows slid across ghostly skin, barred black on milky white, blurring as it passed to the feathery gray of wings.


    Slow and silent as a cloud, the Winged One crept into my room. She¡¯d come back¡ªhad picked a lock to return to the contraption I had made, had made for her. My heart beat so forcefully it hurt.


    She stopped when she reached the closest bauble¡ªa crystal earring that had long ago lost its mate¡ªand touched it gently. Her face was in shadow, and I could not see her expression. Only the gentle rise and fall of her wings as she breathed, and the wild snarls of her tawny hair, leached of all color in the moonlight to the same indistinct silver as the lighter patches on her wings. She moved from there to an old spring-steel corset bone dangling at the end of a chain, then crouched on her haunches to investigate where the lighting rod was bolted to the floor. She reached out gingerly.


    Only then did I dare to sit up, as slow and silent as she. She didn¡¯t notice; her fingers were busy exploring the square bolt-heads.


    ¡°I really wish I knew your name,¡± I murmured dreamily.


    It was barely more than a whisper, but the effect was as though I had shouted. The Winged One leaped to her feet, still in a crouch so as not to hit her head on the branches or baubles of the whirligig, wings half-spread in a tense sickle. Her whiteless eyes were two pools of shadow in the dark, but I knew she looked at me.


    I neither moved nor spoke. I merely waited.


    At long last, her wings began to relax. She ducked out from beneath the whirligig and straightened, settling her wings against her back with a silken rustle. The motion set the slim silver tools on the chain around her neck to glinting on her bare chest.


    Somehow I, the boy who could not bear to gaze upon an un-stockinged ankle for more than a moment before flushing with guilt, felt nothing more than an overwhelming desire to see her eyes. The rest of her was simply as she was; the nudity was no more than the natural order of things. I would sooner have blushed and quailed at the sight of the naked trees in winter.


    But oh, how that image is burned into my mind.


    We were of a height now; me sitting bolt upright in my bed, her standing at the foot of it. Her split ends and wing down stirred in the faint breeze.


    She spoke then. It was the sound of summer wind soughing in the pines.


    It took me a moment to understand. ¡°That¡¯s your name?¡±


    She hesitated a moment, then nodded.


    I tried it out for myself, the shape of it strange in my mouth. ¡°Sheshef.¡±This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    She cocked her head slightly. I suspected my accent was probably as bad as my kissing, but there was nothing to be done about it. I simply said, ¡°My name is Leo.¡±


    ¡°Leo.¡± Her voice was not the melodious call of a songbird. It was soft, but sharp, like the chirrup of a kestrel.


    ¡°Yes. Leonardo deRye.¡±


    She blinked, first with her nictitating membranes, then with her eyelids, white over black. Then she turned back to look at the whirligig. ¡°You made this?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    I expected her to ask me why, or what it was for, but instead she simply gazed at it for a long time.


    ¡°I like it,¡± she said at last.


    Warmth flooded me. ¡°I like it too.¡±


    Having made this pronouncement, she turned and made as if to leave.


    ¡°You can stay,¡± I said quickly. ¡°I don¡¯t mind. I¡ªyou can stay.¡± I had almost told her I had made the whirligig for her.


    But she shook her head. ¡°I must go,¡± she said, in her soft hawk¡¯s voice. ¡°Before they notice I am gone.¡±


    ¡°Can you come back?¡±


    She blinked again, thinking. ¡°It is hard for me to see at night.¡±


    Hawk¡¯s eyes, not owl¡¯s. I pointed at the whirligig. ¡°This looks better in the daytime anyway. Sunset.¡±


    ¡°I can come?¡± she asked, excitement heating her voice. ¡°In the day? They will let me?¡±


    My face fell. Renella¡¯s screams echoed in my memory. Sheshef saw my face, and her wings slumped, ever so slightly.


    ¡°Wait,¡± I said swiftly, hoping I sounded firm, rather than desperate. ¡°Can I come to you?¡±


    For the first time, her eyes showed expression; they widened. Still, there was no white. I could see only because the moonlight had caught the side of her face as she turned, and shone obliquely through her avian corneas. It was as though I were regarded by two moons. I shivered.


    ¡°You cannot climb that high,¡± she said flatly. ¡°You would fall and die.¡±


    ¡°Can we meet somewhere then?¡± I realized even as I said it that she was coming here for my whirligig, not me. What could I offer her that she would like? I couldn¡¯t very well lug a telescope up a cliff.


    And then inspiration struck.


    I nodded at her necklace, with its glittering, rudimentary shims. ¡°I can bring my lockpicks to show you.¡±


    Her hand flew to her neck, perhaps a little guiltily. ¡°You have lockpicks?¡±


    I smiled, a touch proudly, and nodded at the whirligig. ¡°It¡¯s how I got the supplies for that.¡±


    Her hand dropped again. She looked impressed, and then thoughtful. Eventually, she nodded. ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡± I asked eagerly.


    She settled her wings again, uncertainly. ¡°I do not know your name for it.¡±


    ¡°What does it look like?¡±


    ¡°An old mine shaft entrance,¡± she replied, ¡°on a south-facing cliff between a century oak and a stand of larch.¡±


    There were hundreds, if not thousands, of abandoned mine shafts, on countless north-facing cliffs. The tree reference was of no help to me. ¡°Could you find it on a map?¡± I asked, with only the faintest of hopes. Did Winged Ones even use maps?


    But Sheshef brightened up immediately. ¡°Yes!¡±


    I ripped the covers off myself and leaped out of bed, my nightshirt flapping wildly. I liked maps. I had an entire atlas right here in my room, an expensive one, gifted to me by my father on my tenth birthday. But that was not what I sought. I had found an old prospector¡¯s map deep in some forgotten corner of the villa and liberated it for my collection. It would serve now. I pulled it from my shelf and unrolled it on the floor, kneeling to keep it flat. The free edge still struggled to spring back into a coil until Sheshef joined me and pinned it in place with her own knees. Together we knelt upon it, heads together, with the stilled whirligig spreading above.


    Maps, I discovered, were used extensively by Winged Ones. They are lightweight and easily folded or rolled for transport, and quickly recovered mid-air if dropped. The Feather Folk are in fact magnificently accomplished cartographers, whose skills far surpass our own, due to their natural vantage point and spatial reasoning. Why this is not better known to mankind, I can only attribute to rank bigotry.


    But that was not what consumed my thoughts that night. As Sheshef found the mine shaft entrance in question, kneeling there on the floor in the moonlight, her feathers no more than an arm¡¯s length away, all I could think about was how I longed to touch them: the sleek, rigid primaries, the glossy coverts, the down at her shoulder that faded imperceptibly to the mammalian peach-fuzz of her back.


    And how I wished I weren¡¯t so terrible at kissing.


    We made our plans, and bade each other farewell; I with a formal, ¡°Goodnight, Sheshef,¡± she with a susurrus of consonants that I presumed meant the equivalent in her own tongue. She leaped lightly to the windowsill and did not look back as she cast herself into the cold night air, wings flaring open as soon as she cleared the frame. She dropped at first, then beat the air a few times and rose, her wingspan wider than she was tall.


    I thought for a moment that I saw movement from the Observation Tower, as though somebody had hastily moved away from a window, but then Sheshef circled back overhead and I leaned out of my own window, dangerously far, to keep her in sight.

 Chapter 8. Wednesday

    We¡¯d arranged to meet on Wednesday.


    Winged Ones don¡¯t use a seven-day week. They go entirely by phases of the moon, with a different name for each of the twenty-eight¡ªor twenty-nine, when their astrologers call for it¡ªdays in their shifting months. They do not find our seven-day cycles particularly odd, however. They can see from above how we subdivide everything: our fields, our towns, our mountains. Ourselves. Creatures of walls and roads and fences are we; of course, they reason, we would quarter our months.


    I still had to explain Wednesday to Sheshef, however, as the name meant nothing to her. To her, that day was Hesh, the thirteenth day of the month, just before the full moon. A day of merriment and adventure, as were all the five days of lunar fullness, when the Winged Ones could see well enough to be up all night, weather permitting. On the other end of the cycle, the five days of the new-moon darkness were for rest and renewal; making amends for quarrels, co-preening, taking long, uninterrupted naps. The remaining eighteen days were for the typical labors of their kind.


    Sheshef could go where she wished on Hesh. Adventures were encouraged.


    Alas, I had school.


    And, as of late, my afternoons were spoken for almost every day of the week. On Mondays, I had music. I was not very good at it. I had no ear for tune, and little interest in the purported social advantages, so although my hands were nimble and my sense of rhythm was good, the classes eventually devolved to me accompanying the music teacher on a drum as he worked out his latest composition, or else tuning the harpsichord. It was always going flat.


    On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I had fencing. I was supposed to, at least; in practice, the classes actually occurred perhaps one time out of every four. I meant to change that, however, via means not yet clear to myself. I was determined to beat Francesca if ever we were to cross swords again. So those afternoons were out now, too.


    On Fridays, I had deportment. It filled my afternoon with forks and manners, graces and addresses, bows and titles and endless, endless genealogy. I dreaded it more than music.


    Saturdays were for cleaning; of myself, of my chambers, and of whatever corner of the villa Renella felt would best be suited to the task of ensuring I did not grow into a useless lordling. In retrospect, this was one of her better parenting decisions, but I was not in a frame of mind to appreciate it at the time. Soldays were for chapel, of course, and ever since my bout of ¡°illness¡± had resulted in a whirligig, I had been set to some task or other that left me thoroughly supervised after prayer had concluded.


    So it had to be Wednesday.


    But before that was Tuesday.


    Typically, I would be taken by carriage back to the villa. The distance wasn¡¯t particularly far, and I wouldn¡¯t have minded the walk, but Renella insisted that I be transported in a manner befitting my station. So on I would get, and the poor horses would have to haul myself, the driver, and the creaking old carriage up a dusty and very, very vertical series of switchbacks, snorting and blowing irritably. I didn¡¯t blame them. I tried to sneak them extra apples whenever I could.


    On Tuesdays, I would alight from the carriage, divest myself of my schoolbag, eat a plate of bread and cheese and fruit¡ªfresh fruit in summer, dried the rest of the year¡ªand descend to the piste in the armory, there to amuse myself in solitude while awaiting a teacher who rarely came. I had tried on most of the suits of armor by age twelve, waiting for the man, and damaged at least one mace by overestimating my ability to heft it and sending it thudding to the floor instead. I barely managed to get it back on the rack.


    But not this Tuesday.


    As soon as I climbed into the carriage, I slid open the quarter window and called, ¡°Giacomo.¡±


    Giacomo startled, badly. He was never as comfortable with people as he was with horses, and given that I had never addressed him as he drove before, I did not fault the nervousness of his voice as he replied, ¡°Yes, Master deRye?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not going straight home. We¡¯re picking up Master Fiore in town first.¡±


    ¡°We are?¡±The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Giacomo swallowed anxiously. ¡°The Lady made no mention of this, Master.¡±


    I considered my next words carefully. Some instinct told me I could very effectively bully the man¡ªsimply order him around, insist that I had the right as Master deRye¡ªbut I was either too kind or too cowardly. Possibly both. So instead I said, ¡°I am confident she would approve. She¡¯s getting barely a quarter of the fencing lessons she¡¯s paying for. I¡¯ll vouch for you if there¡¯s any trouble.¡±


    ¡°As you say, Master deRye.¡± Giacomo clucked at the horses and snapped the reins. I closed the window and settled back as they set off, carriage swaying.


    I had never been to the fencing master¡¯s abode before. In fact, I had no idea where he even lived. I trusted Giacomo to know, and he did. Master Fiore evidently let a room over a flower shop in the heart of town, just across the street from the tavern responsible for his recurrent absenteeism. I gazed idly out the window at the passers-by as I waited for Giacomo to fetch him, drumming my fingers on the sill.


    A few townspeople gawked, but the carriage was not an uncommon sight¡ªRenella made a point of being ¡°active in the local community,¡± as she liked to put it¡ªand enough word had filtered out from the school that I was not a freak, but rather a disappointingly ordinary boy, that I was no longer an object of particular interest. More attention was being garnered by the itinerant tinker who had set up shop by the fountain.


    Giacomo crossed from one side of the street to the other¡ªapparently, Master Fiore was not at home¡ªand entered the tavern. A short while later, both men emerged. Giacomo was all but carrying the fencing master, who kept slurring something plaintive. I couldn¡¯t hear what it was, but the result was Giacomo becoming very red in the face and slinging the drunk into the carriage with me with uncharacteristic roughness and slamming the door.


    He looked muzzily up at me from the general vicinity of my feet and mumbled, ¡°Fencing?¡±


    Now, then, was the time to be a bully.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I said, as haughtily as I could manage, ¡°fencing. We are paying you to teach me the blade. Sober up and do as you¡¯re paid to.¡±


    Somewhat to my shock, the act worked. Master Fiore scrambled to his feet, lurching unsteadily as the carriage started off, and fell into the seat opposite me. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and grated out, ¡°Is there water?¡±


    ¡°Yes. At the villa.¡±


    He rubbed his eyes again. ¡°Would very much appreciate some water,¡± he muttered. His breath was sour.


    ¡°Good thing we¡¯re going to the villa, then.¡±


    Pure Renella tartness was spilling from my mouth¡ªand it was working. Master Fiore put his head in his hands and remained silent for the remainder of the trip. I marveled.


    Without being asked, Giacomo hauled the fencing master back out of the coach and treated him to a complimentary head-dunking in the watering trough once we arrived. The man emerged spluttering and coughing and fighting mad, but clearly more in possession of his wits. Giacomo said nothing the entire time he was berated; he simply glowered in stony silence until the imprecations petered out. I, for one, was delighted by the impromptu vocabulary lesson. If nothing else happened this afternoon, it was already a win.


    ¡°All right,¡± he growled, once the two of us were alone at the piste. He was still dripping a little. ¡°What¡¯s this really about?¡±


    ¡°I need to win a duel.¡±


    That caught his interest immediately. ¡°Oh? To the death?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I said, taken aback. ¡°Just a regular duel.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s all?¡±


    I stared. ¡°I¡¯m twelve.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Right.¡± He worked some water out of his ear with his pinkie and flicked it to the floor. ¡°For your honor, then?¡±


    I considered it. ¡°Sort of,¡± I said at last. ¡°It¡¯s complicated.¡±


    ¡°It always is.¡± Master Fiore began to stretch, and indicated I should do the same. I bent over obediently to touch my toes. ¡°Tell me about your opponent.¡±


    ¡°Taller,¡± I said at once, speaking into my knees. ¡°And a year older.¡±


    ¡°Mmm.¡± He straightened and began to loosen his shoulders. ¡°Training?¡±


    ¡°Regular,¡± I said, somewhat acidly. He grunted. ¡°But probably not very rigorous.¡±


    ¡°Why do you think that?¡± He stepped into a lunge.


    I took a deep breath. ¡°Because she¡¯s a girl.¡±


    The fencing master straightened at once. ¡°You¡¯re dueling a girl.¡± His voice was flat.


    ¡°More like sparring,¡± I admitted.


    ¡°You were beaten by a girl.¡± I could hear the horror growing in his voice.


    ¡°It was a tie,¡± I snapped. ¡°And I am a good pupil. Everybody knows it. So who do you think will catch the blame?¡±


    He cursed under his breath, no longer even remotely aloof. ¡°Who else knows?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t tell anyone,¡± I replied. ¡°No knowing what she¡¯s said to whom.¡±


    His eyes burned. ¡°All right,¡± he growled again. ¡°Let¡¯s begin.¡±


    I went to bed that night exhausted, aching, and bruised, but grimly satisfied.


    We¡¯d see who needed more practice next time Francesca and I met.

 Chapter 9. Lockpicking

    The trouble was not with finding the spot where I was to meet Sheshef: that was easy. The problem was getting there.


    If I¡¯d had wings, I could have been there in under ten minutes. I could almost see it from my tower room; it was buried somewhere within a sweeping copse of larch, clinging tenaciously to a cliff so steep, even the shrubs forebore to colonize it.


    There was a road that led there, of course. That was how it had been mined in the first place. But it would be overgrown, possibly blocked by rockfall. There was no telling how long it had been abandoned. The old prospecting map didn¡¯t say; as far as it was concerned, that shaft entrance was still active.


    So I set out armed with nothing more than the map, a set of lockpicks and demonstration lock, a cold calzone, and some vague story to Renella about geological study. She had no qualms, other than to remind me to be back in time for dinner.


    By the time I made it to the mine shaft entrance, I was scraped, sweaty, and definitely not going to be home in time for dinner. And there was no sign of Sheshef.


    I cursed aloud, albeit quietly, using a number of the words I¡¯d learned only yesterday. Was I too late? Had she already left? Would she think I was fickle of temperament, or simply terrible at orienteering? Why did I have to be so terrible at everything?


    But as soon as I clambered to the top of a boulder, planting slightly, to get a better lay of the land, a shadow passed over me. I looked up without thinking, nearly blinding myself against the sun. By the time the spots cleared, there was a gentle rushing sound, and Sheshef was there beside me on the boulder, folding her wings neatly against her back.


    ¡°I think there is an easier way for you to come here,¡± she said, without preamble.


    I was still catching my breath, and not in the best of moods. ¡°You watched me hike all the way up and didn¡¯t say anything?¡±


    ¡°There was no good spot to land.¡± She sounded genuinely apologetic. ¡°And I could not call to you.¡±


    I wiped a trickle of sweat from my brow. ¡°Why not?¡±


    Wordlessly, she pointed up. I followed her finger. Winged figures circled, far in the distance.


    Intrigued but unnerved at the implication, I looked back down at her. There was no emotion in her storm-gray eyes, but I could see the tension in her frame. ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to be talking to me?¡±


    She hesitated a moment before saying, almost to herself, ¡°It is not forbidden.¡±


    I nodded soberly. I understood. ¡°Won¡¯t they see you here now? I don¡¯t want to get you in trouble.¡±


    ¡°Not if we move quickly.¡± She fluttered to the ground and gestured. ¡°Come.¡±


    I scrambled down after her and followed her to the mine shaft entrance. An old minecart lay on its side, one rusted axle stabbing crustily at the sky, wheels half-buried in the turf. The mine track extended from the maw of the cliff, but it, too, was rotted to pieces. We ignored these relics and moved under the spreading branches of a solitary oak. A slab of rock lay there on its side; a most convenient table. I lay out the lock and picks upon it.


    Not content to merely stand by my side, Sheshef leaped up to the surface and crouched down, feet nearly touching the lock, like a hawk subduing prey beneath its talons. A wingtip brushed my ear. I shivered.


    She picked up each tool in turn as I described it, turning it this way and that before her whiteless eyes, feeling its planes and edges, giving them the occasional sniff. She even tasted one, her pink tongue darting out for a brief lick.


    It had never occurred to me to do any such thing. ¡°How does it taste?¡± I asked.


    ¡°You don¡¯t know?¡±


    I shook my head. ¡°I generally don¡¯t lick tools, no.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    I was about to give a proper reply, involving grit and solvents and nasty, lubricating grease, but I was seized by a sudden minor madness. Instead, I took the closest tool to hand¡ªa shallow half-diamond¡ªand stuck it in my mouth. Sheshef watched wordlessly.


    I pulled it out again. ¡°Tastes like metal.¡±


    She nodded seriously. ¡°Not very tasty.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I agreed. And then, struck by curiosity as sudden and violent as the impulse to taste the tool, I asked, ¡°What is tasty, d¡¯you think? What is your favorite food?¡±


    Sheshef cupped her chin in her hands as she thought, elbows on knees, perfectly balanced on the balls of her feet. She looked like a weathervane. ¡°Eggs,¡± she said at last.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    I didn¡¯t know what I was expecting, but for some reason, this was not it. ¡°You eat eggs?¡± I asked, astonished.


    Now it was her turn to look astonished. ¡°Don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Well, yes, I eat eggs,¡± I replied. ¡°But I didn¡¯t hatch from one.¡±


    ¡°You eat cow,¡± she said reasonably, ¡°and rabbit, and pig, even though they were birthed live from a womb, as you were.¡±


    I flushed, too embarrassed to do anything but continue on with our lesson. I hadn¡¯t gotten more than one sentence in, however, before she interrupted me with, ¡°What is your favorite food?¡±


    I thought about it. A number of sweets were certainly in the running, but truth be told, I¡¯d always had more of a salt tooth. ¡°Probably bacon,¡± I said, somewhat sheepishly. I¡¯d seen a litter of piglets born only last week. They definitely had not hatched from eggs.


    ¡°Bacon?¡±


    ¡°Pig.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡±


    And here was a new question. ¡°How do you know Romanci? You speak it very well.¡±


    ¡°I learned it in school.¡±


    ¡°You have school?¡± I wished I could stuff the words back in my mouth. I sounded like the most patronizing buffoon to ever walk the face of the earth.


    ¡°Of course.¡± Now her voice had a chilly edge. ¡°We all do.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± I agreed hastily. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I just thought¡ªI¡¯d always been told you didn¡¯t build buildings¡ª¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t.¡±


    I floundered. ¡°Where do you have lessons, then?¡±


    ¡°Outside.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t your schoolbooks get, um¡­ rained on? Dirty?¡±


    ¡°Our books are small.¡± She mimed holding something no fatter than a pamphlet. ¡°Easy to carry, and easy to protect. And there is always more paper, for copying, again and again.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± I was intrigued. We had plenty of paper in the villa, of course, but I was under the impression that it wasn¡¯t the cheapest of commodities. ¡°Where d¡¯you get your paper from?¡±


    ¡°We make it.¡± She looked at me curiously. ¡°Where do you get yours from?¡±


    ¡°We buy it.¡±


    ¡°From who?¡±


    ¡°Um.¡± I rubbed my nose. ¡°Paper makers?¡±


    Now she was fascinated. She turned to face me fully, gray eyes fixed on mine. ¡°You¡¯ve never made paper before?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± She seemed stunned.


    ¡°Have you?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Of course!¡±


    We stared at each other a moment longer, equally mystified, when there was the sudden sound of bells tolling below.


    ¡°Oh no.¡± I grimaced, and looked at the sun. It was setting. ¡°Oh, I am going to be really late for dinner.¡±


    ¡°You have to go?¡±


    I turned back to the table of rock and gestured helplessly. ¡°But we haven¡¯t finished¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all right,¡± she said brusquely, and stood. ¡°I will walk with you.¡±


    ¡°You will?¡± I replied, startled.


    ¡°Yes. I want to show you the faster way.¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t you be missed?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Hesh,¡± she replied cheerfully, and did not elaborate further.


    For some reason, the thought of her walking beside me, under the trees, barefoot and nude¡ªwalking, not flying, not crouched on her haunches, licking the tools¡ªmade me blush. It was too human. I abruptly realized her naked ankles were right in front of me. I turned bright red and looked away.


    But it seemed churlish to refuse.


    ¡°All right,¡± I said at last, and then, in a slightly steadier voice, ¡°Thank you.¡±


    We walked together, under the trees in the fading light, down a marginally more clear-cut path than the one I had scrambled up. It was a longer path, dimensionally speaking, but it took only half as long to traverse, now that I was no longer fighting brambles and losing my footing on loose scree. Sheshef did not seem to be worried about being spotted; it was semi-dark, and we were semi-covered. Perhaps that was enough. I wondered at how she did not cut her feet, but was too embarrassed to ask about it. I had exposed enough ignorance for the day.


    So focused were we on making our way down the hill that we spoke only occasionally; to call out an obstacle, or observe some interesting feature of the forest. It was enough for me; I was content, and slightly out of breath. I hoped it was enough for Sheshef, too. It was easier to forget that she was a naked person this way. She was a creature entirely of the twilight woods, moving in silence, using her wings for balance, showing no eye-white when she glanced back at me.


    As the slope shallowed out, and the deer track swelled to a true footpath, I began to slow. We would be out of the woods soon, and visible. I didn¡¯t want to be seen.


    I didn¡¯t want this time to end.


    At last, when we could go no further without breaking cover, I came to a halt. Sheshef stood beside me, still and silent. Human once again.


    ¡°I have to go,¡± I said, without looking at her.


    ¡°So do I.¡± Her voice was as quiet as mine.


    Neither of us moved.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t finish teaching you to pick locks.¡±


    ¡°No, you didn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I¡¯m going to be able to go back to the mine shaft entrance. I might be in trouble.¡± I sounded like such a wet blanket. Perhaps lording Master Fiore around yesterday had used up the entirety of my boldness. I swallowed and said, trying to inject a sense of certainty into my voice, ¡°But I promise to find another time.¡±


    I turned to look at her finally, and opened my mouth to ask her when and how we should meet next, when, utterly without warning, she lunged. She was so fast, I didn¡¯t even have a chance to close my mouth. Her kiss landed squarely on my teeth.


    And then she flew away.


    I stood there, mouth still hanging open in shock, and watched her pale form disappear into the twilight sky.


    I broke into an irrepressible grin.


    She was as terrible at kissing as I.

 Chapter 10. Practice

    Master Fiore was waiting for me at the villa after school the next day, right there in the courtyard, holding a single ep¨¦e. He made a point of catching Giacomo¡¯s eye, and bowed with an ostentatiously sober flourish. Giacomo scowled.


    ¡°No piste today,¡± he declared, as I started automatically towards the armory. ¡°We¡¯re going to the orchard.¡±


    Intrigued, I followed him through the lopsided opening in the tumble-down old wall to the cluster of trees generously referred to as ¡°the orchard.¡± The terrain here was far too sheer and shadowed for any meaningful husbandry; effectively all of the household¡¯s produce originated from the sweeping valley below, paid for with mining coin. Nevertheless, a handful of gnarled and stubborn apple trees had persisted in a small sunny patch, hellbent on fruiting.


    Master Fiore plucked an apple and tied a string around its stem, then looped the other end of the string over a high branch and tied it off. The apple hung there, swaying slightly, approximately level with my shoulder.


    ¡°Today,¡± he announced, ¡°is about point control.¡± He flipped the ep¨¦e handle into his hand and deftly poked the apple. The blunt tip sent it swaying. He moved back, then lunged. Once again, he connected. The apple was swinging wildly now.


    ¡°It¡¯s one thing to do this once or twice.¡± He tossed the ep¨¦e to his left hand and lunged again. The apple was beginning to get bruised. ¡°It¡¯s another thing to do it every time.¡± When he connected with the apple for the fourth time, the stem came loose. The apple fell to the ground with a soft plop.


    He picked it up and took an absent bite, then handed me the string. I took it as he said, around a mouthful of apple, ¡°Now it¡¯s your turn. Get another apple.¡±


    That was all I did, for the rest of the afternoon: poke apples. He didn¡¯t even let me lunge. Extend, recover. Extend, recover. He walked around me as I practiced, correcting my form. I started out with a reasonable hit rate, but as my arm tired, it got worse. Master Fiore had me switch to my left hand when he saw my right arm begin to sag and waver. My success rate immediately worsened.


    I was beginning to regret insisting on this level of educational rigor.


    My arms were so exhausted by the end, I was unable to lift a fork for dinner without it trembling. Renella noticed, and raised her eyebrows, but I refused to whinge or mewl or even explain myself. I simply chased my radish around the perimeter of my plate with ineffective stabs until one finally connected.


    Father didn¡¯t notice anything. He never did.


    And neither of them noticed when I made a detour to the kitchen after dinner and snagged an egg.


    My hands were too weak for lockpicking tonight. It was a struggle to even make my writing legible, as I printed shakily on the shell of the egg: MIDNIGHT TOMORROW HERE


    I opened the window, set the egg gingerly on the sill, and closed it again, taking care not to nudge it into a roll. Feeling immensely pleased with myself, I climbed into bed and promptly fell into a dead sleep.


    I felt decidedly less pleased when I exited my tower the next morning to find the egg splattered on the ground below my window.


    I stared at it, troubled. The most reasonable explanation was that it had simply rolled off sometime in the night; blown by a breeze, tipped by the inexorable settling of the tower itself. But my mind immediately conjured visions of Sheshef alighting at my window, picking up the egg, sneering scornfully, and dashing it to the ground. I spent the entirety of my schoolday attempting to convince myself that the same motives that would compel her to come to my window in the first place were precisely the opposite of those that would lead her to deliberately demolishing the egg¡ªbut I was a very skeptical audience.


    I didn¡¯t attend to a single lesson, and was consequently treated to my first caning by Master Norelli¡¯s dreaded switch. I had to stand for the duration of my afternoon deportment lesson; it hurt too much to sit.


    All told, I was thoroughly miserable by that evening. My misery compounded when midnight came and went, with no sign of Sheshef.


    There was no sign of her the next night, either, nor the one after that. I tried writing a note, on regular paper, rather than something that would roll away; nothing came of it. I tried leaving the window unlatched, and sat bolt upright, tingling with anticipation, when it banged open in the middle of the night¡ªbut it was only the wind. On the days when the setting sun shone brightest, I found an excuse to linger in my room, and spun the whirligig. The sparkles danced, so bright I could see snatches of shimmers flashing over the Observation Tower, but she did not come. No one did. The distant figures circling in the sky over the mines remained aloof and indistinct, an insular flock.


    When the next Hesh came and went, with no sign of Sheshef, I dismantled the whirligig. It was in the way.


    ??


    ¡°Today,¡± Master Fiore said, ¡°is about lunges.¡±


    We were back in the apple orchard, but there were no apples now. It was cold. Our breath steamed, clouding our view of the bare branches. A rook croaked mournfully somewhere above.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    I was currently in a lunge. I had been holding lunge position for quite a while. This was, in fact, the third time he had reiterated that today was about lunges. I was getting tired of hearing him say it.


    But I said nothing. I was improving, and we both knew it.


    I had rematched with Francesca once already, at a dinner about a month after the first, and I had won. But it was closer than I would have liked: three to five. I would be dining with her again two days hence, and was looking forward to a resounding victory.


    ¡°Lunges,¡± Master Fiore went on, ¡°are more than just the principal method of attack. It¡¯s a strong method of delivering a riposte. And if you¡¯re quick enough, your back isn¡¯t left exposed for long.¡± He tapped me with the ep¨¦e, and I returned to guard.


    ¡°Foot,¡± he barked.


    I corrected my stance without further elaboration.


    ¡°Good.¡± He set the blunted tip of the ep¨¦e on his boot and pressed, contemplatively, until it bowed. ¡°Again.¡±


    I lunged until my legs were jelly.


    When the Duchess¡¯ carriage clattered to a halt in the courtyard, I was too impatient to wait at the entrance with the rest of the household. My exuberance, however, was being indulged; Renella, mistaking my competitive streak for budding romance, smiled fondly at me as I strode down the steps and awaited the opening of the carriage door. I helped the Duchess down first¡ªI hadn¡¯t yet fully abandoned my manners¡ªbut passed her off to the footman after only a perfunctory bow over her hand, and turned to her granddaughter.


    Francesca took my outstretched hand with a docility that instantly set me on edge. There was a gleam in her eye.


    ¡°Thank you, my Lord,¡± she purred, stepping down as lightly as a deer.


    ¡°My Lady.¡± I bowed over her hand as well, but it was shallow. I dared not take my eyes from her. She was up to something. I did not for a second mistake her manner for flirting.


    ¡°I hope you won¡¯t think I am too forward,¡± she continued, unable to keep a wolfish smile from her face, ¡°if I ask that we have an ep¨¦e bout before dinner this evening? I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m suffering from a bit of a stomach upset¡ª¡± she patted her belly softly, a ruse I did not believe for a second, ¡°¡ªand I would hate to exacerbate it by jostling around an entire meal¡¯s worth of food.¡±


    She looked at me challengingly, daring me to call off the match entirely under her feigned circumstances, knowing I wouldn¡¯t.


    ¡°Of course, Lady Francesca,¡± I replied, adopting her supercilious tone. ¡°I couldn¡¯t very well have you at a disadvantage.¡±


    Her eyes glittered like flints. ¡°How chivalrous.¡± She nodded at the footman, who disappeared around the back of the carriage. ¡°I knew you would be, of course. And I have a gift for you!¡±


    The footman came back around, carrying a long slim case in his hands. I stared at it, sensing a trap. At another nod from Francesca, the footman opened it.


    I made a noise despite myself.


    Inside the case were the two most beautiful dueling swords I had ever seen, set on a bed of lush black velvet. The steel blades gleamed in the evening lamplight, and the bell guards were etched with some sort of repeating motif. I leaned forward to make them out. They were not identical, I realized. The sword whose tip was bound in blue satin ribbon had a fish motif; they chased one another around the bell guard, set amongst sapphire water droplets. The sword whose tip was wrapped in white bore birds, inlaid with opal stars.


    ¡°One for me,¡± Francesca confirmed, grinning toothily, ¡°and one for you.¡±


    My mouth fell open. I couldn¡¯t speak.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± she prompted.


    ¡°Thank you!¡± I brayed belatedly.


    ¡°Want to spar?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± I was practically screaming in my excitement.


    We both rushed down to the piste, but not before Francesca had the footman unload another, larger case, and bring it down after. I lifted the sword¡ªmy sword¡ªfrom where it rested and held it reverently. My God, it was beautiful. If asked, I would marry her on the spot.


    So preoccupied was I with handling my new sword¡ªchecking its balance, its tip, the give of its blade¡ªthat I did not notice what Francesca was doing until she called, ¡°Are you going to dance with that thing all night, or duel me?¡±


    I turned around, and immediately began to comprehend the nature of the trap that I had sprung. Francesca had somehow removed her skirt¡ªthe footman was now holding it over his arm, with a disturbingly smug look on his face¡ªand was kitted out in an elegant new sparring uniform. No, not quite new; even in the dim light of the armory¡¯s piste, I could see it had punctures and tears, expertly mended.


    She had been practicing, too.


    Well. I set my jaw. So be it then. I donned my own uniform, decidedly more worn, and squared up on my side of the piste. We saluted each other, lowered our masks, and dropped to guard.


    I lost, five to one, in ten minutes.


    I wish I could say I was gracious. I wish I could say I took off my mask, and tucked it under my arm, and laughed heartily, and shook her hand, and commended her remarkable improvement, her fine swordsmanship, and thanked her again for the magnificent gift of the sword.


    I wish.


    What I actually did was rip my mask off, throw it on the ground, and scream out a word that was absolutely not appropriate for having a young lady over for dinner. I turned away, fuming and clenching my fists. The only thing that kept me from storming off was the look on the footman¡¯s face.


    I took several deep, gulping breaths, wiped my face on my sleeve, and turned back.


    ¡°Well done,¡± I said tightly, and was rewarded by a quick flash of approval in the footman¡¯s eyes before he restored his look of blank servitude.


    To her immense credit, Francesca neither gloated nor glowered. ¡°I practiced almost every day for two months,¡± she admitted.


    I wiped my brow again. ¡°I only get two days of practice a week.¡±


    ¡°Not particularly fair,¡± she acknowledged, ¡°especially since I¡¯m taller.¡± She wiped her own brow, scrubbing hair so sweat-soaked it was no longer blond but brown away from her eyes. ¡°That won¡¯t always be true though. You¡¯re already an inch taller than when we first met.¡±


    ¡°Am I?¡±


    ¡°Definitely.¡±


    Even if she was lying, I appreciated her words.


    I was still going to beat her next time, though.

 Chapter 11. Defense

    ¡°Today,¡± said Master Fiore, ¡°is about defense.¡±


    We were at the piste once more, having evidently outstripped the lessons the orchard had to offer. The fencing master had insisted on having it cleaned thoroughly before resuming our lessons within; generations of spiders were driven from their ancestral homeland in a single afternoon, and had no choice but to escape to the calmer isles of the buttery, the herb garden, and the privies. Our lesson was punctuated by the occasional scream of a maid, and the subsequent thwack! of a shoe.


    But the entire armory now looked distinctly less haunted. No doubt Francesca would be disappointed.


    There was a sudden jab on my sternum. ¡°Ow!¡±


    ¡°Pay attention!¡± barked Fiore. He deftly evaded my clumsy reflexive riposte and dealt another touch to my shoulder. ¡°No woolgathering on the piste!¡±


    I issued a more coordinated sally, forcing him to leap backwards. ¡°Good!¡± he roared, then lunged. I parried. The crashes of our blades echoed off the high ceiling with a strangely soothing clatter. There was no time to think; only stimulus, response, stimulus, response.


    ¡°Defense,¡± grunted Master Fiore, disengaging from my latest thrust, ¡°is the most likely scenario for drawing your sword off the piste.¡± He stomped a balestra, trying to startle me, but I held my ground and parried again. ¡°For a Lord, at any rate. And if I ever catch you brandishing your weapon like a churl for intimidation purposes, I will beat you myself. The Lady Renella gave me preemptive permission to do so.¡±


    I was sure she had, but I had no breath with which to agree. I retreated quickly, then sprang forward in a low lunge. I could see Master Fiore¡¯s smile through the mask as he made a retreat of his own. ¡°Good! Fast! Watch your lines!¡±


    Back and forth we went, until at last he called a halt for water. Only then was I able to catch my breath enough to speak.


    ¡°Have you ever had to defend yourself?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Of course.¡± He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ¡°I was in the Queen¡¯s First.¡±


    ¡°I mean off the battlefield.¡±


    He capped the waterskin, slowly and carefully. ¡°Yes,¡± he replied at last. I got the sense that he was debating how much to share. He thought for another moment, then continued, ¡°several times, in fact. Taverns are not the most upstanding of establishments.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been threatened in the tavern?¡± I asked, startled.


    He flapped his hand at me dismissively. ¡°Not this town¡¯s tavern. Far too small and sleepy. But others, yes.¡±


    ¡°What happened?¡± I asked eagerly.


    ¡°Alcohol,¡± he replied succinctly. ¡°Put your mask back on, if you¡¯re done drinking. We go again.¡±


    But I had clearly set him onto a line of thought. He no longer spoke as we sparred, only barked a correction every now and again. Finally, when the lesson was over, he raked his hand through his thinning, sweat-soaked hair and sighed. ¡°Sometimes,¡± he said, voice low, ¡°you¡¯re not just defending your life. And I don¡¯t mean your honor, either. Sometimes you¡¯re defending someone else.¡± His eyes darkened. ¡°And whether your defense is considered by others to be righteous, or traitorous, is outside your control.¡±


    I stared.


    ¡°But listen well,¡± he continued, and turned to face me fully. ¡°Defend them anyway.¡±


    I thought of my father¡ªof the image I had of him in my mind, the image I had painted and repainted behind my eyelids over the years, locking himself and my mother in the Observation Tower, stuffing the ripped-down curtains in the doorjamb to deaden the threats against him and his love and his unborn son, sliding his glasses up his nose every so often.


    I looked Master Fiore in the eye and nodded solemnly.


    He sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. ¡°Forgive me,¡± he muttered, ¡°Now I¡¯m the one woolgathering. I¡¯m mawkish today. You must be getting better, to tire me so.¡±The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    With that somewhat awkward praise buoying my step, I went upstairs for a bath.


    That evening was warm; spring was well underway. Every window and door had been thrown open, not only to encourage the displaced spiders outside, but to bring the fresh air in. My own windows were wide open; I often slept with one at least cracked, even in the dead of winter. I simply endured in silence the scolding I got when it snowed inside, and did it again. I disliked the banging of the swinging windows when the wind picked up, however, so once the rest of the household was abed, and I myself was preparing to turn in, I went from one to the next, latching them securely.


    I had just reached the last one, and reached out my hand to push it shut, when a figure came hurtling through with a slam and thudded with a sickening crunch onto the middle of my floor.


    I leaped back with a shout, barely avoiding the window as it caromed against the casement. One of the panes shattered. Glass shards tinkled to the floor.


    There, lying in a heap of ragged feathers, was Sheshef.


    I gaped, then whipped my head around to look out the window at what I was sure must be deadly pursuit. But the night sky was empty.


    I rushed to her side and knelt down, hands hovering desperately, afraid to touch her. I didn¡¯t know what to do. She was breathing, and her eyelids fluttered, so at least she was still alive, but there were long scratches across her face and arms, bleeding freely.


    ¡°Sheshef?¡± I quavered.


    Her wings stirred feebly, and her eyes slitted open.


    ¡°Help,¡± she croaked. Her voice was more hawk than human, shrill and serrated. It raised the hairs on the back of my neck.


    ¡°What happened?¡± My hands were still hovering, darting this way and that over her body, never making contact.


    ¡°Fight,¡± she replied. She tried to sit up, and failed. Pain drained the blood from her face.


    ¡°Are your bones broken?¡± I asked, terrified.


    ¡°I think so.¡±


    I leaped to my feet. ¡°Wait here!¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Her scream was pure anguish. ¡°No one can know I¡¯m here!¡±


    ¡°But I need to get you help!¡±


    ¡°You help me.¡± She was panting now, and her voice hitched with pain on every word.


    ¡°I can¡¯t!¡± I cried. ¡°I don¡¯t know how!¡±


    ¡°Bind the broken bones,¡± she grunted.


    Inspiration struck. ¡°My father¡ªhe can help! He fixed my mother¡¯s bones all the time!¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Her scream this time was strangled down to nearly a hiss. ¡°He will tell them!¡±


    ¡°Tell who?¡±


    She used some word then that I didn¡¯t understand, and broke off into an avian keen.


    ¡°Please,¡± I babbled, ¡°please, he¡¯ll know what to do!¡±


    Sheshef did not reply. Her head had sunk back down to the floor, and she was panting shallowly.


    ¡°Wait here!¡± I ordered, unnecessarily, and ran out the door.


    I took the spiral staircase three steps at a time and jumped the last five to the ground, landed lightly, and darted through the door. I ran as quietly as possible, nearly silently, and prayed that none saw me as I pelted across the courtyard to the Observation Tower and hauled open the door.


    It was unlocked, as always. I wasn¡¯t able to join my father at his telescopes as often now that my afternoons had to be spent on extracurriculars rather than napping, but I still went when I could. So Father left the door unlocked for me. Nobody else bothered to go in.


    He wasn¡¯t on the ground floor. I raced up the spiral staircase and burst through the opening to the next level, startling him badly enough that he jerked, blotting the star chart he had been working on with his eye to the telescope. ¡°Leo? What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a Winged One in my tower!¡± I gasped. ¡°She¡¯s hurt!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± But he was already on his feet, lurching for the stairs. I ducked down them just ahead of his pounding feet.


    ¡°She says her bones are broken,¡± I said urgently, as we ran across the courtyard together. ¡°And you can¡¯t tell anyone she¡¯s here.¡±


    ¡°She told you this?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    He cursed.


    ¡°Why?¡± I demanded. ¡°Do you know why?¡±


    He didn¡¯t answer. He just hurtled up the stairs, three at a time. I charged up after him, struggling to keep pace.


    Sheshef was completely unconscious by the time we reached her. The red of her blood was bright against the alabaster of her skin and soft gray-and-buff of her wings. Father knelt down by her side and, more gently than I had ever seen him move, began to check her for injury. He tilted her head to and fro, feeling her neck, then eased her wings out from beneath her and checked her limbs. I stood and watched helplessly, feeling sick.


    ¡°Broken rib,¡± he said at last. ¡°At least one.¡±


    A modicum of relief lightened my heart. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s not so¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s worse for them,¡± Father said tersely.


    My heart sank again. ¡°Oh.¡±


    Father stood. ¡°Wait here. I¡¯m getting some supplies.¡± He strode out swiftly.


    I looked at Sheshef lying there, tawny hair straggling around her head like a shredded halo, wings quivering slightly with each labored breath, then looked out the window again, deeply uneasy. It was still wide open, creaking a little as it swayed in the breeze. The broken glass glittered in the firelight.


    I walked over to the window, swung it shut, and latched it firmly.


    And then, for the first time since I had moved out of the nursery and into the tower, I drew the curtains.

 Chapter 12. The Strain of Trying

    I was halfway through sweeping up the shattered glass when my father returned. He glanced at my drawn curtains, gave a jerky nod of approval, then knelt on the floor once more and laid out his supplies: diaphanous gauze, thick bandage roll, scissors, blotting powder, a waterskin, something in a square brown bottle, and, somewhat ominously, a bath sheet. I dumped the glass into my dustpail and hurried over.


    Making a soft clucking noise, like a brooding hen, Father slid his hands under Sheshef¡¯s shoulders and eased her into his lap. She awoke with a cry of pain.


    ¡°Easy, little bird,¡± he murmured, ¡°easy.¡± I¡¯d never heard his voice like this, all soft and furry. ¡°We¡¯re going to get you patched up. Leo¡ª¡± his voice was brisker now, the same businesslike tone he used when asking me to pass him the cooling oil, ¡°cut some gauze and dampen it with water. We need to clean the wounds before we do anything else, see how deep they go.¡±


    Sheshef was gazing up at him, frozen with terror. I could see her pulse leaping in her throat. Father clucked again as I hovered anxiously with the damp gauze. ¡°This is going to hurt a bit, little bird, but we need you to stay very still, all right?¡± he said. ¡°Otherwise it¡¯s going to strain your ribs.¡±


    He gave me a nod. I reached down, almost as terrified as my patient, and blotted the wounds. She made a strangled noise, and her wings quivered, but she held still. Fat tears welled in her eyes, glinting like diamonds against the darkness of her sclera, before spilling over and running down her face.


    ¡°Easy, easy,¡± Father crooned. ¡°You¡¯re doing so well. Let¡¯s have a look.¡±


    The scratches, it turns out, were not too deep, but we cleaned them well and treated them with the antiseptic in the brown bottle before binding them. When it came time to bind her ribs, however, Father looked more grave. ¡°Rest a moment, little bird,¡± he said gently, easing her to the floor once more. ¡°We¡¯ll be getting ready over here.¡± He drew me to the hearth and said, voice low, ¡°I have to do this part. And you will have to hold her.¡±


    ¡°All right,¡± I said nervously.


    Father gripped my elbow. ¡°You will have to hold her,¡± he stressed. ¡°She will try to escape. It will hurt immensely. Instinct will drive her to use her wings. You have to keep her from wings bound using the bath sheet.¡±


    I nodded, as pale as the bath sheet.


    Sheshef hadn¡¯t heard the words we spoke, but she hadn¡¯t missed the tension in our exchange. As soon as we returned to her side, she leveled a cold avian eye at my father. ¡°It will hurt,¡± she said flatly.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid so.¡± Father took his glasses off and began to polish them. ¡°But only for a few moments.¡±


    ¡°Do you have oppio?¡±


    Father shook his head silently and put his glasses back on.


    Sheshef set her jaw, then nodded tightly.


    Now it was my turn to pull Sheshef into my lap, onto the bath sheet laid over my knees. I was stunned at how light she was; it was like lifting a log of firewood and discovering it had been cored out by beetles. She felt like a husk of a person, but soft¡ªso soft¡ªand warm, and alive. She worked her wings back underneath her to fold them to her back obligingly, breath hitching once again with pain, and I wrapped the bath sheet as tightly around them as I dared, doing my best to leave space for the bandage. I was fervently glad my father was going to do that part; I couldn¡¯t tell where wing ended and flank began, and had absolutely no clue how to bind ribs on a human, let alone a creature with two extra appendages in the way.


    Father slid something out of his pocket¡ªa leather glove¡ªand handed it to Sheshef. ¡°This is all I have to bite,¡± he said apologetically, ¡°but it¡¯s better than nothing.¡±


    Sheshef took it without complaint, rolled it into a cylinder, and bit.


    Father slid the bandage end beneath her, then, kneeling over her, gave me another tight nod. I tensed.


    I could see how gentle he was trying to be, as though binding an egg, but it was no use. The instant the loop tightened about Sheshef¡¯s ribs, she twitched, then thrashed. Her wings tried to flare open; I held on for dear life, terrified she would break her own bones with the strain of trying.


    And she screamed.


    It was muffled by the glove, which she still bit into so hard I thought she might puncture it, but I could see her throat working. Tears streamed down her face. My vision swam; I was crying too, silently, one tear tracking down each cheek.


    And then she went limp. She had passed out again.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Father hurriedly finished his binding. ¡°Quickly,¡± he said, ¡°onto the bed. Before she wakes up.¡±


    We lifted her between us, light as a feather, and settled her on the bed. Father checked her bandages again, changed the one that had begun to bleed again, then tucked her in.


    This was how he had been with Mother. I scrubbed my tears away angrily. They wouldn''t stop.


    Sheshef stirred once, but did not reawaken. Father and I moved to the hearth silently.


    For a long time, he did nothing more than gaze blankly into the flames. I couldn¡¯t even see his eyes; his glasses reflected the firelight like mirrors. They would have made a good addition to the whirligig.


    ¡°She will take at least six weeks to heal,¡± he said at last. His voice was soft, but I startled nonetheless at the sound. ¡°Maybe eight. She will not be able to fly that entire time.¡± He turned to look at her. ¡°Unless her ribs have been broken before, which I doubt, she will never have gone that long without flying before in her life, not since fledging.¡± He turned back to the fire. ¡°It will be very hard for her.¡±


    I rubbed my nose and said nothing.


    ¡°Why did she come here?¡± he asked, after another stretch of silence.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I said. It wasn¡¯t entirely a lie. ¡°I have no idea what happened. She just burst through my window without a word and said she¡¯d been in a fight.¡±


    ¡°Why,¡± Father said, voice now dangerously edged, ¡°did she come here?¡±


    I didn¡¯t answer.


    ¡°Your contraption¡ªit was for her.¡± His voice was low and cutting. It wasn¡¯t a question. There was nothing to deny.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I replied. My voice was barely above a whisper.


    ¡°How many times did she come here?¡±


    ¡°Twice.¡± I thought. ¡°Three times, if you count the first time I saw her, when I was a kid. Only twice for the whirligig though.¡±


    ¡°This was only the fourth time you¡¯d seen her?¡±


    ¡°Um. Fifth.¡± I flushed.


    My father looked at my reddening face and sighed, but did not comment.


    ¡°Her name is Sheshef.¡± I spoke almost without volition. It just came out.


    ¡°¡®Steep Diver.¡¯¡±


    I blinked. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Shesh means to stoop like a hawk. To dive. The -ef suffix means to an extreme amount: much, very. ¡®Extreme Diver¡¯ might be another translation.¡±


    It took me a moment to find my words again. ¡°You speak Winged One?!¡±


    ¡°They call their language Nahashaaf. They are the Hashaa.¡± When my father spoke the words, he did not sound like the wind, but the words nevertheless fit in his mouth in a way that they would not have in mine. Not then.


    At the moment, I was too incredulous to even try. ¡°How do you know their language?¡±


    ¡°I learned it,¡± he said calmly. ¡°From their schoolbooks. They are quite literate.¡±


    ¡°I have to learn Latin in school,¡± I said, growing incensed, ¡°even though everybody who speaks it is dead, but they get to learn Romanci in their school?!¡±


    Father looked at me sharply, evidently taken aback by the extent of my knowledge, but his voice was mild when he replied, ¡°Many of them learn Latin, as well.¡±


    ¡°I want to learn their language. They all know ours. It¡¯s not fair.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not fair,¡± Father agreed.


    ¡°It¡¯s stupid,¡± I insisted.


    ¡°It is.¡±


    ¡°Do you still have the books?¡±


    Father hesitated. ¡°It¡¯s been a long time,¡± he said slowly. ¡°I¡¯ll have to see what condition they¡¯re in.¡±


    ¡°I want to learn.¡±


    Father sighed again and slid his glasses back up his nose. ¡°Renella would not be pleased.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care if I please her.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I am aware of that. As is she.¡±


    I refused to be chagrined. I crossed my arms.


    Father looked at the bed. Sheshef lay there, still and pale, her tawny hair almost amber in the firelight.


    ¡°Sheshef can help me learn!¡± I said in a rush of inspiration. ¡°It will help her keep her mind off of things.¡±


    Father rubbed fretfully at his jaw. ¡°I don¡¯t think she can stay here.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I yelped. My voice cracked. ¡°But where will she go?¡±


    ¡°She does have a family,¡± Father said dryly. ¡°Or so I would presume.¡±


    ¡°Then why didn¡¯t she go to them?¡± I said stubbornly. ¡°She came here.¡± A thousand explanations immediately presented themselves, the most obvious being that she simply couldn¡¯t fly any further after her injury; that this was the nearest safe haven. That as soon as she awoke, she would have us send a missive to her people, telling them to come and fetch her.


    But I didn¡¯t want it to be true. I clung to straws.


    ¡°She said¡ªshe didn¡¯t even want me telling you that she was here,¡± I pressed. ¡°She said that ¡®you would tell them.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Them who?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. She used a word I didn¡¯t understand.¡±


    Father rubbed his jaw again.


    ¡°She sounded scared,¡± I went on, trying to sound levelheaded and rational. ¡°I think she should stay here. In my tower.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll ask her what she wants to do,¡± he said firmly. ¡°When she wakes.¡±

 Chapter 13. Eggs

    I slept on the floor in a pile of scratchy, inflexible blankets that my father said he¡¯d found in a closet. When I woke up the next morning, early and stiff, I discovered they were actually tapestries. They were so faded and moth-eaten, and the tower room was so dim with the curtains drawn, I couldn¡¯t make out what they were meant to depict.


    I rolled to my knees and peered cautiously over the edge of the bed. Sheshef lay there, still sound asleep. I didn¡¯t know if this was normal or not. When did Winged Ones typically wake? Dawn, like songbirds? Later? Would she stay asleep until I opened the curtains, like birds with a blanket thrown over their birdcage?


    The comparison made me deeply uneasy, and vaguely despairing. That was how she was going to feel in my room; like she was trapped in a cage. Ribs broken, wings restrained, unable to fly. She¡¯d be gone as soon as she could send word to her people to fetch her.


    And I had no right to be disappointed. It was the right thing to do.


    I lay back down and squeezed sad solace from my own devotion to doing the right thing. I had saved her¡ªwe had, my father and I¡ªand would return her to where she belonged. What a good person I was.


    ¡°Leo?¡±


    I bounded to my feet immediately, sending the tapestry I had pulled back up to my neck flumping heavily to the floor. ¡°Sheshef! Are you¡ªhow do you feel?¡±


    There were dark circles under her eyes, and her face looked pinched. ¡°Not good,¡± she replied bluntly. At the stricken look on my face, she hastened to add, ¡°Not your fault. Thank you. Thank you. I¡­¡± She drifted off, then rubbed her eyes furiously, wincing a little at the motion, and simply repeated fiercely, ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡± I edged forward to the side of the bed. ¡°What happened? You said there was a fight?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± she replied gravely. ¡°A big one.¡±


    ¡°With who? Whom? Over what?¡±


    ¡°With my brothers.¡±


    I stared at her, aghast. ¡°You brothers did this to you?¡±


    Sheshef looked away and worried the edge of the blanket between her fingers. ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°For bringing shame on the family.¡± Her face was expressionless, but I could hear the tremor in her voice.


    I couldn¡¯t image what shame could possibly bring siblings to maim each other. Even if she were pregnant¡ªwhich I had gathered from a myriad of unspoken insinuations at this point was the worst shame a girl could possibly bring her family¡ªthe customary response, as far as I was aware, lay in either confinement or banishment, or occasionally both at the same time.


    There was no way I was going to ask her if she was pregnant.


    I coughed a little, turning red, and changed the subject. ¡°Are you hungry?¡±


    She turned back to me eagerly. ¡°Yes. Very.¡±


    ¡°D¡¯you want eggs?¡±


    ¡°Yes please.¡±


    ¡°How do you like them?¡±


    She stared at me blankly. ¡°I do like them,¡± she said after a moment, ¡°very much.¡±


    ¡°No, I mean¡ªscrambled? Boiled?¡±


    Her eyes widened briefly before she schooled her face. ¡°You cook your eggs.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Um. Yes.¡± I rubbed my nose. ¡°You normally eat them raw?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Oh, well that¡¯s easy then.¡± I turned. ¡°I¡¯ll be back soon.¡±


    ¡°Wait.¡±


    I turned back. Her dark eyes were wide once again. ¡°Who knows I am here?¡±


    ¡°Just me and my father.¡±


    ¡°You will not tell anyone else?¡±


    ¡°Uh, it might be a bit hard to keep the servants from finding out¡­¡± I petered out at the stricken expression on her face. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°They can¡¯t know I am here,¡± she said fiercely.


    ¡°Who? Your brothers?¡±


    ¡°My brothers. My flock.¡± She shook her head. ¡°None of them. They must think I am dead.¡±


    ¡°Dead!¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What did you do?¡± I blurted. ¡°Did you kill someone?¡±Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Sheshef looked down at the bed again. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but it looked like she was flushing. ¡°They found out I kissed you.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± My yelp was shrill enough that I sounded for a moment like I was no older than when we¡¯d first met. ¡°But¡ªthat¡ªwe didn¡¯t¡ªthat was months ago!¡± For some reason, this was the objection that made it out in its entirety. ¡°How did they even find out?¡±


    ¡°I told them.¡±


    I was now so confused, I felt lightheaded. ¡°Why?¡±


    Her flush was unequivocal, even in the dimness. ¡°I lost my temper.¡±


    ¡°They tried to kill you because you kissed me?¡±


    ¡°It is forbidden.¡±


    I tried to square a culture that taught its children Romanci from schoolbooks, and one that would kill over a kiss, and failed.


    ¡°How did my mother even come to be born?¡± I mused fretfully.


    ¡°Her mother flew away.¡±


    ¡°You knew my mother¡¯s mother?¡± I wasn¡¯t thinking clearly.


    ¡°No,¡± she replied patiently, ¡°I wasn¡¯t born yet. But there are stories. She came from another flock, far away, seeking sanctuary. But my flock would not have her either. She was tainted with shame. She was too heavy with egg to keep flying, though, so she stayed here, and lived alone, outside our eyrie. A few of the women¡ªmy mother¡ªpitied her, and brought her things. Food, and medicine. Even paper sometimes. They told her to fledge the babe. They told her it is not a sin. But she would not. She gave your mother to your grandfather.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± I breathed.


    Sheshef shrugged, then winced. ¡°She never said.¡±


    ¡°Is¡­¡± I swallowed. ¡°Does she still live here?¡±


    ¡°No. She flew on, to the south.¡±


    I swallowed again; my throat had gone dry. ¡°What was her name?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Sheshef¡¯s nictitating membranes slid across her eyes. ¡°My flock called her ¡®Kruk.¡¯¡±


    ¡°What does that mean?¡± I asked, feeling my heart sink preemptively.


    ¡°It is not a nice word,¡± Sheshef said simply.


    I stood there, limp with revelation, watching motes of dust dance in the blade of light that had snuck through a gap in the curtains. My reverie was only interrupted by a small gurgling noise; Sheshef¡¯s stomach.


    ¡°Eggs,¡± I said tonelessly. ¡°I¡¯ll get you eggs. One minute.¡±


    It was early enough that I beat the maids to the henhouse. I gathered five eggs in my shirt¡ªI had no idea if that was a reasonable number or not¡ªand hurried back before anyone could see me. Sheshef took them eagerly, and consumed them all in quick succession in a practiced maneuver, so fast I couldn¡¯t quite see how she managed to do it as neatly as she did. There were so many questions welling inside me, I didn¡¯t know where to start. So I simply threw the eggshells into the fire and gave her water.


    ¡°Father says it will take you at least six weeks to heal,¡± I said once she had finished.


    Her shoulders slumped, taking her wings with them. ¡°I know,¡± she said, and for the first time, she sounded truly miserable. Not when she said her brothers had tried to kill her; when she admitted she was temporarily barred from flight.


    ¡°Do you really want to stay here for six weeks?¡± I asked haltingly. ¡°In my room?¡±


    Sheshef¡¯s misery compounded. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Um.¡± I rubbed the back of my head. ¡°What do you want to do, then?¡±


    ¡°Stay safe.¡± She moved as though to draw her legs to her chest, but then thought better of it, and simply sat there. ¡°And I think I have to stay here to stay safe. If¡­ if you will let me.¡± She turned her whiteless eyes to me, imploring. Her tawny hair draped over her shoulders and chest, tangling with the dove-gray down at her back.


    I would have given her the entire villa right then and there.


    ¡°I¡¯ll ask my father.¡±


    ??


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª!¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not.¡±


    ¡°Well then where is she supposed to go?¡± I cried. ¡°They¡¯ll kill her!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think they would actually go that far.¡± My father turned a screwdriver over in his fingers; I had interrupted him as he was adjusting a lens housing in the Observation Tower. ¡°Typically, once the beating has been administered, and everyone has had a chance to calm down¡ªa few days, at most¡ªthe chastised will return to the flock, and be welcomed back more or less immediately.¡±


    ¡°How often do they do this sort of thing?¡±


    Father sighed. ¡°I don¡¯t know exactly. Once every few years, at least. It¡¯s atypical for one so young to be the target, but it¡¯s not unheard of.¡±


    I bit my lip. ¡°She said they would kill her.¡±


    ¡°At the risk of sounding dreadfully callous,¡± he replied, ¡°and patronizing besides, the phenomenon of melodramatic twelve-year-old girls is not limited to mankind.¡±


    I glared at him. He turned back to the lens housing, glasses flashing.


    ¡°They broke her ribs,¡± I insisted stubbornly. ¡°Mid-air. Isn¡¯t that lethal?¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± he murmured.


    I remembered the sickening crunch when she¡¯d come hurtling through the window and landed on my floor, and balled up my fist. I couldn¡¯t be sure. I wanted to hit something.


    ¡°So we just kick her out?¡± I demanded. ¡°Flag down her barbarian brothers and have them beat her some more when they come to collect her?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Father replied. ¡°But she can¡¯t stay in your room. It¡¯s not proper by any standards. Especially not without clothes.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s Winged,¡± I muttered, going red. I had been doing an admirable job of ignoring this fact until he brought it up. ¡°It¡¯s different. They don¡¯t wear clothes.¡±


    ¡°Not different enough. No naked girls in your room until you are at least¡­¡± Father paused to knock a slip-ring back into place with a sharp rap of the housing on the benchtop. ¡°...sixteen.¡±


    ¡°So what then?¡±


    ¡°She can stay here.¡± He gestured vaguely with the screwdriver.


    ¡°The Observation Tower?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Anywhere but the top floor.¡±


    It was, I was forced to admit, a good solution. Servants came into my room on a daily basis, unless I chose to shut them out, to change the bedding or set the fire. But nobody came in here¡ªonly my father, myself, and the Winged Ones who brought their worship to the telescopes. And for that, they stayed on the top floor.


    ¡°All right,¡± I replied, mollified. ¡°When?¡±


    ¡°Tonight.¡± He was back to working on extracting a tiny screw. ¡°I¡¯ll tell everyone you¡¯re ill. Stay with her in your room till then.¡±


    I traipsed back across the courtyard, making sure to adopt an air of malaise as I went for the benefit of all who saw me. It was hard; in truth, I could barely contain my excitement. I knew exactly what I wanted to do.


    As soon as I was out of sight, I raced up the stairs to my room, remembering only at the last moment not to burst through in my haste and startle the patient within. Instead, I opened the door softly and slipped inside, closing and bolting it again behind me.


    ¡°Sheshef,¡± I said, a smile growing on my face, ¡°do you want to finish the lockpicking lesson?¡±

 Chapter 14. Inverted Fairytale

    ¡°Why do they say it is good luck if a Winged One lives in your tower?¡±


    My father looked up from the eyepiece of the telescope with an expression of pure astonishment on his face. ¡°Who says that?¡±


    ¡°Um¡­¡± I tried to remember where I¡¯d heard it. More than one person, more than one time. ¡°I dunno¡­ the Pastore?¡±


    Father was now so surprised, he leaned back from the telescope entirely and turned to face me. ¡°He does?¡±


    ¡°I think he said it to Renella during last almsday,¡± I muttered, losing all conviction even as the words came out. ¡°Master Fiore said it once, too.¡±


    Father unhooked his glasses and began to polish them forcefully. He must be thinking very hard. ¡°How would such an adage come into being?¡± he murmured, eyes far away. He was talking to himself. ¡°Who else has Winged Ones in their towers? Nobody else around here even has towers.¡±


    ¡°The church has a steeple,¡± I pointed out. ¡°That¡¯s sort of a tower.¡±


    ¡°Does it have a Winged One in it?¡±


    I thought of the belfry, open on all four sides. ¡°Maybe?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Father replied, in the acrid tone he used when I had failed to identify a rhetorical question and remain appropriately silent. ¡°It does not.¡±


    ¡°They could nest in a corner away from the travel path of the bell,¡± I said stubbornly.


    ¡°Not unless they were deaf, or willing to become so in very short order.¡± Father put his glasses back on. ¡°Which means the adage either originated somewhere else, and traveled here¡ªrecently¡ªor it has been generated specifically with respect to this villa.¡± He drummed his fingers on his knee and looked mystified.


    ¡°Perhaps it is because we eat bats.¡±


    Father and I both turned to the staircase. Sheshef was crouched on the topmost step, peering down between the iron bars of the bannister. Her wings were no longer bundled in a bath sheet; they were bound instead in white satin sashes, one above her shoulders, one below. Father had been forced to intervene on a maid¡¯s behalf when she was blamed for their disappearance. He made some excuse about needing them for lens-polishing. Everyone believed it.


    ¡°Please elaborate,¡± Father said.


    ¡°Bats can carry the water-fear sickness,¡± Sheshef said. Her eyes paled momentarily as her nictitating membranes blinked. ¡°If they bite a human, the human gets the water-fear sickness too. But Hashaa do not get the water-fear sickness, even if we are bitten. And we eat bats. They are afraid of us. If we live in a tower, the bats will not live there, and the humans will not get the sickness.¡±


    ¡°That is an extremely compelling conjecture,¡± Father said warmly. Sheshef did not smile¡ªI had never seen her smile¡ªbut I could see the feathers of her mantle fluff with momentary pride. ¡°And how are you feeling today, my dear?¡±


    ¡°Better.¡± Sheshef crept down another step, then another. If she went one more step down, it would be a record; she had never come down further with Father in the room. I felt bad at how often it compelled him to leave the tower from a sense of obligation. Everyone had noticed; Renella had made an encouraging comment about it at dinner¡ªI choked on my wine at that, and sent it spluttering up my nose¡ªand the gardener had complained that the Lord was trampling the radishes with his preoccupied pacing.


    Sheshef had been living in the tower for five weeks now, like some sort of inverted fairytale; every time we asked if she wanted to be free of her prison, and returned to her true family, she refused. I could tell it was increasingly a source of distress for my father¡ªnot only to have his telescope and tinkering time so limited, but to be harboring a runaway. Given that he had somehow managed to keep me in the dark regarding the full story of my parentage for over a decade, his powers of discretion were monumental, and I¡¯m sure he gave nothing away on the nights the Winged Ones came to the tower¡ªbut the particulars of a dead mother are far easier to obfuscate than the immediate reality of a live daughter.


    For her father was, indeed, among those who came to the tower.


    If my father was aware of that fact, he never gave the slightest indication that he knew. It likely made no difference. Sheshef had to hide just the same, on the nights the Winged Ones came softly to the windowsills and bowed over the telescopes, making their inscrutable obeisances to the heavens.


    Hide is perhaps too strong a word. She never went up; her people never came down. She had the same floors at her disposal those nights as she did any other. But she made a point of staying on the first floor, or the second, and held very still. She did not utter a word; she merely tracked me with her dark eyes as I moved to and fro, greasing worm gears and deburring tangs and collecting metal shavings into a sack to be sent back to the forge. Often she slept, curled in what appeared to me to be a profoundly uncomfortable little huddle, wedged in whatever corner or under-bench crevice allowed her bound wings to rest without strain. I worried about her ribs.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    But during the day¡ªoh, how she loved my mother¡¯s creations.


    The noise she made when first she laid eyes on them, somewhere between the chuckle of a hen and the coo of a dove, resulted in my father abruptly having to go to the window and stare outside without a word. Here stood there with his back to us for a good ten minutes while Sheshef poked and prodded at the things, thumbing gears and tapping glass¡ªall things I, too, had longed to do, but had been far too afraid to try. She just did it. Nobody stopped her. Nothing broke.


    She learned a great deal about optomechanical workmanship in those weeks of self-imposed incarceration. I spent every spare second I had in the tower with her, teaching her how the tools worked, showing her what they could make, occasionally snatching something out of her hand if she were about to lick it. She never objected. I asked her, on several occasions, if she wanted to try her hand at anything, or request something for me to make, but she always demurred. As far as I could tell, it was not from any cultural reluctance; she truly had no wish to participate in the creation itself. She just wanted to watch, and play with the results.


    I asked her once if she thought we had the wherewithal on hand to try making paper, so she could show me how. She went curiously still and wide-eyed, before giving a single curt response: ¡°No.¡±


    I did not ask again.


    The only time I willingly left the Observation Tower was for fencing. I wasn¡¯t getting as much sleep as I should have been, loath as I was to leave Sheshef, and Master Fiore noticed. After three successive lessons of failing to parry a simple thrust fast enough to avoid a touch, he finally ripped his mask off irritably and snapped, ¡°All right, who is it?¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s what?¡± I panted. Sweat trickled uncomfortably down my spine.


    ¡°Who are you pining for?¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± I asked nervously.


    Master Fiore snapped his fingers at me impatiently. ¡°Out with it. We¡¯re obviously not going to make any progress until you get Miss Whatsit out of your mind. Please don¡¯t tell me it¡¯s Lady Francesca.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not,¡± I said fervently. Truth be told, she should have been more on my mind. She had written me a week ago with the latest update from her travels through Grecia. I had read the entire thing, despite it being five pages long; she was as verbose in her writing as she was garrulous in person. Her girl-kiss count was now up to nineteen. She kept a running tally. ¡°Um, I probably should write her a letter though.¡±


    ¡°Who, then?¡± Master Fiore seemed to be genuinely interested. ¡°The farrier¡¯s daughter? The new scullery maid? The boot boy?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I asked, startled.


    ¡°You heard me.¡±


    If my mask had been off, Master Fiore would have seen me go as red as a beet. ¡°I don¡¯t¡ªit¡¯s¡ªshe¡ª¡±


    ¡°Aha! There is a ¡®she¡¯!¡±


    ¡°No, I mean¡ª¡±


    ¡°What color are her eyes, lover-boy?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s none of your business!¡±


    ¡°It is when you can¡¯t fence straight.¡± Master Fiore put his mask back on and tapped it into place with a fist. ¡°Very well¡ªit seems like today¡¯s lesson will be on the theme of ¡®How to duel properly when in the throes of lovesickness.¡¯ Heaven knows that¡¯s stood many a lord in very good stead well into his later years. En garde!¡±


    And he advanced too fast for me to do anything but bring my blade up to his.


    I did poorly; the fencing master had rattled me. I was still thinking about it now, standing in the Observation Tower, looking up at Sheshef on the stairs. The morning light made her pale skin almost luminescent. I wondered vaguely if Winged Ones ever got sunburned.


    Father was nudging me. I came back to myself with a start. ¡°Sorry, what?¡±


    ¡°Breakfast,¡± he said succinctly. At the blank look on my face, he added¡ªrepeated, most likely¡ª¡°Six eggs, plums if there are any left, and bread with butter.¡±


    ¡°Right. Be back in a minute.¡± I had to keep muttering the order to myself under my breath to remember it. This did not elicit comment, even as I raided the kitchens: Renella was an inveterate mutterer. Muttering under my breath was probably the least eccentric thing I¡¯d done for the last five weeks.


    But it was hard to act normally when, on top of everything else, I kept hoping for another kiss. And it had yet to manifest.


    It was not for lack of opportunity. We stood very close, by the lathe or on the stairs, feathers brushing my arm. One time, she¡¯d approached me so silently from behind that I had turned around and stumbled right into her. It had felt like running into a pair of trousers on a drying line; I¡¯d nearly knocked her down. Neither of us had done anything but leap backwards in shock and, in my case, apologize profusely.


    I was becoming increasingly, sickeningly convinced that our clumsy kiss at the edge of the twilight woods was no more than a Hesh adventure; a dare to prove one¡¯s mettle, or else something akin to the convoluted machinations a handful of the nastier girls at school had started inflicting on their classmates. I couldn¡¯t bear to initiate a kiss myself, and run the risk of confirming her only sentiments were scorn and revulsion. Or pity; the last time I¡¯d been the kisser, and not the kissee, that is exactly what had happened. I had a zero percent success rate on initiated kisses with a non-zero data set.


    If she really liked me, she¡¯d try and kiss me again.


    I told myself this every day of her convalescence until the night her father found her.

 Chapter 15. Holes in the Floor

    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¡ªfellow priests, presumably¡ªas 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¡ªbut 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¡ª¡± 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.

 Chapter 16. More Time

    ¡°Guess what my number is now?¡±


    I parried Francesca¡¯s thrust and snapped out a riposte. She leaped back on the balls of her feet, neatly avoiding the touch, and lunged forward, trying to get inside my reach, as I was now the taller of the two of us. It worked; the touch landed. I raised my finger. She took the lead, three to two.


    ¡°Twenty-eight,¡± I guessed.


    ¡°Oh, close! Only twenty-seven. It would have been twenty-eight but her fianc¨¦ caught us first.¡±


    I shook my head, mask heavy, and ambled back to the center of the piste. ¡°Someday, somebody¡¯s going to challenge you to a real duel.¡±


    ¡°I can only hope.¡±


    ¡°I hear it¡¯s less fun to actually be stabbed.¡±


    Francesca waved a dismissive hand. ¡°I¡¯d stab him first. En garde.¡±


    Back and forth we went, blades whipping and crashing. Her blonde braid began to unravel.


    ¡°So what¡¯s your number?¡± she panted, making her way back to the center after a failed fl¨¨che resulted in my landing a touch on her back. Three to three.


    ¡°Four.¡±


    ¡°Oooh, a new one! Tell me!¡±


    ¡°The tightrope walker in a traveling acrobat troupe.¡±


    ¡°Ooh la la!¡± Francesca mimed fanning herself. ¡°What fun! Just a kiss?¡±


    ¡°What a crass line of inquiry,¡± I said mildly.


    Francesca squealed in delight. ¡°You did! You cad! You probably have every venereal disease from here to Inghil!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re one to talk, Miss Twenty-Seven.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s Lady Twenty-Seven to you. En garde!¡±


    I won the bout, five to four. I celebrated my victory by dumping the contents of my waterskin over my neck, then pulling my shirt off to fan myself. Even the armory was hot today; the summer sun had soaked the stone straight through.


    ¡°Wow,¡± Francesca said, suddenly quiet.


    I turned. She was staring. For one baffling instant, I thought she was commenting on my physique¡ªbut as soon as I caught her eye, she pointed. ¡°The marks on your back are really distinct when you¡¯re flushed.¡±


    ¡°Are they?¡± I tried to look over my shoulder, without success.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she replied. ¡°Here¡ª¡± She rifled through her dueling satchel and extracted a looking glass. ¡°Have a look.¡± She held it up.


    It took me a moment to find the right way to stand to see my reflection¡ªthe looking glass was even smaller than my shaving mirror¡ªbut when I caught it, I stared as wide-eyed as she had.


    She was right.


    They looked like scars, running from kidneys to scapulae; two long, symmetric arabesques of pallid skin, completely white against the pink flush of my sweaty back. I was reminded of the ou?es on a violin. I reached around to touch one, but knew I would feel nothing. There may have been no full-length looking glass in my room by which I could have seen myself naked, but I¡¯d lived in this body my whole life. I had never felt anything.


    ¡°Wow,¡± I agreed softly.


    ¡°That must be what Grandmama¡¯s neck looked like,¡± Francesca said, practically whispering for once. Her tone was almost reverential. ¡°Before it got all turtle-y.¡± She touched her own neck absently. ¡°Does it feel like anything?¡±


    ¡°No. Just skin.¡±


    The view in the looking glass began to drift as Francesca leaned forward for a closer look. ¡°How on earth did your tightrope-walker not comment on this?¡±


    ¡°My shirt never came off,¡± I said sheepishly.


    Francesca let out a great caw of mirth, and put the looking-glass away again. ¡°What, were you up against the circus wagon or something?¡±


    It had actually been the wall of the stairs below the church. My face burned. ¡°Something like that.¡±


    Francesca hooted lasciviously. Then, abruptly, she sobered. ¡°Grandmama wants me to get married.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I know.¡± I began to mop the water from my neck with my damp shirt. ¡°To me. For years. The scheme hasn¡¯t exactly been subtle.¡±


    Francesca worried the end of her braid between her fingers. ¡°Would you?¡±


    ¡°Would I what?¡± I wiped my face.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    ¡°Marry me.¡±


    I froze, then forced a nonchalant laugh. ¡°Are you proposing?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    I straightened up. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I just¡­¡± For once, Francesca seemed unsure, almost despondent. ¡°You understand me. And I understand you. By all accounts, that¡¯s a lot better than most marriages.¡±


    I stared at her, stunned. She plowed on. ¡°I¡ªwe could be happy together. You could have all the mistresses you wanted. You know I wouldn¡¯t mind.¡±


    ¡°Francesca,¡± I said quietly.


    ¡°I¡¯m eighteen,¡± she said relentlessly. ¡°Half my friends are already married, and half of them have children. I have a title to protect.¡±


    ¡°Francesca, stop.¡±


    ¡°Grandmama is threatening to disinherit me.¡±


    I quelled the hot flare of fury that welled up in me for the Duchess. Now was not the time. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be a Duke.¡±


    ¡°Would I?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯d arrange it special.¡± She could not keep the resentment from her voice. ¡°Grandmama has the writ of entitlement all ready. I saw it once in her desk when I was stealing her amaretto. Our family is no stranger to atypical inheritance.¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t they just let you be Duchess, then?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡± Francesca cried, suddenly wild. Spots of color rose on her cheeks, and her eyes glittered. ¡°Something to do with heirs, I assume! It¡¯s stupid!¡±


    I held very still. ¡°Do you want children?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡± she yelled again. She worked one glove off and flung it to the floor, then started on the other.


    ¡°I thought you wanted to take to the high seas as a privateer captain with an entirely female crew, and you¡¯d be damned if you¡¯d let a baby in your belly to get in the way of climbing the rigging.¡±


    She threw the second glove at me. ¡°Don¡¯t make fun of me, Leo. I¡¯m in a terrible position here.¡±


    ¡°You are,¡± I agreed. ¡°It isn¡¯t fair.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she said miserably, ¡°it isn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d make a very good Duchess on your own.¡±


    ¡°I would.¡± She put her face in her hands briefly, then looked up at me. ¡°Do you want children?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I blurted, and was startled to realize it was absolutely true. ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    I shook my head. ¡°I just¡­ do.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Francesca looked down again and shuffled her feet. ¡°I suppose we could have babies.¡±


    ¡°No. Francesca.¡± I stepped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. ¡°Stop. Stop. We¡¯re not getting married. It would ruin us both.¡±


    ¡°Easy for you to say,¡± she said bitterly. ¡°My life is ruined no matter what.¡± She scrubbed tears away from her face. ¡°You¡¯re right though. Unfair of me to drag you into it.¡± She pulled away and grabbed her satchel, then gave me a false smile. ¡°I¡¯ll just have to disappoint Grandmama by myself.¡±


    ¡°There has to be another way.¡±


    ¡°Well, let me know if you think of it, then.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡±


    ¡°That was rhetorical, you ass. There is no other way. I¡¯ve had years to think through this.¡± She grabbed her ep¨¦e and made for the stairs.


    ¡°What about all those girls you¡¯re kissing?¡± I called after her. ¡°You don¡¯t think they¡¯d like to figure out another way with you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure they would,¡± Francesca called, voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°They¡¯d make a fine crew.¡± And then she was gone.


    I groaned and scrubbed my face with my hands.


    We were both uncharacteristically sullen at dinner. Renella and the Duchess, sensing what I¡¯m sure they misinterpreted as¡ªor hoped was¡ªa lover¡¯s spat, did a serviceable job of keeping the conversation running between themselves. Francesca and I left them to it. I was ravenous after our bout, and avoided conversational obligations by keeping my mouth full at all times. Francesca simply picked at her food.


    My father, as always, remained silent, present in body only.


    Consequently, Francesca was the one subjected to Renella¡¯s overtures first.


    ¡°You must be so glad, Lady Francesca.¡±


    Francesca jerked her head up with a deeply unladylike, ¡°Eh?¡± of confusion. The Duchesses¡¯ shawl jerked abruptly, as though the elbow beneath it had delivered a jab. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡ªI beg your pardon, Lady Renella? I¡¯m afraid I was lost in my own thoughts.¡±


    ¡°Quite all right,¡± Renella replied, ever the gracious host. ¡°I was simply thinking you must be glad.¡±


    Francesca stared at her blankly.


    ¡°To finally be done with school,¡± Renella prompted. ¡°Forever! I recall being so excited, I¡¯m sure I stayed up all night for practically a week!¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Francesca looked down at her plate again. ¡°No, not especially, actually.¡±


    The Duchess swooped in. ¡°And you about you, my dear,¡± she said, addressing me. ¡°Have you given any thought as to what you will do, once you are done with school?¡±


    And that is when inspiration struck.


    I looked directly at Francesca as I answered, ¡°Yes, I was thinking I might see about enrolling in University.¡±


    Everybody ceased dining immediately to stare at me. Even Father froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. So he was listening, after all.


    ¡°What?¡± Renella and Francesca spoke in unison.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been giving this some thought for a while now.¡± I was making this up on the spot. ¡°I was thinking I might study astronomy.¡±


    ¡°Good heavens,¡± said the Duchess. She sounded appalled.


    ¡°My thoughts exactly,¡± I replied gravely. Francesca choked.


    ¡°But¡ªbut surely not!¡± cried Renella. I had never seen her this discomfited in front of a guest. ¡°Surely you already know astronomy! You¡¯re in the Observation Tower every night!¡±


    My father, sensing danger, put his spoon down very carefully.


    I avoided his gaze. ¡°I¡¯m sure there is much more to learn.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve never spoken of this before,¡± Renella accused.


    I cast my eyes down and went for the jugular. ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure¡­ the expense¡­¡±


    The blood drained from Renella¡¯s face. ¡°Of course we can afford it!¡± she cried, eyes flicking quickly to the Duchess and back. ¡°Dear me, that¡¯s not trouble at all. I¡¯m simply¡­ surprised¡­ Astronomy? You¡¯re sure?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely,¡± I lied.


    Renella began to babble about applications, and whether it would be better go to Firense or Nepoli, and didn¡¯t I have a great-uncle who¡¯d gone to the Queen¡¯s University ages ago¡ªuntil the Duchess cut in sharply, ¡°How long does a typical course of study in astronomy take?¡±


    Once again, I looked directly at Francesca as I answered. ¡°Years, I expect.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t solve Francesca¡¯s problem.


    But I could buy her more time to solve it on her own.

 Chapter 17. Words and Waistcoats

    Unlike Francesca, I had been looking forward to finally being done with school forever. It wasn¡¯t that I was a bad student; my marks were generally fair to good. It simply didn¡¯t feel necessary. My time would be better spent fencing and tinkering and sleeping till noon whenever I saw fit, with the occasional bout of productive labor whenever it was unavoidably demanded. Same as my father.


    But I did not regret my choice. I had never left my titled lands, and although Francesca¡¯s florid missives from her travels had never engendered any particular wanderlust, it did at least give me a vague, uneasy sense that I might be missing out on something. Here was an opportunity to find out.


    What really sold me on my own harebrained idea was realizing that a new location would have new girls.


    Francesca had been quick to reach the same conclusion. ¡°Really couldn¡¯t wait to start making those babies, eh?¡±


    I adopted a martyred expression; she had been saying this all year. ¡°I¡¯m doing this for you.¡±


    She lobbed an apple core at me from where she was sitting in the orchard. ¡°You¡¯re doing this for your salami.¡±


    I batted the apple away. ¡°You¡¯ve got three, four years to work out an alternate arrangement, now that I am unavailable for the duration. And you can remind the Duchess that she wasn¡¯t married until she was the ripe old age of twenty-five.¡±


    ¡°A stay of execution,¡± Francesca said sepulchrally.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    ¡°Franci?¡± The Duchess was standing in the courtyard, rearranging her shawl. ¡°Come, dear, it¡¯s time to go.¡±


    Francesca sat up. ¡°Already?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not staying for dinner. Leo needs to be fitted for his new waistcoats.¡±


    I sighed. Once Renella had recovered from her initial shock, she had taken to the notion of me being a university man with delight. She still wasn¡¯t thrilled about my chosen course of study, but it was enough to be Educated. The schooling up until this point evidently did not count. And Education, according to her, required a new wardrobe. I was the emissary from my family to the Educated World. She was in sartorial heaven.


    ¡°Ooh, can¡¯t make you late for your waistcoats.¡± Francesca stood up and brushed off her dress. ¡°Your big-boy waistcoats for your big-boy school.¡±


    I spat an apple seed at her as I stood.


    ¡°Well, if I don¡¯t see you again before you leave, Big Boy,¡± she said, pulling a leaf from her hair, ¡°please remember to write.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t break my kiss record too fast.¡±


    I smiled. ¡°Impossible.¡±


    ¡°No, just unlikely.¡± She grinned and clapped me on the back. ¡°Write me!¡±


    ¡°I will.¡±


    Francesca vaulted the orchard fence where it had crumbled to waist height. ¡°I mean it!¡±


    ¡°So do I!¡± I called after her. She gave me one last wave before disappearing into the carriage after her grandmother.


    I traipsed inside and did my best not to slouch as my measurements were taken. Renella kept whacking me with her fan whenever she felt I was not succeeding.


    I don¡¯t know what possessed me, other than a disinclination to continue to be delicately beaten about the head and shoulders, but just as Renella wound up for another genteel strike, I blurted out, ¡°Why do they say it is good luck if a Winged One lives in your tower?¡±


    Renella stayed her hand and blinked. ¡°Who says that?¡± she asked at last, with uncharacteristic slowness.


    I shrugged a shoulder¡ªthe tailor tsk¡¯d at me for ruining his measurement¡ªand replied, ¡°Nobody specific. I¡¯ve heard it a few times.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°Town. School.¡±


    Renella tapped her chin with her fan thoughtfully. ¡°How long have they been saying this?¡±


    I shrugged again, prompting the tailor to escalate to a full-blown tut. ¡°Years?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s because they stir away the bad humors in attics with their wings, m¡¯Lord!¡± a maid said cheerfully, as she passed through with a basket of laundry. I turned to look at her until the tailor tutted again.


    ¡°No,¡± countered another maid, piping up from where she was trimming a wick, ¡°it¡¯s because they are favored by God as children not cast out by Eden. They are innocent, and do not know they are naked. God favors those who shelter His lost children in their homes.¡±


    Renella raised her eyebrows.


    The tailor gave one last tut, this time of pious objection. ¡°Certainly not,¡± he snipped. ¡°What balderdash¡ªno more than a folktale. Causation and correlation all muddled up, as always.¡±


    Renella turned to him. ¡°What do you mean?¡±Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    He waited to pull a pin from his mouth before replying. ¡°The Feather Folk only build their eyries on structures they consider to be sound: healthy trees, cliffs not prone to rockfalls. If one is nesting in a tower made by man, it means they have observed that it is well-built, and unlikely to suffer damage. As a consequence, the tower¡¯s longevity is falsely attributed to the Winged One¡¯s presence, not the other way around. Turn to your left, please, m¡¯Lord.¡±


    I obeyed. ¡°I thought it was because they preyed on bats,¡± I murmured.


    ¡°Well, all of these sound like perfectly acceptable reasons to me,¡± Renella said, back to her usual brisk self. ¡°Leo, straighten up! My goodness, it¡¯s like looking at a longbow!¡±


    But when the tailor had left with my measurements, and the maids had moved their business to other rooms, Renella caught my sleeve. I turned.


    She was looking at me very hard. I was suddenly put in mind of the glare of the kitten that had vanquished the rat, then paraded its grisly prize through the old stone halls.


    ¡°They say it is good luck if a Winged One lives in your tower,¡± she said, voice low, ¡°because words have power. And I wield that power well.¡± Her grip tightened then¡ªon her fan in one hand, my sleeve in the other. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. ¡°Remember that, Leo. You will always have more than your sword at hand.¡±


    And then, before I could find the words to reply, she had swept out of the room.


    ??


    ¡°Today,¡± said Master Fiore Gravely, ¡°is about drinking.¡±


    I stared. ¡°What?¡±


    He gestured for me to take off my mask. ¡°Put that away. We¡¯re not crossing blades.¡±


    I obeyed, intrigued. It was our last lesson before I left. I had wondered if it might be an atypical lesson, but had expected, if so, that it would be something more akin to silly, last-ditch dueling maneuvers. Screaming and charging. Distracting the opponent with a jig. Slicing through the rope suspending a chandelier and riding it up to the balcony.


    But it was to be drinking.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been drinking before,¡± I pointed out. ¡°Gotten sick, even.¡±


    Master Fiore shook his head and pulled a flask from within his coat. ¡°Not out with the lads, though, eh?¡±


    ¡°¡­no.¡±


    ¡°By yourself, I¡¯ll warrant. Down in the wine cellar.¡±


    ¡°It was with Francesca,¡± I said defensively.


    Fiore snorted. ¡°Did you try to refill the bottles with water afterwards, or just hope the absence would go uncommented?¡±


    ¡°The latter.¡±


    ¡°Wise.¡± The fencing master handed me the flask. ¡°Water will out, eventually. But a lost bottle is simply lost. Drink.¡±


    I took a swig from his flask and immediately began a spate of coughing. The drink, whatever it was, burned. He took it back and drank a sip.


    ¡°Is this wise?¡± I asked hoarsely. ¡°Are we going to wind up face-down in our own vomit on the piste?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have enough for that,¡± Fiore replied, sounding vaguely regretful. ¡°Not for me, anyway. You¡ªperhaps.¡± He handed it back. ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because you don¡¯t have my liver.¡±


    ¡°No I mean¡ª¡±


    ¡°Drink!¡±


    I drank another swig and coughed again, eyes watering. ¡°No, I mean; why are we drinking?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you when you¡¯re good and drunk.¡±


    By the time he told me, the piste was swaying beneath my feet, and it was hard to follow his words.


    ¡°We are drinking,¡± the flesh-toned blur before me said, ¡°because that is the state in which one traditionally speaks of love.¡±


    ¡°Love?¡± I said muzzily. The piste dipped, and I staggered. ¡°Who¡¯s in love?¡±


    ¡°All of us,¡± he replied sadly. ¡°Even when we don¡¯t want to be.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not in love.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± His voice was behind me now. I turned to follow it, and stumbled to my knees. This felt more stable. I stayed down.


    ¡°No,¡± I slurred, ¡°I¡¯m not. Francesca¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not talking about Francesca.¡±


    ¡°¡ªFrancesca likes girls,¡± I continued doggedly.


    ¡°Yes, thank you, Lord Obvious. Her reputation is not unknown to me.¡±


    ¡°¡­kissed thirty one¡­¡± I mumbled.


    ¡°I am not talking about platonic or familial love,¡± Fiore interrupted. ¡°You love your father. You probably love Renella, too, if you stop to think about it. You love Francesca, yes, but as a sister. You are not in love with her.¡±


    ¡°Why are we talking about this?¡± I asked loudly.


    ¡°Because it is my job to teach you how to defend yourself.¡±


    ¡°From love?¡± I asked incredulously.


    He barked out a bitter laugh. ¡°I¡¯m afraid that would be quite beyond my tutelage. No. From what will come of it.¡±


    ¡°What will come of what?¡± I was completely lost, and the piste would not hold still. I gripped it harder.


    ¡°What will come of being in love.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not in love!¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. Perhaps not.¡± His voice was coming from somewhere overhead. ¡°If not now, later.¡± And then, suddenly, his voice was right in my ear. ¡°And when it comes, will it be clad in flesh, or feathers?¡±


    I reared upright again, nearly overbalancing, fists clenched. ¡°You¡ª¡±


    ¡°Sins of the father,¡± he said. I couldn¡¯t even see him anymore; his voice twisted from the shadows behind me. ¡°Sins of the son. That is what they will say. And that is not all they will say.¡±


    ¡°Stop.¡±


    ¡°Pervert. Abomination. Mongrel.¡±


    ¡°Stop!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll stop,¡± the darkness said evenly, ¡°when you defend yourself.¡±


    I groped for my ep¨¦e. Fiore laughed. ¡°Boy, you couldn¡¯t stab a pig on a pole right now. Forget your blade. Defend yourself.¡±


    I raised my fists. Fiore clouted me on the back of the head. It wasn¡¯t hard, but I fell again. ¡°That won¡¯t work, either,¡± he said. ¡°Try again.¡±


    I snarled an oath at him.


    ¡°Not bad,¡± he replied. ¡°But I think you can do better.¡±


    I had more than my sword at hand.


    I took a deep breath. ¡°You are a sot and a failure,¡± I said, voice shaking only a little. ¡°A washed-up Queensguard, reduced to teaching quarter-breeds in backwater provinces just to keep you in coin for your drink. And I don¡¯t know who¡ªor what¡ªyou love,¡± I continued, realizing the truth of it even as I spoke the words aloud, ¡°but whatever it is has you so unmanned, you have to get drunk to even think about talking about it. Coward.¡±


    There was only silence. I swayed.


    At last, Fiore let out a shaky laugh. ¡°I of all people should know by now what a quick study you are.¡± He stepped before me once more. ¡°Well done. I fear for any lad that crosses you.¡±


    ¡°I question your didactics,¡± I replied calmly, and vomited at his feet.

 Chapter 18. University

    The dormitory was so new, it still smelled like the linseed oil that coated our windowsills.


    Rust-red wood trimmed every facet of Queen¡¯s University, bright against the dark gray stone; windowsills, door lintels, the molding beneath the flashing. It kept the fungi of the woods from rotting the infrastructure. On warm days, after a rain, you could see the clouds of spores rising from the sea of green below, gray or gold or midnight purple. Several students unenrolled in the first week, eyes red and streaming, kerchiefs held over their mouths or tied over their faces as they fled the campus in their family¡¯s carriages. There was an enrollment grace period for just this purpose.


    Other than a few sneezes on the thickest of spore-days, I was unaffected. My constitution had been dealing with airborne mining grit since birth.


    Still, it meant we kept the windows closed a lot. The purple spores stained.


    There were four of us in the suite, all of us Lords. Bartolomeo and Ottorino were brothers; not technically twins, but born so close in age to each other as to not make much of a practical difference. Otto was ostensibly studying law, but seemed in practice to be majoring in alehouse architecture, with a minor in female anatomy. Barti, by contrast, was very seriously devoted to the biological sciences. He kept spreading breadcrumbs on his windowsill and noting what birds came to eat them in a little leatherbound book, then drew sketches of what fungi grew in the scars gouged through the linseed oil coating by their beaks and claws. I liked him immensely.


    The fourth suitemate was a fellow who went by the appellation ¡°Paffuto,¡± for reasons unknown. Paffuto was lean, and loud, and, as a fellow biology student, in every single one of Barti¡¯s first-year classes. Barti tolerated him better than most. I was able to avoid him by virtue of sharing only one class with him¡ªClassics¡ªand by living a heavily nocturnal lifestyle, the better to study the night skies. I overlapped more frequently with Otto as he stumbled back from one or the other of his two principal areas of study in the small hours of the night, exchanging little more than a slurred word and affable nod.


    On this particular Solday, it was raining so hard, few had ventured outside. Even Otto was in his room, looking a bit the worse for wear after whatever he had gotten up to the previous night, occasionally rousing himself from his lethargy to scratch out another sentence on some essay he was supposed to have been working on for the past three weeks. Barti was curled up in our common-room armchair, reading. And I was sitting at the window, staring out, thinking of very little at all. I had cracked it open just the faintest bit. A damp breeze ruffled my hair.


    Paffuto burst into the common room, dripping water and already yelling.


    ¡°This is it, lads!¡± He pulled a newspaper from his overcoat and flung it to the floor, where it quickly generated a puddle. When nobody responded, he waved the newspaper and yelled again. ¡°This is it!¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s it?¡± Barti asked absently.


    ¡°Our triumph!¡±


    Barti turned a page. ¡°Whose triumph?¡±


    ¡°Our alma mater¡¯s, of course!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you can call a school that while you¡¯re still attending it.¡±


    Paffuto ignored the correction. ¡°Standards are being upheld,¡± he said proudly, and threw the newspaper over Barti¡¯s book. Barti blinked irritably and refocused on the headline. ¡°¡®Board Votes No¡¯? No on what?¡±


    ¡°My God, Barti, what do you do with your time?¡±


    ¡°Study,¡± Barti replied equably.


    ¡°Well, maybe you ought to devote some of that brain of yours to current affairs,¡± Paffuto said, snatching the newspaper back.


    ¡°I hardly think school gossip constitutes current affairs.¡±


    ¡°The Queensman¡¯s not a gossip rag,¡± Paffuto gasped, scandalized. ¡°And admissions policies that affect our education is not gossip. It is news.¡±


    Barti refocused on his book. ¡°If you say so.¡±


    ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°Well what?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to know?¡±Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    ¡°Know what?¡±


    ¡°The policy!¡± Paffuto was practically screaming.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll tell me regardless.¡±


    I hid a smile.


    ¡°The policy,¡± Paffuto said, enunciating clearly, ¡°of not admitting lowbreeds.¡±


    My smile instantly fled. It was replaced by icewater in my stomach.


    Barti turned a page. ¡°So no change, then.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right!¡± Paffuto saluted what I surmised was an imaginary board member, or else the concept of blood purity in the abstract.


    ¡°Queen¡¯s University doesn¡¯t admit lowbreeds?¡±


    Both Paffuto and Barti looked over at me in surprise. Honestly, I was as surprised as they. I hadn¡¯t meant to speak aloud. The word tasted rancid in my mouth. Lowbreed.


    ¡°Never have,¡± Paffuto said firmly, ¡°and, God willing, never will. Are you surprised?¡±


    Yes. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ how would they be able to tell?¡±


    Paffuto stared at me like I was stupid. ¡°By looking.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re thinking of halfbreeds, or quarter-breeds,¡± Barti said calmly to Paffuto. He closed his book; we were talking biology now. He was interested. ¡°Leo¡¯s right¡ªyou can¡¯t necessarily tell at an eighth or less.¡±


    Paffuto made a derisive noise and waved his hand. The newspaper fluttered. ¡°I mean, maybe in a few cases. And God knows half the commoners here probably have a bit of the strange in their veins, from back before civilization. But blood will out. Honestly, it would be unfair to them to admit them. Take their money, only to have them constantly fail against their betters?¡± He shook his head in affected melancholy. ¡°Not sporting. Not at all.¡±


    Barti was regarding me impassively. I turned back to the window and tried to breathe normally.


    Paffuto wasn¡¯t done yet. He never was. ¡°I had a lowbreed girl once.¡±


    Barti sighed quietly and turned back to his book.


    ¡°Part Satyr,¡± Paffuto went on, undeterred. ¡°Her however-many-greats grandmother got the business in the woods bodrering their vineyard. Despite being warned of it countless times, apparently. Must¡¯ve wanted it. She sure did.¡± He made an obscene gesture and laughed. ¡°Must run in the family.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t realize you liked them that hairy, Paffuto,¡± Barti said, eyes never leaving his book.


    ¡°She wasn¡¯t hairy,¡± Paffuto objected, then stopped and considered. ¡°Well, maybe a little. But she was from Grecia, so could¡¯ve just been that.¡±


    ¡°So you couldn¡¯t tell,¡± I said flatly.


    Paffuto gave a patronizing chuckle. ¡°Oh, I could. She was nasty. Not properly human. Bit dim, too. But a great lay. I keep those memories close to my heart. Close to some organ, anyway.¡± Another gesture, another laugh. ¡°Highly recommend it if you ever get the chance, gentlemen.¡± And then he ambled into his room, leaving his coat in its puddle on the floor.


    ¡°Ass,¡± mumbled Barti, under his breath.


    I couldn¡¯t speak to agree. My throat was too tight. It took me several swallows before I managed to grind out, ¡°How would the school know?¡±


    ¡°Genealogical record, probably.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t remember that from the application.¡±


    Barti shrugged. ¡°Me neither. I guess they don¡¯t bother to check unless there¡¯s a problem.¡±


    ¡°A problem?¡±


    Barti shrugged again. ¡°Poor marks, bad behavior. Somebody upset that his roommate has gill-sign or leaves fur in the bath.¡±


    I paled. Our suite¡¯s bathroom was private, but had no lock. And Paffuto had a habit of barging in wherever he went without knocking. I vowed to not bathe again until I had installed one.


    ¡°She robbed him.¡±


    I was knocked from my reverie. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Paffuto¡¯s supposed Satyr-girl; she robbed him,¡± Barti repeated calmly. He turned a page. ¡°He¡¯s told that story three times now. The first time he told it to me, he admitted that she robbed him blind. He agreed, while stone-cold sober, to follow her down a dark alley in Nepoli. Lost four hundred lira.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like he was the one who was a bit dim, in that case.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I told him as much.¡± Barti smiled grimly. ¡°He doesn¡¯t tell that part of the story anymore.¡±


    Paffuto went out again later that night, despite the weather, to celebrate the board¡¯s decision. He wanted us to come too.


    ¡°Come on, lads,¡± he urged, pulling on a new coat. The other one still lay on the floor where he had thrown it. None of us were going to pick it up for him. ¡°It¡¯ll be fun! We¡¯re just going down to Il Cigno Bianco for a few rounds. Nothing too heavy; class tomorrow.¡±


    Nobody replied. I stifled a yawn.


    ¡°Otto?¡± Paffuto called hopefully.


    ¡°Homework,¡± Otto called back.


    ¡°Bunch of sticks in the mud,¡± Paffuto muttered. He shrugged his coat into place. ¡°All right, then, I will be the emissary of our suite to the right-thinking world. You¡¯re welcome.¡± He slammed the door when he left.


    ¡°Thank God,¡± Barti muttered, closing his book. ¡°I thought he¡¯d never leave.¡± He went into his room and emerged again with a bottleand two glasses. ¡°Wine?¡±


    ¡°What are we drinking to?¡± I asked quietly.


    ¡°A peaceful evening,¡± Barti replied. He poured a glass and handed it to me. ¡°Nothing more.¡±


    I took the glass and joined him by the fire.

 Chapter 19. Midwinter Masque

    I let Paffuto bully me into attending a gathering exactly once: the midwinter masque.


    In truth, it didn¡¯t take much bullying. Barti and Otto were also going. Everyone was going. I was curious.


    I had no mask, but the local shops sold cheap papier-mach¨¦ confections with all the robustness of a damp sandwich for five lira each. Highway robbery, Otto assured me as he handed it over, but it was his treat. His and Barti¡¯s, to encourage me to go. I returned the favor by inking all our masks with the designs of our choice. Otto wanted scrollwork. Barti wanted a skull. I ran out of time on my own and simply limned the eyes; the ink was still drying as we made our way down the path to the botanic gardens, where the masque was held every year.


    The botanic gardens were halfway between Queen¡¯s University and Perfezionamento, the local women¡¯s finishing school. Paffuto, resplendent in green velvet and a well-crafted leatherwork wolf mask, spent the entire trip alternating between slighting our cheap masks and speculating on how difficult it would be to evade detection by the Perfezionamento-provided chaperones for the purposes of doing exactly what my deportment tutor had exhorted me against. I was starting to understand the man¡¯s fervor a bit better now.


    I missed Francesca.


    We had written each other numerous times over the course of the term, nearly once a week. My missives were tedious, I was sure; I had little to comment on other than classes, and telescopes, and Paffuto¡¯s boorish antics. She, conversely, was making her way through Espania with her grandmother for the second time. She had seen three bullfights, one ship-christening, a hanging, and kissed two more girls¡ªat the same time.


    I sighed and pushed my mask back up my nose. It kept sliding down. I would never catch up to Francesca¡¯s numbers; I wasn¡¯t even going to try. It sounded exhausting.


    My suitemates had quickly discovered that I was regularly writing a woman, and for some reason, my halfhearted protestations that our relationship was aromantic only served to convince them that I was besotted with her. I gave up trying to persuade them otherwise when I found it only made Paffuto¡¯s ribaldry worse. All three of them, however, were in agreement in one regard: I needed an alternative.


    And frankly, I did not disagree.


    All four of us, then, were united in our quest tonight. And from the sound of it, the sentiments from the other half of the equation were mutual. The chaperones definitely had their work cut out for them.


    The botanic gardens were surprisingly pretty, given the number of plants that were dead for the season: twiggy, naked grapevines; roseless rosebushes; ragged thickets of brittle brown thatch. Even the larch had shed their golden needles. It was up to the spruce and pines to provide any greenery, which they did admirably, illuminated by paper lanterns and peppered by pinecones.


    But when we entered the main area of the venue, a sort of sunken outdoor dancing hall paved in flagstones and bordered by ranks of slender cyprus, I stopped noticing the plants entirely. For there, clad in silks and velvets, draped in veils and furs, were more women my own age than I had ever seen in my life, all together in one place.


    Going to university was the best idea I had ever had.


    Paffuto clapped me and Barti on the back. ¡°Gentlemen,¡± he said solemnly, ¡°I wish you a fruitful evening.¡± And then he was off, disappearing into the milling crowd.


    Something was thrust into my hands; a flask. ¡°Drink,¡± said Barti. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the chatter and the first strains of a saltarello. I watched the men and women below pair up and accepted.


    Otto left us shortly thereafter, drawn into a giggling menagerie composed of a fur-swathed mink, a white-taffeta swan, and a pair of leopards that he evidently knew quite well, and were not at all displeased to see him. Barti and I shrugged at each other and went in search of refreshments.


    By the time Otto found us again, we were very refreshed indeed, courtesy of a staggeringly strong mystery punch. In retrospect, I suspect it had been enhanced, several times over, by the more charitable and alcoholic of the guests. At the time, all I was aware of was that the freezing midwinter garden had instead become delightfully crisp, and the lanterns had somehow become brighter even as they illuminated less, and the candelabra lining the refreshments table amongst the litter of cheese rinds and mushroom canap¨¦s were refracting shards of light that danced over the table in a way that I could not look away from. Otto had to thump me on the back to get my attention.


    ¡°Leo!¡± he shouted, right in my ear. I swung around, startled, and nearly knocked Barti over where he stood, already raptly attentive to his brother. For Otto, that magnificent gentleman, had brought with him two stunning creatures, one on each arm. The one on the left was, as best as I could tell, meant to be a mouse, although the most prominent element of the outfit by far was the d¨¦colletage; the ears were vaguely mammalian, and otherwise an afterthought. She was smiling at Barti.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    And on Otto¡¯s other arm, directly in front of me, was a hawk. Her gown was simple gray silk, set off by a crown of feathers in her hair. She was not smiling.


    My heart began to hammer against my ribs.


    ¡°Gentlemen!¡± Otto bellowed, over the mirth elicited by the latest dance. ¡°May I introduce you to¡ª¡± But even though he raised his voice still further, the noise drowned his words. A frulana had just begun.


    My training took over.


    I took her hand and bowed over it. ¡°Lady Hawk,¡± I said, meeting her eyes as I straightened again, ¡°may I have the pleasure of a dance with you?¡±


    Even if she couldn¡¯t hear me, the meaning was clear. She nodded. I led her to the floor.


    My head was swimming, but my steps were sure. At fourteen, I had finally managed to convince Renella that music lessons were a waste of time. I had been angling for another day of fencing lessons, but she assented only on one condition; that I substitute in dancing, instead. When I complained to Master Fiore, he shrugged and said, ¡°It might improve your footwork.¡± So I took her up on the bargain, and almost immediately thereafter began to reap benefits; I was good at dancing, and girls noticed. It was how I had secured my third kiss.


    They noticed again now.


    While a lady couldn¡¯t ask a gentleman to dance, they had numerous ways to extract an invitation from him. That night, after the first dance, I fell prey to all of them. I did not mind, except insofar as it meant I lost Lady Hawk in the onslaught from the rest of the menagerie.


    I finally managed to break away after an invigorating tarantella with a Lady Gazelle and a desperate demurral to a slightly put-out Lady Lynx. I made my way back to the refreshments table, desperate for water, only to discover it was all but gone. I drank what last few sips there were to be had before turning to the only other liquid available: the punch.


    This was a mistake.


    I was doing what I could to sop up the mistake with a few leftover canap¨¦s when I once again caught sight of Lady Hawk. She was standing to the side of the refreshment table, in the shadow of a leafless arbor. She was alone.


    I straightened and moved towards her, navigating the swaying ground as I went with what I hoped was casual aplomb. ¡°Hello again,¡± I said, leaning against the arbor lattice. Twigs crackled under me. My mouth was very dry. ¡°Does this garden have an arbor, d¡¯you think?¡±


    She stared at me from behind her mask. I couldn¡¯t tell what color her eyes were; everything looked gray in the semi-darkness. ¡°We¡¯re in an arbor.¡±


    It was the first time I had actually been able to hear her; the dance floor had been too loud. ¡°I meant a fountain,¡± I replied. ¡°Is there a fountain here?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she replied. ¡°I¡¯ve never been here before tonight.¡±


    ¡°Me neither.¡± I extended my arm to her gallantly. ¡°Shall we look together?¡±


    She took my arm and we set off, staggering slightly. I was not large, but neither was she, and I couldn¡¯t walk straight. She did her best to support me, even as I did my best not to rely on her support. It was slow going, but nobody hindered our course. We saw no one at all, the further out we went. The chaperones ought to have all been fired.


    We did finally find a fountain, a respectably-sized marble roundel with three tiers, freestanding in the center of a circle of hedges. I went to it gratefully and splashed my face, then took several large, messy gulps from my cupped hands before giving up and drinking straight from a spigot that I realized, only after I had been at it for an indeterminate amount of time, was actually stylized as a lactating breast.


    ¡°Pardon me, Madam,¡± I said solemnly to the carved stone woman. She continued to gaze at me, beatific and unblinking, one hand cupping each trickling breast. No offense taken, evidently.


    I turned around again and was surprised to see someone standing there. Right. Lady Hawk. We¡¯d come here together.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I said, with feeling. ¡°I needed that.¡±


    ¡°You actually wanted a fountain.¡± I couldn¡¯t see her face behind the hawk-mask, and couldn¡¯t quite read her tone. Was it amused? Incredulous?


    ¡°Of course,¡± I replied. ¡°They were completely out of water back there.¡± I waved a hand vaguely back where I could still hear the noise of the party.


    ¡°I thought you wanted something else.¡±


    I stared at her, perplexed. ¡°What else would I want?¡±


    She edged forward. ¡°To be alone.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± I said. Then my eyes widened. ¡°Oh. Yes.¡± Out with the deportment lessons, in with the charm. Having a female best friend for years had its advantages. I moved towards her. ¡°As long as you don¡¯t mind being alone with me.¡±


    She did not.


    I remember very little of what happened next. There were warm kisses, and cold fountain stone, and the soft brush of feathers against my fingers as I held her mask and crown. Then Otto was there, and Barti, each with a creature of their own¡ªLady Zebra, Lady Mouse¡ªtelling me it was time to go, quick, before the chaperones got there. And then there was running over grass that crunched beneath our feet, and breathless laughter, and the feel of a hand in mine that was small, and light, but not as small and light as it should have been, somehow.


    And then there was nothing.

 Chapter 20. Birdbath

    I was awakened by the full weight of Paffuto landing on me in bed.


    I yelled and flailed, but my talents on the piste did not extend to bedbound fisticuffs. I succeeded only in landing a single blanket-dampened thump on his shoulder before he simply rolled off of his own accord.


    ¡°You strano!¡± he yelled jovially. His voice made my head hurt. ¡°What on earth possessed you?¡±


    ¡°Explain yourself or get out,¡± I growled. Even my own voice hurt my head.


    ¡°Good thing Lady Contarini mistook your idiocy for charming abandon.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Lady Teresa Contarini!¡± He bent over to smirk directly in my face. ¡°For shame, Leo. I at least remember the names of the ladies whose skirts I¡¯ve become acquainted with.¡±


    Lady Hawk¡ªa Contarini. I put my head in my hands. My deportment tutor would immolate on the spot if he ever discovered his pupil had not only disregarded his most sacred of edicts, but done so with a Contarini. Ruined. I was ruined. All of Renella¡¯s hard work for naught.


    ¡°To hear her tell the story, you¡¯re a free spirit. I think you¡¯re mad as a March hare.¡±


    The phrasing sent a chill down my spine. I took my head from my hands. ¡°Did she say¡ªdid we¡ª¡± I couldn¡¯t go on. My face was on fire. Paffuto laughed at my expression. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry about that, loverboy. She¡¯s got a reputation. Otto knew what he was about, bringing that little sauce-pigeon to your plate. You¡¯re not going to wind up skewered on a brother¡¯s ep¨¦e.¡±


    I blinked. ¡°Then what¡ª¡±


    ¡°The fountain!¡± he yelled, making my skull ache. I closed my eyes. ¡°You had yourself a little birdbath, you dunce!¡±


    Another chill down my spine. ¡°I was drunk,¡± I mumbled. Then I rallied. ¡°And it wasn¡¯t a bath; I didn¡¯t get in. I was thirsty! I splashed my face and took a few sips!¡±


    ¡°Oh, like drinking out of a fountain where birds shit is any better than¡ª¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t you actually fall in to a fountain once?¡± Barti asked calmly. He was standing at my bedroom door with a blanket rucked around his shoulders, hair tousled and slightly purple with spore-dust. I probably looked similar.


    Paffuto snorted derisively, but he could not hide the color that crept into his cheeks. ¡°Sure,¡± he scoffed, ¡°accidentally. That¡¯s different. And it wasn¡¯t in front of a princess.¡±


    Barti shrugged. ¡°It was in front of a lot of other people, though.¡±


    Paffuto¡¯s color heightened. ¡°I don¡¯t appreciate your tone.¡±


    Barti shrugged again, unruffled.


    Paffuto glared for a moment longer, then forced a laugh. ¡°The two of you. Honestly. A couple of nuns.¡± He ran his hands through his hair. ¡°I¡¯ll wait till you¡¯re less hungover and have got your trousers on before expecting you to appreciate humor next time.¡± And then he left, muttering about touchy bastards.


    I put my head back in my hands. ¡°I¡¯m putting a lock on my door.¡±


    ??


    Paffuto might have been the only one who insisted on referring to me as Birdbath from that day forward, but he was not the only one who heard of my dalliance with Lady Contarini. Paffuto¡¯s hyperbole aside¡ªshe was not technically a princess¡ªshe was nevertheless a member of the uppermost echelon of nobility. And they gossipped with the same fervor as the inhabitants of a small mining principality; it was just that they did so over fine china in palazzos, rather than the well in the commons.


    I knew I was in trouble when Francesca wrote to me about it. She had just only just returned from Espania, and already she had heard the news. She, of course, was congratulatory. Downright gleeful, despite the fact that it somewhat complicated her own situation. She still had no concrete plan for how to extricate herself from marriage in a way that not would ruin her life in other ways¡ªnuns were effectively disinherited just by virtue of their profession, and they certainly didn¡¯t get to go to bullfights or take up fencing¡ªand was consequently stalling for time with the baseline ¡°waiting for Leo¡± ruse. She thought, and I agreed, that her best course of action would be to find a male counterpart in a similar predicament. Alas, the only one she knew of was Lord Cousteau, whom she found to be intolerably melancholic and a Frenchman besides. The search continued.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    I read Francesca¡¯s six-page letter in a rising panic. If she knew, everyone knew. And everyone at home knew what I was. Dots would be connected. At this very moment, in a salon or tea-shop or drawing room, some matron was raising her eyebrows, teacup halfway to her pursed lips, and saying, ¡°She went off unchaperoned with¡­ whom?¡± In the billiards room of a club, or out in the bracken on a hunt, some gentleman was frowning, brow wrinkled, and saying, ¡°... with deRye¡¯s boy? But isn¡¯t he¡­?¡±


    And then I would be both expelled and skewered on some Contarini brother¡¯s blade, in no particular order.


    My response was immediate and twofold: I enrolled myself in the University¡¯s fencing classes for the upcoming term, and I wrote an angry letter to Renella.


    For someone who prided herself on social acuity, she had really bungled things on the educational front. Twice now, she had sent me off to school utterly unprepared: the first time, not even knowing what I was, let alone why people might take issue with it, and the second time, without any knowledge that, because of it, I wasn¡¯t even allowed to be there. I could easily have mentioned my heritage in passing, or simply taken my shirt off in the common room of my own suite. It was pure dumb luck I hadn¡¯t, in those first few weeks before Paffuto waved The Queensman in our faces. Was I supposed to have just intuited this on my own? Surely Renella should know by now that I was nearly as clueless as my father in that regard.


    I wondered if my father even knew I¡¯d been sent off to a school where I was not welcome.


    My answer came in the form of an uncharacteristically brief reply from Renella on the first day of the new term:


    <blockquote>


    If you had been paying attention to the genealogical studies your deportment tutor had set you, you would have noted that your own record indicates nothing more than that you were born out of wedlock to a commoner, now deceased, and legitimized shortly thereafter. Furthermore, if you had been paying attention to the application materials for Queen¡¯s University, you would have noted that you yourself signed a statement affirming you were ¡°pure of blood.¡± It is no longer my duty to note such things for you; you are responsible for the logistical underpinnings of your own life.


    If you wish to pursue a grievance for not having been informed of your heritage prior to beginning primary school, I suggest you take it up with your father.


    - R


    P.S. You are circumspect, resourceful, and very bright. Your father and I have every confidence that you will excel both socially and academically at Queen¡¯s University, despite your circumstances.


    </blockquote>


    Deeply chagrined, I threw the letter into the fire, picked up my ep¨¦e, and made my way to fencing class.


    The gymnasium where the university¡¯s fencing classes were held could not have been more different than the dark and gloomy armory in which I had learned. It was very modern. An entire wall was devoted to a row of mullioned doors that opened onto the snowy quadrangle, filling the room with light even in the middle of winter. Four pistes had been marked out on the floor in black ribbon. I walked over and toed one admiringly, taking in deep breaths of the smell of fresh linseed oil.


    I took stock of the other students. Most of them were taller than myself, unsurprisingly, and none were shorter. It was going to be more like fighting Master Fiore than Francesca. A couple of them were heavyset, though. Heavyset or not, I remained hopeful that I would be the quickest.


    And that none of them were Contarinis.


    ¡°Birdbath!¡±


    I closed my eyes and stifled a groan. That¡¯s right: I¡¯d seen an ep¨¦e in Paffuto¡¯s room, listing against an umbrella in the corner. He had the right body type for it: long and lean. And I hadn¡¯t practiced in months.


    This could be a disaster.


    ¡°Paffuto,¡± I replied evenly.


    He thumped my back aggressively. ¡°Fancy seeing you with a blade in your hand, little man! First time?¡± He eyed my ep¨¦e appraisingly. ¡°Awfully nice blade for a first-timer.¡±


    I almost rose to the bait, but quickly thought better of it. Now was not the time to antagonize him into a duel. Plenty of time for that later. ¡°It was a gift,¡± I said.


    I could see the tension in his frame ease into his normal arrogant pliance. ¡°Well, I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll do it credit,¡± he said patronizingly, and punctuated it with a second whack between my shoulderblades before ambling off to bother somebody else.


    I managed to prevent myself from being paired with him for any sparring, and held back even so. I was out of practice. My opponent that day was my hight, and affable, and not at all put out that he lost every bout with me; I¡¯d let him get some touches in while I focused on my form, and observed Paffuto from across the room. I was troubled to discover that he was quite good.


    Paffuto stayed after class to shower at the gymnasium. I, of course, would not be doing that. Many students didn¡¯t; it was unremarkable for me to gather my things and just leave, sweaty as I was. I ruminated on the troubling discovery of Paffuto¡¯s talent all the way back to the suite. Why was I so certain I was going to wind up dueling with Paffuto? We would probably cross blades in class, of course, at one point or another, but my sense of urgency felt more dire than that.


    I needed to know that I could beat him with a naked blade.


    I was shivering slightly from chilled sweat when I finally reached the suite, and instantly set about running a nice hot bath for myself. I was going to be sore tomorrow.


    I was just climbing in when the door opened behind me.


    ¡°Oh!¡± gasped Barti.


    I dropped into the bath like I¡¯d been shot and spun around, sending water cascading over the rim and sloshing to the floor. Barti just stood there, hand still on the doorknob, face white.


    I had been so lost in my own thoughts, I had forgotten to lock the door.


    He had seen everything.


    I stared at him while my stomach ate my heart.


    His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he regained his voice. ¡°S-sorry!¡± he stuttered, and backed out. The door slammed.


    I immediately leaped from the bath, sending more water sluicing to the tile, and locked the door. And then, not knowing what else to do, I simply climbed back into the bathtub and sat there.


    I sat there until the water went cold.

 Chapter 21. Keep Your Doors Locked

    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¡ªI 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¡ªbut 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¡ªbut 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¡ªit was far too cold for that, and a weekday besides¡ªand 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¡ªthey can¡¯t¡ªchildbirth 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¡ªdid 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¡ªa lot more¡ªbut 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¡ªthat 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.¡±

 Chapter 22. Franco

    One of the many schemes Francesca and I had mulled over, and quickly discarded, while trying to find a way out of her predicament was having her assume the identity of a man.


    On the surface, the idea had much to recommend it. It would mean she could engage in the various masculine pursuits she enjoyed¡ªfencing and womanizing being only two of a rather large assortment¡ªwith far less resistance than she currently faced. Unfortunately, it did nothing to address the problem at heart; that she must marry, with the unspoken presumption that marriage would result in heirs, or else be disinherited. But given that she currently did well enough to be getting on with vis a vis her masculine pursuits, if she were to pretend to be a man, she¡¯d only be exchanging some convenience in that regard for the daily hassle of donning a disguise, evading detection, and disappointing¡ªor possibly enraging¡ªthe objects of her affection. To say nothing of having to invent a new identity from whole cloth. She couldn¡¯t very well assume the identity of somebody else in the peerage; she¡¯d have to be a commoner.


    We¡¯d spent less than an hour exploring that idea between us before moving on to more fruitful avenues. Nevertheless, I found myself, in idle moments in my first term, wondering how she would have fared as ¡°Franco,¡± son of a wealthy merchant, come to Queen¡¯s University to study something dashing. International diplomacy, perhaps. Or possibly trial law; she was certainly a good enough orator. All it would take, I mused, would be one accomplice¡ªmyself¡ªto make any necessary excuses for monthly absences, some practice on her part to deepen her voice, locks on bathroom and bedroom doors, and a complete moratorium on any swimming or public urination.


    The irony was not lost on me that it was I who was now adopting some of these tactics.


    At least I didn¡¯t need to smuggle bloody rags about for disposal, or bind my chest. And I could still urinate when and where I pleased. I just had to keep my shirt on at all times, or else be behind locked doors.


    I was just appreciating this when Paffuto marched into the bathroom and said at my fully-clothed back, ¡°Visitor, deRye.¡±


    ¡°I am in the middle of a piss, Paffuto,¡± I replied calmly.


    ¡°Well, then, don¡¯t make it a shit,¡± he sniffed, and turned away. ¡°Franco seems quite keen on an audience.¡±


    It was a good thing I had already done what I had needed to do; if I¡¯d heard that even ten seconds earlier, I would likely have wound up making a mess. As it was, I scrambled to tuck myself away again and emerged from the bathroom in a state of high agitation to find a slim, blond-mustachioed youth lounging splay-legged on the sofa. Paffuto was eyeing our guest haughtily, his gaze lingering on a hat that had yet to be doffed. Only I knew it was still on for reasons other than insouciance.


    ¡°Leo, old sport!¡± Francesca cried, voice husky with what sounded like a deep chest cold. It was, I had to admit, extremely convincing. ¡°It¡¯s been ages! I hope you don¡¯t mind; I¡¯m in town for the next few days on business. I simply had to stop by to surprise my old chum.¡±


    ¡°Hello, Franco,¡± I said. I didn¡¯t know whether to laugh or strangle her. Possibly both. I had enough secrets to manage here as it was. ¡°Have you eaten yet?¡±


    Francesca smoothed her mustache luxuriantly. ¡°I had a bite to eat on the road, but now that you mention it, I¡¯d love an ale. Care to show me the local offerings? My treat.¡±


    It was dreadfully difficult not to laugh. I had to clear my throat. ¡°It would be my pleasure.¡±


    ¡°Splendid!¡± Francesca leaped to her feet and promptly had to execute a furtive thigh-nudge to resettle whatever it was she had stuffed her crotch with. I had an abrupt coughing fit. Paffuto transferred his irritated glare to me.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I gasped, face red. ¡°Spores.¡± And I rushed out before my laughter could no longer be contained.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± I hissed as soon as we were out of earshot. ¡°Are you out of your mind?¡±


    Francesca grinned. ¡°Looking for a husband, of course.¡±


    ¡°A husband?!¡±


    ¡°Shh!¡± Francesca looked around. ¡°Yes, stupid. A husband. What better way to lure my male counterpart than to become the very companion he seeks?¡±


    I stared, mouth agape. ¡°This is not going to work.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know that.¡±


    ¡°Francesca¡ª¡±


    ¡°What I need from you,¡± she continued, prodding me in the chest, ¡°is for you to put about the word that your old friend Franco is a bit light in the instep.¡±


    ¡°Francesca.¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°Maybe the two of you had a falling out over it¡ªoh! You can say I made a pass at you, and you refused!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to do that!¡±


    ¡°Perfect! You already know your lines.¡±


    I groaned and scrubbed my face.


    ¡°Well, have you found me a husband yet?¡± she demanded. ¡°You said you¡¯d try.¡±


    I had said that, and had then done no such thing. ¡°It¡¯s, um¡­¡± I faltered. ¡°It turns out it¡¯s very difficult to do that without, uh¡­ accidentally implying¡­¡±


    ¡°And this is why I¡¯m here,¡± Francesca interrupted decisively. ¡°I can do what you can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I really think this is a bad idea,¡± I said flatly. ¡°Even with your voice. How are you doing that, by the way?¡±


    ¡°Laryngitis!¡± she said cheerfully. ¡°Got over the fever two days ago, but the voice is still with me for some reason. I simply could not pass up this opportunity. It¡¯s perfect.¡±


    ¡°Where does the Duchess think you are right now?¡±


    ¡°Here, visiting you.¡± Her grin widened. ¡°I didn¡¯t even have to lie!¡±


    ¡°And your chaperone?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Carlo.¡±


    Her footman. ¡°Ah.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s the one who found me the mustache,¡± she added, smoothing it once again. ¡°Real human hair.¡±


    ¡°Gross.¡±


    ¡°Care for a kiss?¡± She puckered the mustache at me threateningly.


    ¡°Eugh!¡± I batted her away. ¡°Francesca, it¡¯s not that I don¡¯t want to help. I do. You know I do. I am here at university to help you. And if you want me to stay here, to help you, I cannot do anything to draw attention to myself. The instant I am discovered as a lowbreed¡ª¡± I spat the word. Francesca¡¯s smile fled from her face. ¡°¡ªI will be expelled.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± She sounded genuinely shocked.


    ¡°They wouldn¡¯t even let you enroll if you were a man. That¡¯s how rigid they are about it.¡±


    Francesca¡¯s eyes were wide beneath the brim of her hat. ¡°Why on earth did you enroll, then?¡±


    ¡°Because I didn¡¯t read the instructions,¡± I said, lavishing myself with scorn.


    Francesca was silent for the remainder of our walk to the tavern. She did not speak until our ales had been delivered to the small table we¡¯d found¡ªone of the few still set up outside, so she could keep her hat on, her long blond hair safely hidden beneath.


    ¡°If you need to drop out,¡± she said, voice low, ¡°you should just drop out. I don¡¯t want you risking yourself like this for me. You¡¯ve done enough. More than enough. Two people shouldn¡¯t suffer for the problems of one.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to drop out.¡± I sipped my ale.


    Francesca raised her eyebrows. ¡°University life agreeing with you?¡±


    ¡°It is.¡± I took another sip. ¡°And they don¡¯t get to take this from me.¡±


    Francesca nodded slowly. She didn¡¯t need clarification. ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Lord deRye?¡±


    I turned. Three ladies stood at the entrance to the milliner¡¯s, which was next door to the tavern. I didn¡¯t recognize two of them.


    The third was Lady Teresa Contarini.


    I sprang to my feet at once, propelled far more by terror than politeness. ¡°Lady Contarini! What a pleasure! Please allow me to introduce my companion, L¡ª¡±


    ¡°Mr. Franco Luomo,¡± Francesca interjected smoothly, rising to her feet and coming forward to bow over Lady Contarini¡¯s proffered hand.


    She eased her way through introductions all around, in her husky laryngitic tenor, doing a terrible job of emulating a character interested in men. I barely spoke, which was for the best; I was practically chewing my tongue in agitation. But by the time the women departed, Francesca had charmed her way into an invitation¡ªextended to both of us¡ªto attend a midmorning salon the very next day, at Perfezionamento.


    I waited until the trio were all the way down the road before rounding on Francesca.


    ¡°Are you insane?!¡±


    ¡°I must be,¡± she replied dreamily, ¡°to have refused to even consider attending finishing school. Did you see Miss Lucrezia? She moved like a doe in the woods¡­¡±


    I almost grabbed Francesca by the lapels to shake her, but settled for clenching my fists to my face instead. ¡°This is the opposite of what we¡¯re trying to do here!¡± I shouted.


    ¡°You¡¯re yelling,¡± Francesca said mildly.


    I stormed into the road, in the opposite direction from where Lady Contarini and her doelike companions had gone. Francesca tossed some coins onto the table and followed.


    ¡°How on earth do you expect to attract a husband in a women¡¯s finishing school?¡± I snarled, when she had finally caught up. ¡°And now I have to go too! I cannot be in the limelight like this! People will talk!¡±


    ¡°People will talk regardless, Leo. You really think attending a salon with Lady Contarini will bring about your discovery any faster than the natural flow of information generated by your mere existence?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡±


    Francesca waved my concerns away. ¡°Just keep yourself to yourself this time, then. No moonlight jaunts, no fountainous escapades. And I will have you know that I have it on very good authority that gentlemen of the Uranic disposition are frequent attendees of ladies¡¯ salons. I may meet my future husband tomorrow, in fact.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe you.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself.¡± Francesca was grinning again. ¡°But if we are the only men there tomorrow morning, I¡¯ll give you ten lira.¡±

 Chapter 23. Shipping

    I did not get ten lira, in the worst possible way: Paffuto was there too.


    I paid little attention to Paffuto¡¯s conquests, or attempted conquests. No one in our suite did, despite his best efforts to bait us into inquiring. I had managed to cultivate my ignorance on the matter to the point where I was only vaguely aware that his success rate was middling to low, a result that he invariably lay at the feet of the women themselves. They were too stuck up, or else so slatternly that he could not possibly bring himself to be with them, or, on several occasions: both. It was never clear how they had managed to accomplish such a dichotomy.


    As soon as I saw him sitting there in the parlor, perched awkwardly on a tufted ottoman, the unwillingly-overheard fragments of his latest pursuit came back to me: he, too, had found Miss Lucrezia¡¯s grace quite compelling. He had been far less poetic in his praise, however. And he had brought his own companion; a pinched and sour fellow whose name I had never bothered to learn, as I had no intention of ever speaking to him.


    And now we were all here, together, in a small and very floral parlor.


    I almost turned around and walked right back out.


    But Francesca was already seating herself comfortably in a wingback chair, resting her hat on the armrest and crossing one ankle over her knee in a well-practiced fashion. She had actually cut her hair; it curled in loose waves to the bottom of her earlobes. I could hardly believe it. Carlo must have done it last night. Her utmost pinnacle of vanity. Either she was far more committed to her quest for a husband than I had given her credit for, or she was absolutely besotted with Miss Lucrezia.


    Paffuto was too genteel for a scowl, but he managed to be very communicative via eye contact alone. He stared daggers. Francesca smiled back affably. This was, I recalled, not her first time going mano a mano with the competition.


    I looked at Miss Lucrezia. She sat quietly on the sofa next to Lady Contarini, apparently unaware of the storm brewing on her behalf.


    Lady Contarini, meanwhile, was looking at me.


    There was nothing for it. I nodded politely. She nodded back with a small smile. Here in the daylight of the parlor, without a hawk-mask covering her face, I could see that she was dark-haired and blue-eyed, with a spattering of stubborn freckles across her nose that I was sure must drive her maid to distraction trying to lighten but she had made no attempt to cover up. I thought they were rather charming, like the speckles on a song thrush¡¯s eggs.


    And then, very deliberately, her eyes flicked to Francesca, then to Paffuto, and then back to me, while she gave a very slight tilt of her head towards Miss Lucrezia. I inclined my head in return. Her smile widened.


    I wished I could enjoy the show as much as she was evidently preparing to. I felt like I¡¯d had worms for breakfast.


    The salon progressed entirely without incident, however, or at least as smoothly as could be expected with Paffuto involved, shoehorning himself in as he did after every third comment. The topic was one of little interest to him; stewardship of natural resources. Several of the ladies in attendance had very strong opinions on the matter, which they expressed with a high degree of articulation, both verbal and gestural. When Francesca revealed that my family¡¯s wealth arose from mining, I was pulled into the fray. And truthfully, I enjoyed it. Paffuto, who was far less knowledgeable on the topic and very aware of this fact, looked put out. He began to glare at me, as though his ignorance were my fault.


    I was glad to be interrupted by the tea-cart; Paffuto¡¯s glares aside, I needed a moment to debrief with Francesca. We both excused ourselves to the bathroom.


    ¡°Not Lord Solini,¡± she murmured.


    ¡°Who?¡±


    She stared at me. ¡°Your roommate!¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Right. ¡°We all just call him Paffuto.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°No idea.¡±


    ¡°Childhood moniker, no doubt. I can see why everyone in his environs has conspired to continue to torture him with it, however. What a boor.¡±


    ¡°Well, he¡¯s not the type you¡¯re seeking anyway,¡± I replied. ¡°And I don¡¯t care if his friend is¡ª¡±


    ¡°He isn¡¯t,¡± Francesca interrupted, ¡°he¡¯s here after the Maharani. You can tell by how he looks at her.¡±


    ¡°¡ªeven if he were, no friend of Paffuto¡¯s should be wed. By anyone. Ever.¡±


    Francesca gave a small, somewhat insincere sigh. ¡°Oh dear.¡±


    My sigh was far more genuine. ¡°Please, please do not get yourself in trouble. Or me, for that matter.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you need the help, Lord Fountain.¡±


    She was right, but not for the reason she thought.


    When we returned to the parlor, we found Paffuto in a heated debate with one of the ladies¡ªso heated, their tea sat forgotten at their elbows, growing cold.


    ¡°Do you have any experience whatsoever in these matters?¡± the lady snapped, leaning forward.


    Paffuto, conversely, was leaning backwards, in a deliberately arrogant sprawl. He laughed. ¡°Do you?¡±Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°My family has owned pastureland abutting timber forests since the fall of the Roman Empire,¡± the lady replied acridly. ¡°I saw my first Satyr when I was five.¡±


    Paffuto raised his eyebrows suggestively. Several of the nearby women stilled in shock¡ªalthough whether it was in response to her statement, or Paffuto¡¯s horrible response, I couldn¡¯t say.


    Francesca grabbed my arm warningly.


    The lady, fortunately, seemed either unaware of his insult, or immune to it. She continued. ¡°It was a little girl-Satyr, not much older than I was. She had no horns, and the fur of her legs looked all soft and silky, like a kid¡¯s. She was sitting on a little rock by the stream, and do you know what she was doing?¡±


    ¡°Please enlighten me.¡±


    ¡°She was having a tea party with her dolls.¡±


    Even Paffuto looked momentarily surprised before schooling his face back into a mask of condescension.


    ¡°She had three of them, made of bright cloth; a baby, a mother, and a father, with little curling clay horns. They were very well crafted. And they were eating a meal of grass on little stone plates and drinking from acorn cups.¡±


    ¡°Acorn cups,¡± scoffed Paffuto.


    ¡°The very same type of acorn cups my own dolls drank from.¡±


    ¡°So they can ape their betters,¡± Paffuto sneered. ¡°There¡¯s a large gap of civilization between dolls and deliberate forestry.¡±


    ¡°The quality of our timber is unparalleled,¡± the lady replied bluntly, ¡°precisely because we permit habitation by the Satyr. The only difference between our holdings and those of our neighbors is Satyrs, but our output is twelve per cent greater and nearly forty per cent stronger.¡±


    ¡°How can you possibly make claims as to timber strength?¡± Paffuto said haughtily. ¡°It¡¯s just wood.¡±


    The lady looked at him as though he were exactly as stupid as he was. ¡°Cantilever and compression testing,¡± she replied bluntly.


    ¡°The keepers of the palace grounds never drive off the Naga they find after monsoon,¡± the Maharani piped up, dark eyes earnest. ¡°They say it is bad luck to disturb a Naga, of course, but the real reason is because they eat the corpses of the drowned animals before they can putrefy and poison the wells.¡±


    ¡°They say it is good luck if a Winged One lives in your tower.¡± The words were out before I could stop them. Everyone looked at me.


    Too late to back down now.


    I nodded at the Maharani. ¡°The reasons are similar. They eat bats, which are a frequent carrier of hydrophobia.¡±


    The Maharani smiled up at me from where she sat, prompting Paffuto¡¯s saturnine companion to direct his glower at me. ¡°That must be very useful,¡± she said brightly, ¡°with all your mines.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Even if they the Naga weren¡¯t so useful,¡± the Maharani went on, ¡°we would never disturb them anyway. My mother wouldn¡¯t allow it. Her beloved nurse was Nagavanshi.¡±


    I had never heard the word before, and I doubted many of the other attendees of the salon had either, but its meaning was patently clear from context. At first, I thought perhaps the Maharani did not understand what conversational chaos she had just sowed, but then I saw the glint in her eye. She knew. And she was looking at me very, very intently.


    She knew.


    Francesca¡¯s hand tightened on my arm.


    I could do nothing more than pray that my face wouldn¡¯t give me away.


    I forced out a thin chuckle. ¡°I¡¯m afraid you¡¯ve quite shocked my suitemate, Maharani.¡±


    She caught my meaning immediately. I saw a flash of compassion in her eyes before she turned back to the suitemate in question, who was straightening up from his aggressively casual recumbency. He looked highly affronted. ¡°I¡¯m not shocked,¡± Paffuto objected. ¡°I am aware of such tolerances in¡ªother cultures.¡± He took a sip of tea and made a face; it was now very cold. ¡°I¡¯m worried about the sensibilities of the ladies present.¡±


    ¡°Well, the Maharani¡¯s sensibilities seem robust to the topic,¡± Lady Contarini said behind me. ¡°Unless you¡¯re implying she¡¯s not a lady?¡±


    I turned to look at her, breath shallow. Both she and Miss Lucrezia were carefully avoiding my eye¡ªor perhaps they were simply enjoying watching Paffuto squirm.


    Did they know?


    Did they all know?


    Francesca finally let my arm go. ¡°Well, for the lords¡¯ sake, then, if not the ladies¡¯, let us turn our attentions back to the topic at hand¡ªor else these excellent sandwiches. How on earth have you managed fresh strawberries at this time of year?¡±


    I tried to slow my racing heart as the conversation returned to safer topics, but I was not successful. I did not speak for the rest of the salon; I merely stared at the flowers climbing the curtains and sprawling over the wallpaper. Pansies, I thought. Or possibly violas. I could never tell the difference without Renella there to point out what were, to her, obvious differences.


    And perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought Lady Contarini kept glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.


    Francesca had to elbow me back to the present when it was time to leave. It took a titanic effort to make my way out gracefully, rather than simply hurtling out through the garden doors headlong.


    The only bright spot was, upon bending over Lady Contarini¡¯s hand, she responded with a surprisingly warm grasp on my fingers.


    ¡°Please,¡± she said, smiling up at me as I straightened, ¡°call me Teresa.¡±


    I laughed nervously before replying, voice low enough that it would be unlikely to be overheard in the general hubbub of farewells, ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m not that bold, my Lady. I hear your brothers are excellent swordsmen.¡±


    ¡°Oh, them.¡± She reclaimed her hand and waved it dismissively. ¡°They¡¯re off making nuisances of themselves in France for the foreseeable future. I would very much like it if you called on me again.¡±


    There was no way to say no to this. ¡°It would be my honor, my Lady,¡± I replied weakly.


    ¡°It would, wouldn¡¯t it?¡± she said cheekily. I smiled back despite myself. I was still smiling rather stupidly at her when Francesca hooked my arm to draw me away with a convivial, ¡°Come now, Leo, let¡¯s not pester the ladies any further.¡±


    I felt light as a feather walking back.


    Paffuto did not. He was sulking. ¡°I don¡¯t think that finishing school is quite finished with that crowd yet,¡± he said.


    ¡°Well they certainly finished you off, didn¡¯t they?¡± said Francesca cheerily. ¡°Miss Lucrezia invited me back tomorrow; I think I shall take her up on it!¡±


    Paffuto began to turn pink.


    ¡°Won¡¯t that interfere with your business?¡± I asked pointedly. Her voice already sounded a shade lighter than it had this morning.


    ¡°I¡¯m quite good at multitasking,¡± Francesca replied.


    ¡°What is your business, Mr. Luomo?¡± Paffuto asked roughly.


    Francesca placed her hat smartly on her head. ¡°Shipping.¡±

 Chapter 24. Advice on Sonnets

    ¡°I think that went quite well,¡± Francesca said.


    I stared at her, ale halfway to my mouth.


    ¡°It did!¡± she insisted. ¡°You found out you have allies amongst the Perfezionamenti, despite knowing or at least strongly suspecting your heritage, and at least one of them wants to do a little more than ally, it seems.¡±


    ¡°I discovered my secret is out,¡± I replied hollowly, ¡°and you didn¡¯t find a husband.¡±


    Francesca blew a raspberry at me. ¡°You¡¯re not looking at this the right way.¡±


    I drank my ale and did not dignify this with a response.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go back tomorrow,¡± she continued, ¡°and get the ladies¡¯ inside knowledge on all the most eligible bachelors that maintain a mysteriously tight hold on their eligibility.¡±


    ¡°You think they¡¯re going to have better insight on the proclivities of specific Queen¡¯s University students than their own classmates?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the best anyone can do on short notice, short of lounging about naked in the University¡¯s gymnasium¡¯s showers, Leo, which you won¡¯t do¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right. I won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°¡ªand I am not equipped for.¡±


    ¡°You just want to see Miss Lucrezia again,¡± I accused.


    ¡°Also that,¡± she replied, unapologetically.


    But when she returned to my dormitory for a farewell the following afternoon, she actually had a list.


    ¡°How on earth did you manage that?¡± I asked, astonished.


    ¡°Oh,¡± Francesca replied airily, flopping down on my bed, ¡°It was easy. I just told the truth.¡± She coughed; her voice was now verging on the distinctly feminine.


    ¡°The truth!¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What, right there in your mustache?¡±


    ¡°I took it off.¡±


    ¡°In front of all of them?¡± I cried, aghast.


    ¡°No, silly, just Lucrezia.¡±


    ¡°They let you into her room?¡±


    ¡°We were in the garden.¡± Francesca grinned. ¡°Alone. Their chaperones are terrible.¡±


    ¡°They really are,¡± I agreed.


    ¡°And then we kissed.¡±


    I put my hands over my eyes. I¡¯d set a vixen on the henhouse. ¡°Before or after the mustache removal?¡±


    ¡°After, of course.¡± Francesca sounded mortally offended. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t kiss under false pretenses, Leo. That would be awful. What do you take me for?¡±


    I removed my hands from my eyes to hold them out placatingly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. You¡¯re right. I just don¡¯t understand how you do it.¡±


    ¡°She was moved by my plight, and admired my drive to overcome it. And she thought I looked devastatingly dashing in my waistcoat.¡±


    ¡°I mean I don¡¯t know how you identify your willing kissers in the first place.¡±


    She just smiled and tapped the side of her nose.


    I didn¡¯t bother to ask her what her number was now. ¡°So you have your list of eligible bachelors. Your next move is to¡­ what, exactly? Approach them here?¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t think that would work very well.¡± She coughed again. ¡°I¡¯m losing my Franco voice, for one thing. For another, now that I have their names, I can simply approach them as Francesca. I think¡­¡± She tapped her chin. ¡°I think I¡¯ll invite them all to the ball.¡±


    ¡°What ball?¡±


    ¡°The ball I¡¯m going to throw as an excuse to suss them all out. Early in the summer season.¡±


    ¡°And half of Perfezionamento?¡±This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous. A third will suffice. I¡¯ll invite you too, of course.¡±


    ¡°Assuming I survive that long,¡± I muttered.


    ??


    I survived.


    It was a close thing. My studies kept me safely busy and largely nocturnal for much of that term, but I still had fencing lessons twice a week with Paffuto. And though it cost me every ounce of pride I had, I did the smart thing: whenever we faced each other on the piste, I made sure I lost.


    At first, I thought he would grow suspicious. He was the only opponent against which I always lost, including against students who were capable of beating him four times out of five. I wasn¡¯t the best fencer¡ªthat honor belonged to a taciturn young man with a shock of red hair and a prominent Adam¡¯s apple¡ªbut I was close. Paffuto, however, was blessed with an impenetrable cocoon of ego that kept him safely inured from questioning his own supremacy. If any of the others noticed, they didn¡¯t care to bring it to his attention.


    And as the snow melted into chuckling rills that made the campus footpaths downright dangerous, and the forest fungi effervesced so heartily it was impossible to make it to class without one¡¯s necktie coming back powdered purple, I began to court Teresa.


    Or, more accurately, she began to court me.


    I was terrified. She never explicitly confirmed that she knew I was a quarter Winged, and I did my best to avert any conversation whatsoever on the topic of Alii. I also did my best to keep the courtship aboveboard. I called on her only under the most chaste of circumstances: after Solday services in town; in the Perfezionamento gardens at high noon for luncheon; at the gelateria tucked between the alehouses. The kisses we exchanged were brief, and absolutely no clothing was removed. My deportment tutor would have been at least moderately proud.


    On days when Teresa invited Miss Lucrezia or the Maharani along, I invited Barti. Neither of them were buxom enough to tempt him, but he seemed delighted to be invited anywhere. I got the sense that he was something of an afterthought in Otto¡¯s social life, and had never developed one of his own. It was a shame; he was a delight. Miss Lucrezia and the Maharani thought so as well, and began scheming between themselves to see if they couldn¡¯t find a lady to his tastes.


    ¡°I wish I¡¯d had female friends growing up,¡± Barti said wistfully, on the last night of the term. ¡°They¡¯re fun.¡± We were sitting in our common room sharing a bottle of wine. He was already packed; I was procrastinating. Otto was out celebrating in the alehouses, and Paffuto, thank God, was already gone.


    ¡°I only had Francesca,¡± I replied, pouring myself another glass. ¡°But without her, I would have had no one.¡±


    ¡°I had no one,¡± Barti said gloomily. ¡°I just tagged along after Otto.¡±


    ¡°Well, good thing you came to University, then.¡±


    He held his glass up to me solemnly before downing it.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be able to make it to Francesca¡¯s ball, won¡¯t you?¡± I asked, slightly anxiously. Other than the Midwinter Masque, I had never been to a ball. Francesca would be thoroughly occupied¡ªvetting her prospective husbands, or else distracting herself amongst the female guests¡ªand I would be left either standing in a corner by myself or trying to navigate Teresa and her increasingly amorous advances. I desperately wanted Barti there to run interference if necessary.


    It wasn¡¯t that I wasn¡¯t interested. Good God, I was interested. But that was the problem. I doubted Teresa would be satisfied with the same furtive outdoor exertions in which the tightrope walker and I had engaged. At some point, she was going to want my shirt off. And I was at a loss as to how to ensure that, should this come to pass, I could guarantee that it was too dark to see anything damning. Not without contrivances that were themselves so damning that I might as well just leave the lights on.


    Barti refilled his glass. ¡°I really think so. It¡¯s just a matter of making sure there¡¯s a carriage available between my sisters going to the sea with my mother, my father¡¯s annual hunting expedition, and Otto doing whatever it is he does with his friends.¡±


    ¡°That ball might be the end of me, without you there.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯ve said.¡±


    ¡°I could be exposed.¡±


    ¡°I think Lady Contarini probably already knows about you.¡±


    ¡°Then why hasn¡¯t she told me?¡±


    ¡°Why haven¡¯t you told her?¡± Barti took a contemplative sip. ¡°Seems to me if you¡¯re going to pursue this, rather than break it off, you¡¯ve already decided she¡¯s going to know. It¡¯s just a matter of when. You¡¯re only torturing yourself with the uncertainty.¡±


    I played my fingers over the wine glass in agitation. ¡°I don¡¯t want to be expelled,¡± I said fretfully. ¡°If I break things off with her, and she feels slighted, she could expose me out of spite.¡±


    Barti raised his eyebrows. ¡°You really think she¡¯d do that?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± I swallowed. ¡°But I can¡¯t be certain.¡±


    ¡°So this entire courtship exists as a result of some sort of... self-imposed theoretical blackmail?¡±


    It sounded terrible when he put it that way. I made a face.


    ¡°You really don¡¯t like her?¡± Barti pressed.


    ¡°No, I do! I do. She is charming, and lovely, and smart, and quite thoughtful.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not the one you need to convince.¡±


    ¡°She is a good person,¡± I said stoutly.


    ¡°Remind me never to go to you for advice on sonnets.¡±


    I rested the wine glass against my forehead in defeat. ¡°I don¡¯t love her, Barti. I like her. But I don¡¯t want to marry her. And I don¡¯t want to lead her on. I just don¡¯t know how to¡­ extricate myself.¡±


    Barti looked thoughtful. ¡°How do you know you don¡¯t love her?¡±


    I tossed back the entire glassful of wine in one large gulp and poured myself another. Master Fiore, it seemed, had known what he was talking about after all. ¡°I just know.¡±


    ¡°Have you been in love before?¡±


    I froze. Memory brushed at me like feathers.


    Barti¡¯s eyebrows rose higher, but he said nothing. We didn¡¯t have enough wine for that conversation, evidently. He simply took another sip and said, ¡°I¡¯ll be at the ball.¡±


    I drank the last of the wine straight out of the bottle.

 Chapter 25. The Ball

    Francesca was not interested in wasting any time; the ball was held five days after the term concluded. I barely had time to unpack my trunk in my tower room and greet the household staff before I was whisked away again to Francesa¡¯s estate.


    Curiously, I had never been there before. Neither Francesca nor the Duchess had ever offered; neither Renella nor I had ever asked. It occurred to me now, after my year at university, that it might have something to do with my being a quarter-breed¡ªbut that made no sense. The Duchess was a quarter-breed herself. And come to think of it, Francesca had never referenced any goings-on at the estate. She was always going somewhere else.


    Perhaps they just spent so much time out of the country, they were simply never at home.


    Regardless of the reason, when the carriage at last crested the last ridge in the forest road, and a great expanse of lush, well-manicured grass spread before us, it was the first time I had ever laid eyes on Francesca¡¯s home.


    Her parents had died when she was very young, too young to remember them, when a hippopotamus overturned their riverboat on safari. When she first told me this, I thought she was making it up, only to have her produce an obituary verifying the claim on her very next visit. Apparently, one of the reasons her grandmother took her traveling so often¡ªbeyond simply having a familial affinity for it¡ªwas to ensure she didn¡¯t develop a complex about going to new places as a result of her parent¡¯s freak demise. So she had grown up here, in her grandmother¡¯s estate, in a room that she had only said was ¡°a boring old normal room¡± the first time we met. Here and around the world.


    Her boring old normal room was somewhere inside a great pillared edifice of white stone, which was illuminated for tonight¡¯s special occasion by a colorful array of paper lanterns. I got a good look as the carriage rounded the great circular driveway, mingled gravel and seashells crunching beneath the wheels. It was about three times larger than my villa, in far better repair, and decidedly more horizontal. No wonder she thought our piste was haunted. This looked like the sort of grand dwelling that had at least three art galleries inside.


    Sure enough, as soon as I had clambered from the carriage and stepped inside the entrance hall, immense oil paintings, some of them taller than I, rose rank upon rank from wainscoting to coffered ceiling. Most depicted what one would expect: portraits of foreboding grandfathers or stiff-collared children or women staring vacantly over their shoulders; wind-swept landscapes; large bowls of fruit or vases of flowers. A few, however, were more surprising. One was a watercolor of a gutted fish. No fewer than three paintings were of Judith slaying Holofernes, bright with red. And one wasn¡¯t a painting at all, but a collage of seashells that had been tiled like a mosaic into a crude emulation of a scowling face.


    ¡°Lord Leonardo deRye!¡±


    The footman¡¯s bellow announcing my entrance made me jump. I snapped my head back down from where it had been tilted up, slightly open-mouthed, to admire the art. I must have looked quite the yokel, gawping at the pretties on the wall.


    ¡°Leo!¡±


    Francesca hurled herself down the stairs with a great rustling of lavender silk and flung herself at me with abandon. I staggered with the force of it, grinning, then pushed her away. She looked stunning. I told her so.


    She laughed and snapped her fan open to prance a little pirouette. ¡°I had the dressmaker work some hidden pleating into the waistline to make it more flexible,¡± she bragged. ¡°And: it has pockets!¡± She jammed her hands into the dress demonstratively. I applauded.


    ¡°Is Barti here yet? Or Teresa?¡±


    ¡°No, hardly anyone is, and those¡¯re all Grandmama¡¯s guests. You¡¯re one of the first. Come!¡± She grabbed my hand. ¡°I¡¯ll show you around!¡±


    With all the decorum of children half our age, we raced up the stairs and through the halls, skidding slightly on the polished floors. She took me through, or past, room after room after room; state apartments, private chambers, offices, studies, a music room, a billiards room, a large and dusty library. I got the sordid history of each as we dove through:


    ¡°That¡¯s the room where King Conrad stayed whenever he was with his northern mistress. She was so fat, she broke that chair here, look, you can see it¡¯s still got a wobbly leg¡­¡±


    ¡°This is the window the Earl of Lumberdi fell out of. I say ¡®fell,¡¯ but he was pushed, of course¡ªby his younger brother, most likely, who was scheming for his Earldom¡­¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the bed where my great-grandmother died. I tried to contact her ghost once, but it didn¡¯t work. Her spirit must be at peace.¡±


    She showed me her room as well. I wasn¡¯t sure what I was expecting, but I was quite surprised to find that it was an ordinary girl¡¯s room, albeit a large one, with a four-poster bed and a stunning view of the grounds from a lace-curtained bay window. A velveteen lion lay sprawled on her coverlet, worn ragged about the nape of the neck. ¡°I used to carry it about in my mouth, like a mother cat with my kitten,¡± she explained, without a trace of sheepishness. ¡°Now Rex just keeps me company on his own pillow.¡±


    I had a sudden vision of Francesca, clad in trousers and open sailor¡¯s shirt, a kerchief of red keeping her hair from blowing about her face in the sea breeze as she stood on the deck and shouted at her crew, while Rex slumped comfortably on his own pillow in her cabin.


    ¡°What are you smiling at?¡± Francesca demanded.


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    ¡°Oh!¡± Francesca looked out her window. ¡°More guests! Let¡¯s go say hello.¡± And then she was off again, bounding out the door and down the stairs. I followed.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    The guests began to arrive thick and fast from that point forward. She¡¯d done a reasonably good job of keeping the attendees equally split between male and female; in some cases, they came already paired. Many of her friends were married, and several were visibly pregnant. They posed an interesting contrast to the clearly unattached young men from the University, and the women from Perfezionamento: same age, vastly different life circumstances.


    Only about half a dozen of the University students were potential husband candidates. Francesca tried to keep me apprised of who they were by making meaningful eye contact whenever another one was announced at the door, but she was surrounded by other friends by this point, and I couldn¡¯t see anything well at all in the crowd at any rate. As neither Barti nor Teresa had been announced yet, I quietly slunk around to the side of the staircase and leaned against it, with nothing but a potted palm for company. It was a good companion: it hid me from view and made no demands.


    When at last the footman bellowed, ¡°Lady Teresa Contarini!¡± it was immediately followed by, ¡°Miss Lucrezia Bocelli!¡± and, ¡°Maharani Lakshmi Kottaram!¡± I emerged from behind the potted palm with a vague sense of relief. Barti wasn¡¯t here yet, but there was only so much Teresa could do in front of her friends.


    Or so I thought.


    It started out quite pleasantly; we drifted with the crowd into the main hall and alternated between dancing and partaking of the refreshments at a leisurely pace. Teresa looked lovely; the blue taffeta of her gown was mirrored by the sapphires at her ears and neck, as well as her eyes themselves. And her freckles were so charming, spangling her face like stars, I had to kiss them, quickly and furtively, as we paused for a sip of wine.


    I realized what a mistake that was the instant I saw the look she gave me after I had done so, pupils huge and dark.


    ¡°Did Francesca show you around?¡± she asked, voice low and throaty.


    I swallowed. ¡°She did, yes.¡±


    Teresa took my hand. ¡°Will you show me?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± I said desperately, hoping to dash cold water on things, ¡°there¡¯s the room where her great-grandmother died.¡±


    It didn¡¯t work. Teresa just laughed, and pulled at my hand. ¡°Show me!¡±


    ¡°Um.¡± I looked around wildly, and gestured at the table. ¡°Aren¡¯t you hungry?¡±


    Another mistake. Teresa stepped close and whispered, directly in my ear, ¡°Yes. I am.¡±


    My hair stood on end. And that wasn¡¯t the only response my traitorous body had. All thought processes ground to a total halt. Teresa pulled me, unresistingly, away from the table.


    But just as we crossed into the entrance hall, the footman roared, ¡°Lord Bartolomeo Gheribaldi!¡±


    And Barti, bless him, didn¡¯t hesitate for even one second. Momentarily channeling Paffuto, he dashed over and punched me jovially in the arm. I could see the apology in his eyes even as he did so, although whether it was for the punch, or the tardiness that made such buffoonery necessary in the first place, I wasn¡¯t sure.


    ¡°Leo!¡± he said, slightly desperately. ¡°You would not believe what befell us on the road. An entire turnip cart had overturned, just as a shepherd was going by. Sheep were everywhere, going at the turnips like they¡¯d been starved¡­ Oh! Lady Contarini!¡± He bent over her hand as though he was only now seeing her, and not just raced to rescue me from her. ¡°I do apologize. My goodness, you look lovely.¡±


    To her credit, Teresa quickly hid any dismay at the interruption. ¡°Barti! You¡¯re looking quite handsome yourself. Have you eaten yet? You must be starving, after your misadventures. The food is just through there.¡± She pointed and smiled at him disarmingly. Her hand ever left my arm.


    ¡°I am famished,¡± Barti replied. ¡°And I¡¯m afraid I must borrow Leo for a moment. I have news for him about an acquaintance.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Teresa replied graciously, slipping her hand away. ¡°I¡¯ll just be in the, ah, library. There is a library, is there not?¡±


    ¡°There is,¡± I replied mechanically.


    ¡°Splendid.¡± She smiled warmly. ¡°I¡¯ll see you there.¡± It was hard not to stare as she walked away.


    ¡°Did you not wish me to interrupt?¡± Barti asked as soon as she was out of earshot, clearly exasperated.


    ¡°What? No! I mean, yes.¡± I scrubbed my face. I still wasn¡¯t thinking very clearly. ¡°Yes, thank you. That was a very close call.¡±


    Barti shook his head and started towards the main hall. ¡°I still think all this is foolish,¡± he murmured. ¡°Just go. I¡¯m sure she knows.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I said stubbornly.


    ¡°You¡¯re just going to let her linger by herself in the library all night?¡±


    The idea was both horrifying and tempting. ¡°No, I¡¯d send Lucrezia or the Maharani after her.¡±


    Barti shook his head again. ¡°The longer you draw this out, the worse it¡¯s going to be.¡±


    I followed him back into the main hall and kept him company while he ate. That part had not been a ruse; he was starving. While he wolfed down his third buttered roll, I kept pace with the wine. By the time he was ready to move on to the wine himself, I was already several glasses in and feeling it. I excused myself to go find the bathroom.


    These had not been pointed out on Francesca¡¯s madcap tour, so I wandered for a bit, feeling the wine fog my head pleasantly. I was on my second pass under the staircase when I heard my name mentioned from around the corner.


    I stopped. I had not recognized the voice. And although there was every good reason to be mentioned at this party¡ªI was the hostess¡¯ best friend, after all¡ªan unshakable sense of unease settled in the pit of my stomach. I moved forward and peeked around the corner.


    Two ladies were speaking to each other by the very same potted palm that had sheltered me earlier, fans held before their faces. I did not recognize either; their backs were to me. They did not know I was there.


    ¡°She¡¯s not going to marry him, is she?¡± one asked, sounding horrified.


    ¡°Of course not!¡± snorted the other.


    ¡°Then what on earth does she think she is doing?¡±


    Another snort. ¡°What she always does. You know Teresa. Remember the stevedore?¡±


    Snickering. They fanned themselves. I couldn¡¯t move.


    ¡°Leo seems nice,¡± the second one said, a little wistfully. ¡°I feel bad for him. He seems like the type to feel honor-bound.¡±


    ¡°Mmm, I don¡¯t know. I bet he¡¯s sowed an oat or two.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re sure she¡¯s not trying to trap him?¡±


    ¡°Positive,¡± came the flat reply. ¡°She¡¯s just trying to enrage Daddy, as always. And see if the rumors are true. I¡¯m sure she¡¯s hoping they are, for maximal enragement.¡±


    ¡°Do you think he¡¯s¡­?¡±


    But here they had to cease their gossip, as another flock of ladies swept by, chattering loudly.


    I retreated fully around the corner and walked down the hall away from the gossips, stiff-legged, hardly able to breathe.


    So much for everything.

 Chapter 26. Exactly What You Want

    I wandered about for quite a while, in such turmoil I didn¡¯t even remember I needed to find the bathroom until I passed by a fountain in the garden outside and the tinkling reminded me. Now too far from any commode for it to do me any good, given the urgency, I hurriedly ducked behind a bush and under the draping curtain of a willow¡¯s branches¡ªonly to discover two of Francesca¡¯s identified bachelors frantically taking each other¡¯s clothes off.


    As soon as we spotted each other, we all froze. I stared at them in shock. They stared at me in horror.


    I recovered first. ¡°Well done, gentlemen. Carry on.¡± I ducked back out again and set off to find a less occupied zone of shrubbery.


    Relieved, but still despondent, I went looking for Francesca. She was nowhere to be found. I hoped she was deep in logistical plotting with one of the other bachelors, but suspected she was off adding to her tally in a quiet corner of her own. Even Barti had somehow disappeared.


    So I drank.


    It isn¡¯t easy to become drunk on wine alone, but I managed. By the time Barti returned¡ªhe had discovered that one of the upstairs studies housed a sixteen-gallon terrarium filled with ferns, and at least one frog, and had been studying it for the past hour¡ªI was a little unsteady. He looked at me in alarm.


    ¡°This seems a bit excessive,¡± he said, watching as I missed my glass with my next pour from the bottle. He took it away from me. ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    ¡°Getting drunk.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because Teresa¡¯s using me¡±


    He furrowed his brow. ¡°What? Using you how?¡±


    ¡°To mortify her father.¡± The despondency was dull now, banked, but it was being replaced by something else. Something hotter.


    Barti¡¯s brow-furrows deepened. ¡°That doesn¡¯t seem like her.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Doesn¡¯t it?¡± I threw back the last dregs of wine in my glass. ¡°We¡¯ve known her for, what, six months? Even Paffuto had some commentary on the matter after the midwinter masque.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re relying on information from Paffuto.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± I growled. ¡°I¡¯ll ask her myself.¡±


    ¡°What? Wait!¡±


    But I had already stormed off.


    It took me several false turns before I found the library again, but find it I did, even in my state. Incredibly, Teresa was still there. She was reading a book in front of the fire, and was so engrossed she didn¡¯t notice my entrance until I slammed the door shut behind me. Only then did she look up.


    She could instantly tell something was amiss. ¡°Leo? What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    I did not answer. I simply strode towards her, yanking at my neckerchief, casting it aside. I was already working at the buttons on my waistcoat as it fluttered to the carpet.


    She stood up, eyes wide. The firelight cast her face half in shadow. ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    ¡°Giving you exactly what you want,¡± I snarled, throwing my waistcoat to the ground. And then, in one swift motion, I pulled off my shirt and turned my back to her.


    She gasped.


    ¡°There!¡± I cried savagely, shirt balled up in my fists. I could not see her face; I was looking only at the dark shadows of the library. ¡°Now you can tell him!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Her voice was shaking.


    ¡°You can tell your father,¡± I said, enunciating with the deliberate clumsiness of too much drink, ¡°and all your friends, if you wish, that you carried on with a lowbreed.¡±


    There was a sudden rustle, and a smack on my back. I turned. Teresa had thrown her book at me.


    And she was crying.


    It was not a dainty little mewl, to be tended to with a lace handkerchief. Her face was bright red, her eyes both puffy and screwed up. ¡°How dare you!¡± she cried. ¡°What do you take me for?!¡±


    ¡°What do you take me for?!¡± I shouted back. ¡°A fool?¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about?!¡±


    ¡°I heard all about it!¡± I shook my balled-up shirt at her. ¡°Using men as your playthings, to get at your father! You ought to be ashamed!¡±


    ¡°Oh¡ªoh you heard all about it, did you?¡± she bawled. ¡°Who, pray tell, did you hear it from? Ella? Berenice? Paffuto?¡±Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    For the first time, a small thread of doubt wormed its way into my mind. I did not answer.


    ¡°Only the most upstanding and reliable of sources, I¡¯m sure. Did they tell you about Lord Lorenzo, too? Or Mr. Antoni? Or the stevedore?¡±


    I was not yet ready to admit to anything: eavesdropping, mistakes, defeat. I rallied. ¡°Do you plan to marry me?¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°Do you plan to marry me?¡±


    Teresa had gone from red to white. Her mouth worked soundlessly.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t have any interest in marrying me,¡± I said bitterly, ¡°why else would you lure me up here, if not to see what I am?¡±


    ¡°Because I liked you, you ass!¡± she screamed. ¡°Were you planning to marry me?¡±


    I had no answer.


    ¡°Oh, you mean to tell me that when you dragged me to the fountain that first night, and pawed at my bodice, and left those love-bites on my neck, you weren¡¯t planning on marrying me?¡± Her voice dripped with sarcasm. ¡°For shame.¡±


    I felt myself grow red in turn. I had no memory of love-bites.


    She yelled at me for a bit longer, making several other reasonable points at high volume for which I had no defense, before abruptly dropping her voice. ¡°And I already know you¡¯re a quarter Winged, Leo. It¡¯s not that hard to find out.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I agreed bitterly, ¡°it isn¡¯t.¡± I closed my eyes and swayed.


    ¡°Put your shirt back on.¡±


    I obeyed numbly, then sat down heavily in an armchair and stared at the fire. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I said at last.


    Teresa settled in the chair next to me with a small sigh. ¡°You¡¯re drunk,¡± she said bluntly, ¡°and the Perfezionamento gossips are incorrigible. And honestly¡­¡± she fiddled with a ring on her little finger. ¡°... honestly, I was wondering what your back looked like. I figured that was why you never took your shirt off. I was right, wasn¡¯t I?¡±


    I nodded mutely.


    She stared at the fire with me for a while. Then she asked, voice low, ¡°Do you miss it?¡±


    I stirred. ¡°Miss what?¡±


    ¡°Wings.¡±


    ¡°I never had them.¡±


    ¡°I know, but¡­¡± She twisted her ring again. ¡°We can miss things we¡¯ve never had.¡±


    I thought about it. ¡°Sometimes.¡± On a hunch, I turned to face her fully. Sure enough, she was crying; silently this time, tears leaving glistening tracks down her face. ¡°What is it that you miss?¡±


    ¡°Respect.¡±


    I nodded and looked back at the fire. I was afraid to look at her for what I said next. ¡°Please don¡¯t tell anyone.¡±


    ¡°What? That you¡¯re a gullible ass?¡±


    ¡°No, that I¡¯m a quarter Winged.¡±


    She was silent for a moment. ¡°A lot of people already know, Leo. Or at least suspect.¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± I begged. ¡°I don¡¯t want to be expelled.¡±


    There was a sharp intake of breath. ¡°I see. Yes. But¡­ you¡¯re not the only one, you know.¡±


    I turned back to look at her and straightened slowly. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not the only¡­ ah¡­¡±


    ¡°Lowbreed?¡±


    ¡°Not the only person of Alii descent,¡± Teresa said firmly, ¡°enrolled at Queen¡¯s University.¡±


    My heart quickened. ¡°Who? Who else?¡±


    More ring-twisting. ¡°The only one I know of for sure was a fellow who graduated last year. He was one-eighth Satyr. Nobody knew until he graduated; he had no signs, and he wasn¡¯t noble, so there was nothing to show it in the peerage.¡±


    ¡°So how did people know?¡±


    ¡°He announced it. Publicly.¡±


    ¡°What, he went into the quadrangle with his diploma and shouted it out?¡±


    ¡°He may as well have.¡± Teresa pressed her lips together into a wry line. ¡°He published an op-ed in The Queensman.¡±


    I gave a low whistle. ¡°He must have had that queued up for quite a while. Did he have a friend on the editorial board?¡±


    ¡°He himself was the paper¡¯s editor.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡±


    ¡°He was an excellent student.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯d have to be, to be the editor.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And that prompted the board¡¯s statement the following fall, I take it.¡±


    ¡°I hear they argued all summer. When they took it to a vote, the No votes only won by two.¡±


    I scrubbed my face. ¡°As of right now, though¡­ am I the only one?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so, but¡­ Leo, I really don¡¯t know. And I am not going to participate in gossip.¡± Her voice became rigid; the last word snapped out of her like a whip.


    I hung my head. ¡°I still don¡¯t want anybody knowing about me for sure, other than you. And Barti. Please don¡¯t tell anyone.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t. I promise.¡±


    I believed her. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    Unexpectedly, she gave a chuckle. ¡°You¡­ you actually want to court to marry, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Um.¡± I thought of the tightrope walker.


    ¡°For a given value of ¡®courting,¡¯ I suppose,¡± she amended. She stood and brushed away her tears, then gave me a watery smile. ¡°I think that¡¯s very sweet. You¡¯re sweet. But we should probably end our courtship.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Despite wishing for this very thing, I found myself inexplicably nettled. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because I don¡¯t want to marry you,¡± she replied, not unkindly. ¡°My family wouldn¡¯t allow it even if I did. And you don¡¯t want to marry me either, do you?¡±


    I just stared, too tangled in confusion and indignation and relief to find words.


    ¡°I thought not.¡± She leaned over and gave me a swift peck on the cheek. ¡°The marks on your back are very pretty, though. It¡¯s a shame you have to keep them hidden.¡± She stepped over to the book she had thrown at me, picked it up, un-creased a page, and set it back on the shelf. ¡°Don¡¯t forget your waistcoat and neckerchief, they¡¯re still on the floor over here.¡±


    And then she left.


    I sat there like the great stupid lummox I was and stared at the fire.

 Chapter 27. Orrery

    I returned home in self-imposed disgrace.


    Francesca thought I was being overdramatic. ¡°Courtships come, courtships go,¡± she said bracingly. ¡°She was very pretty, but obviously not worth the trouble.¡±


    ¡°Should I write an apology note?¡± I asked miserably.


    ¡°No! Good God! Please do not embarrass yourself further. Just let it go.¡±


    I sighed.


    ¡°And don¡¯t pout, Leo. It¡¯s unbecoming in a gentleman.¡±


    I asked her pointedly if she had managed to make any headway in her quest for a husband.


    ¡°We¡¯re not talking about me right now, Leo,¡± she said primly. ¡°Don¡¯t try to change the subject.¡±


    She had not.


    Barti had even less to say: ¡°I told you she already knew.¡±


    So that summer, I retreated to my tower.


    It was peaceful. I spent my days sleeping late into the morning and tinkering with my tools in the afternoon. And at night, I joined my father in the Observation Tower.


    We spoke even less than we had before, if that was possible. There was a tension between us now that I wasn¡¯t sure I understood, and had no interest in breaching. But there was no animus; we were as cordial as always.


    It was with some surprise, then, when my father came down one night and gave to me, with neither preamble nor explanation, a stack of very old books.


    I took them gingerly. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡±


    He pushed his glasses up his nose. ¡°Books of the Hashaa,¡± he replied, and did not elaborate. I opened one, fingers gentle. It was entirely softbound; merely paper and twine, no leather or wooden board for the cover. I could not read the script. At risk of sounding trite, it really did resemble chicken scratches.


    I looked up to tell my father that I couldn¡¯t read it, but he was already disappearing up the stairs to the floor above. So I set the books carefully on a workbench and began to go through them, one by one.


    Most of them were in the same unreadable chicken-scratch script, but a few were in Latin. I recognized a number of the very same passages I myself had been taught upon¡ªAmo, Amas, Amat¡ªand some that were a bit less typical¡ªVolo, Volas, Volat.  Only one was in Romanci. I opened that one and read:


    <blockquote>


    In the beginning, there was only the primordial void; an endless expanse of air without form or boundary. All was night, silent and still and dark. And in that dark expanse, there was an egg.


    It was the first egg.


    It lay in a nest of raw, shapeless firmament. For a while, all was peaceful. The egg brooded itself.


    And then one day, it hatched.


    The yolk became the sun; the white, the moon. And from the broken shell, the world began to take form. The upper half of the egg became the dome of the sky, and the lower half became the fertile earth. The spots upon the egg scattered across the heavens, becoming the stars that spangle the night.


    </blockquote>


    I stared. It was the creation myth of the Winged Ones.


    I read on, about how the First Winged One was given guardianship of the skies, and how she looked down upon the earth below and saw it was still raw and untamed, and descended to the earth. Where her feathers brushed the land, trees grew and flowers bloomed; where her feet touched the soil, rivers began to flow.


    And there, on the very next page, complete with an illustration in faded blue ink; a destruction myth.


    <blockquote>


    In the days when the skies stretched endless, and the land below was cradled by mountain peaks, the valleys untamed, unwalled by humans, there lived Nenesh, beloved by the stars, for his heart was pure and his wings carried him where others dared not go. He lived with his family in a great aerie atop the tallest mountain, a sanctuary of stone and wind. He and his flock lived well, and kept themselves pure, but the flocks around him became wicked and corrupt. They glutted themselves on their own eggs, and fornicated with humans and mer-folk and satyrs.


    One day, the stars whispered to him, bringing dire news: a Great Storm, unlike any the world had ever known, was coming. It would sweep across the land and skies; uprooting trees, dismantling homes, scattering all who dwelled within its path. It was a cleansing, the stars whispered to Nenesh, and he listened; a renewal for a world that had grown chaotic and corrupt.


    The stars chose Nenesh for a sacred task. ¡°Build a nest,¡± they commanded, ¡°a great nest that will stand against the tempest. Gather the winged and the grounded, the scaled and the feathered, the strong and the small. For in you, the future will find its hope.¡±


    Nenesh bowed deeply, his wings folding gracefully behind him. ¡°I will do as you ask,¡± he vowed, ¡°and I will not falter.¡±


    With his family¡¯s help, Nenesh began crafting the nest. It was a marvel of engineering and artistry, vast enough to house creatures of every kind.


    As the nest took shape, Nenesh flew far and wide to spread the warning of the stars. He soared over forests and valleys, rivers and deserts, calling out to all who would listen. The creatures of the world responded¡ªsome with trust, others with hesitation. But all came. Eagles and sparrows nested in upper reaches; wolves and sheep alike made the treacherous climb and huddled at the bottom, bowing the woven surface.


    And when all was ready, the winds began to howl.


    The skies darkened, and the first gusts of the Great Storm tore across the world. Nenesh and his family guided the last of the creatures aboard. Then Nenesh, his wings shining with the blessing of the stars, took his place at the entrance.


    The storm struck with a fury unimaginable. Winds howled like wild beasts, tearing trees from their roots and flattening entire mountains. The nest creaked and shuddered, but it held strong. Inside, the creatures huddled together, too frightened to eat each other.


    For twenty-eight days and twenty-eight nights, the nest bore the winds. Nenesh and his family worked tirelessly, tending to the creatures and repairing what the storm stripped off the nest. At last, on the twenty-ninth day, the winds began to subside. The skies cleared, revealing a world transformed. The valleys were reshaped, the mountains newly carved by the tempest¡¯s might, and the air was fresh and clean, carrying the promise of renewal. And as the creatures emerged, they marveled at the changed world, their fear replaced by hope.


    The stars whispered once more. ¡°Nenesh,¡± they said, ¡°you have done well. You have carried life through the storm and into the dawn of a new age.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    And so Nenesh and his family lived on, guardians of the skies and stewards of the new world, their story carried on every breeze that whispered through the transformed land.


    </blockquote>


    So enthralled was I with what I was reading¡ªtheir heroes, and villains, and an amusingly dull list of lineages, not unlike what I myself had suffered through in church¡ªI read until dawn without realizing it. I stumbled to bed and slept until noon the next day.


    And then, without any further provocation, and for no reason in particular, I began to build another contraption.


    I did not do it furtively this time. Whatever I felt I needed, I simply took: from the Repair Room, which I shamelessly lockpicked; from the Observation Tower; from the heap of old mining equipment left lying around the shaft entrances scattered across the cliffs. Those were often hard to carry, but I relished the exercise. I would come back down the forest path, sweating and gasping, lugging some axle over my shoulder or cog in my straining hands. It felt good.


    This was all far too large to fit inside, of course. The scale to which I was driven, by mysterious internal forces which I had no interest in curbing, was monumental. I was building right out in the open, on one of the few flat portions of land behind the villa, where the forest path began. As the summer grew hotter, and the obscure winged figures far up in the sky snatched at the dragonflies, I began to work with my shirt off, and burned myself brown. I couldn¡¯t see them, but the ou?es on my back must have stood out like fresh limewash.


    It took me all summer, but by the time the grass had crisped golden, and the apples began to swell in the orchard, I had a complete orrery nearly twice my height. It winked in the sun.


    And on the evening before I was to return to University, my father came to see it.


    In truth, I think he had been coming to see it every night, when I was abed, sound asleep after my exertions. There was no sign that he was doing so at the orrery itself¡ªI was no hunter, observing every creased blade of grass or turned stone¡ªbut I would often find that the exact tool I needed next had been left out in the Observation Tower, on top of a tool chest or on a workbench. But he was here now, standing beside me, the frames of his spectacles gleaming in the last of the setting sun.


    We simply stood there in silence for a long while, until at last he asked, very quietly, ¡°May I see it move?¡±


    Without a word, I stepped forward, pulled the lock-pin, and began to turn the crank.


    The mass was immense; I needed two hands, and I was straining and sweating again just to give the crank handle a quarter turn. But at last it began to pick up momentum, sending the gear-teeth clicking against each other. And slowly, ponderously, the orrery turned.


    Planets orbited. Moons whirled. Rings spun. And right in the center, wrought of soldered wire and every shard of broken mirror and glass I could find, was a massive egg. As the spheres danced around it, it cracked open, deliberately and delicately. Once the mechanism had made a full circuit, it closed again.


    I kept cranking the handle. My father stood and watched as the egg hatched, then un-hatched, then hatched again. At last I let go, muscles shaking and weak with strain, and let it grind itself to a slow halt. I set the lock-pin and returned to his side, and looked at him.


    ¡°You knew childbirth would kill her,¡± I said, with neither preamble nor rancor.


    He nodded, eyes hidden behind the glint of his glasses. An evening breeze soughed in the pines.


    ¡°Then why did you do it?¡±


    My father took his glasses off with a faintly trembling hand¡ªand only now could I see that he had been weeping. He wiped his tears from his face.


    ¡°Not a day goes by,¡± he replied, voice barely above a whisper, ¡°that I don¡¯t ask myself that very question. I asked myself that even then, every time we made love. I was terrified. I told her. I don¡¯t know if she understood. We were both beyond reason, but I, I, should have known better.¡± He put his glasses back on and turned to look at me. ¡°Not a day goes by that I don¡¯t blame myself. I am the one to blame. But I see you, Leo¡ª¡± He reached out, as he had not in years¡ªhad not ever, that I could recall, and touched me gently on the cheek, as though I were no more than a babe¡ª¡°and I cannot regret it.¡± He dropped his hand and looked at the orrery. ¡°I see what you make, and I cannot regret it. You are so like your mother, in the ways I loved most. I still have her in you.¡±


    I swallowed. ¡°I wish I could have met her.¡±


    ¡°So do I. She loved you so much.¡±


    I had nothing left to say, and neither did he. After one last lingering look at the orrery, and then at me, he turned away and walked back to the tower.


    I stood there and stared at the orrery, not seeing it, no thoughts in my mind. Only sadness, and peace.


    The soft sound of wings brought me back to myself. I turned.


    There beside me, hardly as tall as my shoulder, stood Sheshef.


    I recognized her instantly. Her tawny hair was bound now, gathered in a single plait and looped with beaded cords, but the split ends drifted as lightly as I remembered, ruffled as freely as the dove-gray down at her shoulders and, now, the back of her neck. I longed to touch it.


    She blinked her nictitating membranes and stepped forward, then reached out and traced her hands over the orrery: the gears, the levers, the rings and spheres and rods. She opened her wings, stormcloud and buff, and fluttered to the very topmost ring and landed there, crouched on her haunches, wings still open for balance as she peered at the mirrored egg below.


    ¡°This is the cosmos,¡± she said wonderingly. Her voice was older now, deeper and more sure, but with the same kestrel overtones.


    ¡°It is,¡± I replied. There was no mention of the years gone by between us. It was as though we had seen each other yesterday. ¡°Would you like to see it spin?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to come down.¡±


    She fluttered gracefully to the ground and settled her wings against her back. My weariness was gone; I pulled the pin and began to crank as though I had just awakened. As the egg first began its ponderous yawn, Sheshef half-flared her wings with delight and voiced her burbling coo. I grinned.


    When at last I felt my muscles would truly give out, I let the orrery spin down and locked it once more. Sheshef turned to me, unsmiling as always, elation clear in the gleam of her whiteless eyes. ¡°You are very good at making things. I like it.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. I like it too.¡±


    ¡°You worked on it all summer.¡±


    I wiped sweat from my brow and regarded her carefully. ¡°Did you watch?¡±


    She hesitated. ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you come see it sooner?¡± Why didn¡¯t she come see me sooner?


    ¡°I did not wish to interrupt your work. Now you are done.¡±


    I wiped away another trickle of sweat and asked what I had wanted to ask her so long ago: ¡°Why did you go up to the top floor of the tower? Why didn¡¯t you stay hidden?¡±


    Sheshef looked away. I could not read her face, but her voice was laced with chagrin when she finally answered. ¡°I wanted to see the telescopes being used, not covered. It was my last chance.¡±


    I nodded. It was understandable. ¡°One of the telescopes at University is so big,¡± I said inanely, ¡°it cannot be covered. We have to use lens caps.¡±


    Her eyes widened. ¡°How big is it?¡±


    ¡°About as big as this orrery,¡± I said, gesturing.


    Her eyes widened further. ¡°What can you see with it?¡±


    ¡°The same thing you can see with the others, just larger and more clearly.¡±


    ¡°What does it look like?¡±


    ¡°You¡ªhave you never looked through a telescope before?¡± Surely, after all her time in the tower¡­


    But she shook her head. ¡°I am not a priest.¡±


    ¡°Are you allowed to look through a telescope?¡±


    She resettled her wings thoughtfully. ¡°It is not forbidden.¡± I had heard those exact words before.


    I gestured at the Observation Tower. ¡°Would you like to?¡±


    She stared at it hungrily, but shook her head. ¡°Not tonight. There is a conjunction; the priests will come. I will have to go soon, so they will not see me here. Can I come tomorrow?¡±


    It was a blow to the gut. ¡°No. I leave tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°For University?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Sheshef looked thoughtful. ¡°Where is University?¡±


    ¡°Far away,¡± I said flatly. ¡°Farther than you can fly.¡±


    ¡°When will you be back?¡±


    Another blow. ¡°Next summer.¡±


    If she had a reply, I didn¡¯t get to hear it; she looked up suddenly, at a point over my head. I turned. I saw nothing more than the same handful of dark figures that had been circling overhead all afternoon, dimmer now in the evening light. But whatever she saw, it changed her. She blinked her nictitating membranes twice, in quick succession. ¡°I must go. Thank you for showing me the cosmos.¡±


    And then, in a rush of sweeping wingbeats, she was gone, spiraling into the darkening sky.

 Chapter 28. Too Far to Fly

    Barti and I were rooming together again this year. So was Otto. When I had asked at the end of the previous term, as delicately as I was able, if Barti would not prefer to emerge from his brother¡¯s shadow, he merely shrugged and said, ¡°It¡¯s all the same to me. Just so long as we don¡¯t get Paffuto again.¡±


    In order to forestall this dreadful possibility, we urged Otto to pick someone whose character he could vouch for. Otto delivered; the dark-skinned fellow that greeted me as I lugged my trunk up the stairs introduced himself as Prince Uzoma and promptly came down to help. Like Otto, he was studying law; unlike Otto, he took his studies quite seriously. We discovered later he was top of his class. Given that the other Prince at Queen¡¯s University, a perpetually hungover youth from Lichtburg, was treating his educational stint as a glorified babysitting exercise, I was particularly impressed.


    It wasn¡¯t until Prince Uzoma and I stood at the top of the stairs, panting slightly, that I discovered he was short. Shorter than I, by a good half a head, but nearly twice as muscular. His clothes were well-tailored, but seemed even so to be struggling to contain his muscles. He had conducted the lion¡¯s share of the lifting with a bewildering display of ease.


    ¡°Weightlifting,¡± he said cheerfully, when I expressed my admiration, and flexed demonstratively. ¡°Nearly every day. Care to come sometime? I bet we could pack some meat on your bones in a fortnight, have you ready to throw your trunk up the stairs next time.¡±


    ¡°No thank you,¡± I said, smiling. ¡°I¡¯m more of a fencer. We go for lithe.¡±


    ¡°Very wise,¡± he agreed. ¡°Play to your strengths. Ever been in a duel?¡±


    ¡°Only sparring.¡± I looked at him appraisingly. ¡°Ever been in a fight?¡±


    ¡°Twice!¡± he replied, teeth flashing white in a broad grin. ¡°Once here, in an alehouse, and once with my cousin on one of the royal ships.¡±


    ¡°Who won?¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± the Prince replied proudly. ¡°Both times. Threw my cousin clean overboard.¡±


    He kept me company as I unpacked, regaling me with tales of his family. He was not the crown Prince; he was the fifth son of nine, by three wives, and had nearly as many sisters as brothers. Their kingdom was not large, but it was wealthy; it controlled the third-largest African port in the Mediterranean.


    ¡°I¡¯m the only one who wanted to travel this far for my education, though.¡± He sat on my desk and swung his legs. ¡°They were only too glad to oblige; too many of us as it was, may as well get me out from underfoot. Ho, Barti!¡±


    ¡°Hello, Uzoma.¡± Barti had just come in. He smiled and extended his hand. The Prince hopped down and pumped it enthusiastically. ¡°Good to see you again.¡±


    ¡°Ales, then?¡± Uzoma asked. ¡°Once you¡¯re all done unpacking?¡±


    ¡°Yes, why not; it¡¯s going to be a fine afternoon.¡±


    Otto took no convincing whatsoever, once the offer of ale was shouted across the common room at where he was fussing around with his neckerchief in front of the mirror. The four of us set out in good spirits, comparing notes on our journeys. Uzoma¡¯s had been the longest, of course; three days aboard a ship, then another six overland in a carriage. Barti and Otto had only traveled for three days. I came from further; it had taken me four. We were comparing notes on the best carriage-snack when a large shadow passed over us.


    I had seen such shadows my entire life. It did not register at all until my companions snapped their heads up and exclaimed in astonishment.


    Only then, with a sudden deluge of horror, did I realize what had happened.


    I followed their gaze as they stood there, shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun, mouths slack with shock, and saw what I knew I would see: a Winged One.


    There were no Winged Ones near Queen¡¯s University. The closest flocks lived days to the north, in the mountains. Near the villa.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Surely, it was too far to fly in only four days. Surely.


    At first, all I could see was the dark shape of an indistinct winged figure, silhouetted by the sun. I gawped like everybody else on the quadrangle, my consternation as unfeigned as theirs, and watched as the figure circled overhead. It seemed to be looking for something. After a few languid passes, it finally landed, at the peak of the University chapel¡¯s steeple, where it proceeded to toy with the weathervane. Tarnished copper flashed in the sun, illuminating dove-gray wings and a braid of tawny hair.


    Oh, no.


    ¡°What day is it?¡± I blurted out, voice strangled.


    Barti looked at me, face grave with concern that he dared not voice. ¡°Friday.¡±


    ¡°No, what¡­ what is the phase of the moon?¡± I tried to remember, myself¡­ Had it been a crescent when last I looked? How long ago was that? And was it waxing or waning? Francesca would know, I thought fretfully; girls always knew.


    Uzoma, incredibly, had whipped out not only a pair of spectacles from somewhere on his person, but a small pocket almanac. He consulted it primly. ¡°Full moon,¡± he declared. He folded it again and put it away, followed by his glasses.


    Oh, no.


    I couldn¡¯t remember what the Nahashaaf word for full-moon day was, but I knew that today was their third day of adventure.


    Sheshef and her adventures. I despaired.


    ¡°You live near Winged Ones, don¡¯t you, Leo?¡± asked Otto, in genuine innocence. He was still shielding his eyes, never taking his eyes off Sheshef. The weathervane, apparently, was only meant to be blown about from above, not twisted by the shaft as she had been doing, and it had come out entirely. She held it awkwardly in both hands for a moment before tipping it back upright and screwing it back in. ¡°Have you got any explanation for this? Something to do with the moon, sounds like?¡±


    There was no point in denying it. My heart raced. ¡°Yes,¡± I replied, struggling to keep my voice even enough for casual, serviceable half-truths. ¡°My father has books on the Winged Ones; I spent some time this past summer reading about them. They spend the five days of full moon¡ªtwo days before to two days after¡ªgoing on adventures.¡±


    ¡°Adventures!¡± Otto grinned. ¡°What fun!¡±


    ¡°What kinds of adventures?¡± Uzoma watched with interest as a priest came out of the chapel and onto the quadrangle, then turned around to look up at what everyone was pointing at. If he yelled, I couldn¡¯t hear him, but I could see very clearly that both of his hands had flown to his head. He turned and ran back inside.


    ¡°Defacing chapels, apparently,¡± Barti murmured. I got the distinct impression he was trying not to laugh, possibly with nerves. He was very carefully avoiding eye contact with me.


    I myself was not a nervous laugher, but if we didn¡¯t do something soon, I was going to give myself away in some other, probably less deniable fashion. Or Sheshef would spot me. She might already have.


    I had to go. Now.


    With a tremendous effort of will, I forced myself to turn away casually. ¡°Winged Ones are always going after shiny things. Let¡¯s go; I hear the ale calling me.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± yelped Otto. ¡°You¡¯re going to leave? I need to see if this creature makes off with the weathervane!¡±


    ¡°She won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°She?¡± Otto squinted. ¡°You can tell it¡¯s a female from here?¡±


    I waved my hand in desperate dismissal, and sought safety in crassness. ¡°You¡¯d be seeing more between the legs if it were a male. She¡¯ll just fly off once she¡¯s grown bored.¡± My own words, my own dismissive tone, ripped at my heart, but not as strongly as the fear that gripped it. ¡°They mess with the weathervanes at home too, but never take them. They can¡¯t carry anything that heavy when they fly. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen a Winged One before,¡± Uzoma murmured. He sounded awed, and extremely uninterested in ale. ¡°At home, we only have the Bes.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go, Leo,¡± Barti said quietly. He was doing a good job of hiding his regret; he might never have seen a Winged One this close before, either. He wanted to stay. ¡°I¡¯m thirsty.¡±


    Fly away, I urged silently. I, too, wanted to stay. I didn¡¯t know what the University would do about her. Try to shoo her away, probably¡ªbut how? I bit my lip. If they did something to hurt her¡­


    But Sheshef, either genuinely bored or finally sensing her risk at last, spread her wings wide¡ªI could hear gasps of wonder from the other students¡ªcaught an updraft, and lifted gracefully away from the steeple. She spiraled up and out of sight against the sun.


    ¡°Well!¡± said Uzoma. He chuckled and shook his head. ¡°What a treat. Never seen one before.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d never seen one that close,¡± Otto said, sounding awed.


    ¡°Me neither,¡± Barti said quietly. I heard an echo of an apology in his voice. ¡°I¡¯m glad she flew away before somebody tried to throw something at her though.¡±


    ¡°She was on top of a church,¡± Otto said breezily. ¡°Nobody¡¯s going to hurl stones at a church.¡± He turned at last and slung his arms over Barti and Uzoma. ¡°All right, who¡¯s for that ale?¡±

 Chapter 29. You Have Telescopes At Home

    ¡°You know her, don¡¯t you?¡±


    I startled slightly at the sound of Barti¡¯s voice. I hadn¡¯t known he was still awake. Otto and Uzoma had significantly more alehouse stamina than either of us; they were still out. It was only the two of us in the suite. I was sitting on my bed, staring out the window, but hadn¡¯t yet closed my door.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I admitted softly. I didn¡¯t have to ask him what he¡¯d meant.


    Barti stepped inside and closed the door, then sat solemnly in my desk chair. ¡°Is she a relative?¡±


    I shook my head. ¡°No. My mother¡¯s mother was foreign to the local flock, and moved on shortly after she gave birth. No nearby cousins that I know of.¡±


    Barti sat in silent thought for a moment. ¡°Do you think she followed you here?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± My voice was sharp with anger and worry. ¡°I do. It was reckless of her. I didn¡¯t think she could fly this far. Didn¡¯t think she would fly this far,¡± I amended.


    ¡°She told you she was going to?¡±


    ¡°No. But I¡¯m not surprised. She wants to look through a telescope, and I told her the University had a really big one.¡± I shook my head again. ¡°And I don¡¯t know how she¡¯s going to make it back on time, if it took her four days to get here. I don¡¯t even know how she got away early enough to follow me. And now she only has two days to get back.¡±


    ¡°What happens if she doesn¡¯t get back in time?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± I rubbed my face. ¡°I¡¯m worried she¡¯s not even going to try¡ªnot until she¡¯s looked through the telescope. It wouldn¡¯t be the first time she¡¯s run away.¡±


    Barti raised his eyebrows. ¡°Run away?¡±


    ¡°Flown away, in her case. When we were twelve.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    I felt heat rise in my face, but managed to keep my voice neutral as I replied, ¡°Some cultural thing I never understood.¡±


    Barti gave me a long, appraising look, then folded his arms over his chest thoughtfully. ¡°She likes you.¡±


    I took in a sharp breath. Sins of the father, Master Fiore whispered in my mind. Sins of the son.


    ¡°She likes contraptions,¡± I said suppressively. ¡°They all do. Telescopes, weathervanes. I¡¯ve made a few, using my father¡¯s workshop and tools. I taught her how to pick locks when we were younger.¡±


    ¡°She flew a long way just for a telescope.¡±


    I groaned and buried my face in my hands. ¡°I know. But that is absolutely something she would do. She was so stubborn, she refused to go home even when her ribs were broken.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t your father have telescopes?¡±


    ¡°Yes! That¡¯s why this is so reckless! She could just wait until I¡¯m back at the end of next term!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a pretty long time to wait,¡± Barti offered.


    I was about to make some objection, but just then the door to the suite opened in the common room. Otto and Uzoma stumbled in, slurring affably at each other. It sounded like they were trying to remember the words to a drinking song, without much success.


    Barti gave me a half-smile, then stood and left. He closed the door behind himself.


    ??


    Sheshef was not the only one who had followed me to University.


    The very next day, earlier than any of us would have cared for, there was a knock at the door. I was the first who stumbled out to get it, clad in only a nightshirt and robe, blinking blearily. I fumbled at the door for a good ten seconds before I managed to get it open¡ªonly to find myself face to face with a mustachio¡¯d Francesca.


    I stared. ¡°What the hell.¡±


    ¡°Good morning, old chum!¡±


    ¡°This is not a good time, Franco.¡±


    ¡°Oh, surely you won¡¯t turn a chap away at your door? Come now, it¡¯s nearly nine o¡¯clock.¡±


    I groaned and let her in.


    Barti came out as well, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He blinked at our guest several times, clearly trying to parse what he was seeing. ¡°Francesca?¡± he asked at last.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t have the Franco voice today; Francesca it will have to be. I just wore this to get into your dormitory.¡± Francesca threw herself onto the sofa comfortably. ¡°The rest of my luggage is all dresses.¡±


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Visiting you, before classes start properly.¡±


    ¡°You could have just asked,¡± I said, exasperated. ¡°We are allowed visitors, you know.¡±


    ¡°This is more fun.¡± Francesca helped herself to a tin of nuts left out by Uzoma. ¡°Gosh, these are good. What are they?¡±


    ¡°Cashews.¡± Uzoma himself had emerged, wrapped in a spectacular blanket, bright with pattern. ¡°They grow well in our gardens at home. And who do I have the honor of greeting on this overly-bright morning?¡±


    ¡°Lady Francesca, at your service.¡± With absolutely no indication that she recalled she was wearing a mustache, Francesca stood and extended her hand.


    Uzoma took it and bowed courteously. ¡°Lady Francesca, a pleasure. I am Prince Uzoma.¡±


    ¡°Oh! Your highness.¡± Francesca dipped a trousered curtsy. ¡°Apologies, I am quite without skirts at the moment.¡±


    ¡°Please do not distress yourself over such matters, my lady. Your mustache more than makes up for it.¡±


    I made a note to myself to buy Otto the next round of ale, for finding us such a fine Paffuto replacement.


    ¡°How long will you be in town?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Only a few days.¡± Francesca re-seated herself and ate another cashew. ¡°I only have a couple items of business to attend to here.¡±


    ¡°What might that business be, my lady?¡± asked Uzoma. He was clearly genuinely interested, and not merely asking out of politeness. It was understandable; the business of any mustachio¡¯d lady would likely be intriguing.


    ¡°Marriage,¡± she replied bluntly. ¡°Oh don¡¯t make that face at me, Leo; subtlety got me nowhere all summer. I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯re looking for a wife, Prince Uzoma?¡±


    ¡°Alas, I am not.¡± Uzoma seated himself in an armchair, jewel-bright blanket still wrapped about him. ¡°My mother thinks otherwise, but I am confident I have the right of it for the next, oh, six or seven years, at least.¡±


    ¡°Ah, well. It was worth the ask.¡± Francesca ate another cashew.


    ¡°Do you typically conduct your marital searches in a mustache?¡±


    ¡°More often than you might think, actually.¡±


    Otto stumbled out of his bedroom wearing nothing more than his nightshirt, eyes screwed up in a yawn. ¡°Did one of you bring a girl home last night?¡± he asked incredulously. ¡°Am I hearing a girl out here?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Francesca,¡± Barti replied, amused.


    ¡°What, really?¡± Otto blinked at her. ¡°So it is. I¡¯d apologize for my appearance, but something tells me we¡¯re not standing on ceremony this morning.¡±


    ¡°I think my mustache is very ceremonial.¡±


    Otto turned to me. ¡°I will apologize to you, then,¡± he said, voice hitching in another yawn, ¡°for razzing you all last year about your missives to the mystery woman of your forlorn heart.¡±


    Francesca snorted. Her mustache hairs fluttered.


    Otto came around the back of the sofa and grabbed a handful of cashews before heading back to his room. ¡°Thank you again for bringing these, Uzo, despite your limited cargo space on the ship,¡± he called. ¡°They are restorative. I shall return when I am more restored.¡± And he closed his door again.


    Francesca looked at Uzoma with renewed interest. ¡°How often do you travel by ship?¡±


    ¡°Only twice a year, during school,¡± he replied. He took a handful of the cashews himself and tossed them into his mouth. ¡°Here and back again. In the summer, though, and throughout my childhood¡ªall the time!¡±


    ¡°With how large a crew?¡±


    ¡°Well, it depends on the ship¡­¡± And then he was off, describing the royal armada. Francesca listened raptly. It was a shame he wasn¡¯t actually looking for a wife, I reflected. Francesca would adore the life of a sea-prince, if she could arrange it.


    It was quite a while before I was able to pull her into my room for a private chat.


    ¡°I wanted to let you know,¡± I said quietly, once I had shut the door¡ªwe were so far past chaperones and appearances by now, it was laughable¡ª¡°I am going to try to graduate as quickly as possible. Only two more years, if I load my schedule.¡±


    Francesca frowned. ¡°Why? I thought you liked it here?¡±


    ¡°I do,¡± I said. ¡°But I don¡¯t know if I can keep my secret long enough.¡±


    Her frown deepened. ¡°Did something else happen?¡±


    I took a deep breath. ¡°Sheshef followed me here.¡±


    Francesca went white under her mustache. We didn¡¯t speak of Sheshef often, but Francesca knew about her¡ªknew everything.


    Almost everything.


    ¡°What did she do?¡± Francesca breathed.


    ¡°Just landed on top of the steeple and played with the weathervane¡ªso far.¡±


    ¡°She hasn¡¯t tried to contact you?¡±


    ¡°Not yet. But she might.¡± I ran my hands through my hair. ¡°I think she wants to look through the big telescope here. I told her we had one.¡±


    ¡°But you have telescopes at home!¡±


    ¡°I know!¡± I hissed. ¡°Never in a million years did I think she would follow me down here to come see this one!¡±


    Francesca plucked fretfully at her mustache. ¡°What are you going to do?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± I paced around the room. It wasn¡¯t large. I moved like a tiger in a cage; a few steps one way, a few steps the other. ¡°Right now I¡¯m hoping she¡¯s already flown away again. And that she stays there.¡±


    ¡°Can you write a letter to your father? Ask him to tell her to stay away?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how he¡¯d get ahold of her without going through her father, and I don¡¯t want to get her in trouble. She may already be in trouble.¡±


    There was a soft knock at the door. I opened it: Barti peered in. I gestured him in as well and shut the door.


    ¡°I think your Winged friend is going to be on time,¡± he said, voice barely above a whisper. ¡°Assuming she leaves today.¡±


    ¡°How do you figure?¡±


    He pulled a ragged old map from his pocket, covered with hasty calculations. Francesca looked over his shoulder. ¡°Four days in a carriage for you isn¡¯t actually that long for her. Look. Check my math.¡±


    I snatched the paper from him, my heart growing lighter. He was right. ¡°So now we just have to hope she got away safely.¡±


    Francesca looked grim. ¡°And that she doesn¡¯t try to come back.¡±

 Chapter 30. Forbidden

    She came back.


    I worried about it all month, with increasing intensity. I was too preoccupied by my own problems to assist Francesca at all in her search for a husband. My task, which I had volunteered for with every intention of following through¡ªbefriending the two gentlemen she had found least tedious from her party (the two I had surprised under the willow, in point of fact)¡ªwas left completely abandoned. I felt bad, but in retrospect, I think they would have been more alarmed than pleased by any overt overtures I might have made towards befriending them. Even just nodding at them as we passed in the corridor resulted in the blood draining from their face and a hasty departure. And it saved me the trouble of having to somehow navigate expressing interest in knowing them without inadvertently implying interest in knowing them.


    By the time the moon had next waxed nearly to full, I was jumping at every cloud and shadow. I stared out windows incessantly, rather than attending to my lessons. And when, sure enough, I spotted a Winged silhouette approaching from the north¡ªI was lucky enough to have been in my Linear Algebra class at the time, which was tucked away in a remote north-east corner of the oldest building¡ªI simply stumbled out of class with my hand on my stomach and my brow sheened with sweat. I didn¡¯t even have to feign illness; I had worried myself sick.


    Only one course of action, desperate and risky, had yielded itself to my fevered brainstorming all month. I ran to the University¡¯s Observatory as fast as I could.


    It was similar to my father¡¯s, insofar as it was also at the top of a tower. It was a lot of stairs to take at maximal speed, but take them I did. By the time I reached the top, my lungs were burning, my throat was raw, and my thighs felt like they were the size of logs. But I did not stop. I burst into the dome¡ªnobody was there during the day¡ªrolled the ladder to the scaffolding, swarmed up it like an ape, threw open the dome¡¯s maintenance hatch at the top, and thrust the pocket mirror I had been carrying with me out. I angled it back and forth, catching the light.


    I hoped it would be enough. I hoped that if it was enough, we wouldn¡¯t get caught.


    It was enough.


    Sheshef saw my glinting signal and arrowed straight for the Observatory. She backwinged to a precarious perch right on the lip of the dome¡¯s flange, where it met the stone of the tower, and folded her wings gracefully. There was no breeze to ruffle her feathers today, even this high. All was still. Golden spores glimmered in the air.


    I wanted to just gaze at her¡ªthe beads in her hair and around her neck, the muscles cording her chest and abdomen, the translucent tips of her cloud-gray primaries. Her nakedness, in all its wild, animalistic beauty. Her whiteless eyes, and how they looked at me with nothing more than eager curiosity.


    But I couldn¡¯t. There was no time.


    ¡°You can¡¯t be here,¡± I said, my voice cracking like an adolescent¡¯s. ¡°It is dangerous. You need to go right now.¡±


    Her nictitating membranes slid across her eyes, and she tilted her head slightly. ¡°How is it dangerous?¡±


    ¡°They will drive you off. I¡¯m afraid they''ll hurt you. Please, go.¡±


    ¡°Why would they drive me off?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re not allowed to be here!¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the rules!¡±


    She just stared at me.


    I tried again, remembering her own words. ¡°It is forbidden!¡±


    This elicited a troubled twitch of her wings. ¡°Telescopes are not forbidden.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I cried softly, trying to make sure my voice wouldn¡¯t carry further than her ears in the stillness of the warm afternoon, ¡°you are!¡±


    ¡°Me?¡±


    ¡°Yes! You are forbidden in this place! And so am I!¡±


    This only confused the matter. ¡°Then why are you here?¡±


    ¡°Because I am breaking the rules!¡±Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Her face cleared. ¡°Oh. Then I will break them, too.¡±


    ¡°No!¡±


    Sheshef seemed curiously immune to my agony. He peered down at the dome in interest, and toed with with a naked foot. She had a string of beads around her ankle, blue and red. ¡°Is this where the telescope is?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yes, but I can¡¯t show it to you! You can¡¯t see through it during the day, and at night others will be using it. Please, go home. I will show you the telescopes at home. I promise.¡±


    ¡°When?¡±


    ¡°In May.¡±


    She stared uncomprehendingly.


    ¡°At the end of spring,¡± I clarified. The part of my mind devoted to nothing more than inanities mused that I should probably try and find a calendar to give her at some point, so she would understand my references.


    She frowned. ¡°That is a very long time from now.¡±


    ¡°I know it is, but I have no choice. Please.¡± I thought I heard footsteps below. ¡°Please¡ªdo you remember what your brothers did to you? For kissing me?¡±


    Her face clouded. ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°There are people here that will do that to me if they catch me just talking to you¡ªpeople that would do it to you, too, if they got the chance. This place is different than home.¡± There was definitely somebody ascending the stairs. ¡°I have to go; somebody is coming. Fly away.¡±


    Then I hauled myself back in and slammed the maintenance hatch shut.


    I scurried back down the ladder and raced for the exit. It opened just as I reached it. My heart leaped into my throat.


    It was Barti.


    ¡°Oh, thank God.¡± I swayed with relief. ¡°Barti, you almost killed me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± Barti slipped in and shut the door behind himself. ¡°I saw you go sprinting across the quad and figured you must have come here. She came?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Did you talk to her?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Is she flying back?¡±


    ¡°God, I hope so.¡± I passed a hand over my sweaty face. It was more than sweat, I realized with shame: there were tears there too. Barti mercifully did not comment. ¡°Did anybody else see her?¡±


    ¡°If they did, I didn¡¯t hear about it. I was the only other person coming here that I saw.¡±


    I wiped my face again. ¡°Thank God,¡± I mumbled. This was the most religious day in my life to date.


    Barti looked around at the observatory in interest. ¡°I¡¯ve never been up here before. Is it always this empty?¡±


    ¡°During the day, yes.¡±


    ¡°Hm.¡± Barti wandered around, looking at things vaguely. I got the sense that he was thinking more than he was really looking at anything in particular. ¡°Stars are part of their religion, you said?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And you create the means to observe them.¡±


    I looked up dully, not yet fully recovered from my tribulations. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You make telescopes.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never made a whole telescope.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve worked on your father¡¯s though, have you not?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Barti gazed contemplatively up at the top of the dome. ¡°Do you think she thinks of you as a god?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ no. Not a god. A prophet though. Yes.¡± He was warming up to his own idea. ¡°A seer, perhaps.¡±


    ¡°They have their own priest-caste for reading the stars. Astrologers.¡±


    ¡°A Titan,¡± Barti murmured, a small smile on his face. ¡°Prometheus, bringing the gift of fire. No wonder she likes you.¡±


    ¡°She likes the telescopes, Barti.¡±


    ¡°If you say so.¡±


    I became abruptly furious. ¡°What are you getting at, Barti?¡± I yelled. ¡°Just say it!¡±


    Bari looked astonished. ¡°I¡¯m not getting at anything. I just think she likes you.¡±


    Sins of the father, sins of the son.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t funny,¡± I snarled. I wiped my face again. My sleeve was growing damp. ¡°Her own people tried to get my grandmother to kill my mother as soon as she was born. Hatched.¡±


    Barti looked shocked, then ashamed. ¡°I¡¯m sor¡ª¡±


    ¡°My other grandmother was so shocked when my mother became pregnant with me, she died.¡± Pervert. Abomination. Mongrel. ¡°She died of learning of my mere existence.¡±


    Funny: Master Fiore had taught me what to do when others used those words against me. He had said nothing about what to do when I used them against myself.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Leo,¡± Bari repeated quietly.


    It wasn¡¯t his fault. I needed to stop. He knew what I was, and had stayed my friend, kept my secret. I needed to stop.


    I sat down, hard. ¡°I just¡ªI need you to stop talking. For a minute. Please.¡±


    Barti stood, somber and silent, and let me catch my breath.


    After a while, I wiped my face and stood again. ¡°Thank you. I¡¯m sorry I yelled.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all right,¡± he said quietly. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have been making light of things.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± I brushed imaginary dust off my trousers and did not meet his eyes. ¡°It¡¯s not your fault. You didn¡¯t do anything. I just¡ªI just hope nobody saw her this time.¡±


    But somebody had.

 Chapter 31. Aliist

    Many somebodies had.


    I heard snatches of conversation about her at the dining hall that night. I sat at the table, tense and miserable, trying my best to eavesdrop without seeming to do so. Barti kept casting anxious glances at me as I focused on everything but the conversation at hand: ¡­landed on the Observation tower¡­ drive it off¡­ migrating?... seen one before¡­ birdshot¡­


    ¡°Birdbath!¡± The wallop between my shoulderblades was painful.


    I closed my eyes. ¡°Hello, Paffuto.¡±


    Paffuto threw himself down on the chair next to me and helped himself to the roll on my plate. ¡°I say, did you get a look at the Winged One earlier?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I replied shortly.


    ¡°He was sick,¡± Barti supplied. ¡°We think it might be contagious.¡±


    Paffuto put the roll back on my plate, looking as though he regretted committing to swallowing the bite he had already taken. ¡°Ah, that¡¯s a shame. Quite the spectacle. Naked as a jaybird, muscles like a greyhound. No tits whatsoever.¡±


    My hand clenched around my fork.


    ¡°We know what Winged Ones look like, Paffuto,¡± Barti said, voice as serene as always.


    ¡°You would, wouldn¡¯t you, Barti? I¡¯ve seen your books.¡± Paffuto leered. ¡°Your biology books. Very educational, they are.¡±


    With his brother under fire, Otto turned his attention to the situation. ¡°I¡¯m surprised you had any time to read Barti¡¯s biology books, Paffuto,¡± he said, matching tone for tone. ¡°I don¡¯t know if I ever saw you crack one of your own. If you did, your marks certainly never reflected it.¡±


    ¡°My goodness,¡± Paffuto said, feigning distress. He placed a hand over his heart, fingers splayed. ¡°We are snippy tonight, aren¡¯t we? What¡¯s gotten into you, lads?¡± He looked from face to face, his own a comical parody of concern. ¡°Going all tender-hearted over the vermin?¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± The words were out before I could stop them.


    ¡°Half the students have their knickers in a twist over the thought of the Winged One getting driven off next time. Soft-hearted sots, going all misty-eyed over a little birdshot.¡± Paffuto snagged Barti¡¯s roll next. Barti didn¡¯t see it; he was looking at me, face wan with warning. My chest was too tight to speak.


    ¡°As if any animal,¡± Paffuto went on obliviously, mouth full of bread, ¡°would even have the capacity to¡ª¡±


    I stood up so suddenly I knocked my chair over. Several people ceased their conversion and looked over.


    ¡°You have no idea what you¡¯re talking about,¡± I said, voice low. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. ¡°None.¡±


    Paffuto looked genuinely startled for a moment. But as he set the pilfered roll down, his expression twisted to one of condescension. ¡°Leo,¡± he said, voice dripping with false heartiness, ¡°don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re an Aliist? A right-thinking man like yourself?¡±


    ¡°He might not be,¡± Prince Uzoma cut in, cheerful as always, ¡°but I am.¡± He stood, grinning broadly. ¡°What do you say to that, Paffuto?¡±


    Paffuto stood as well, very slowly, and looked down his nose at the Prince. ¡°I don¡¯t believe I was talking to you, n¡ª¡±


    Prince Uzoma moved so fast, I barely saw him. There was a blur of motion over the top of the table, and suddenly Paffuto was flat on the floor, howling, blood streaming from his nose. There were exclamations all around, and a scraping of chair legs as other students surged to their feet and crowded around.


    Prince Uzoma ambled around the table, still smiling, and bent over Paffuto¡¯s writhing form. He cupped a hand to his ear. ¡°What was that?¡± he asked pleasantly. ¡°Were you about to say something?¡±


    Paffuto brayed incoherently on the floor.


    ¡°It sounded to me,¡± the Prince continued, straightening up again, ¡°that you were about to apologize. Isn¡¯t that right, Otto?¡±


    Otto and Barti were the only two students still seated. Otto took a languid sip of wine. ¡°Now that you mention it,¡± he said, ¡°it did.¡±Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°Well then.¡± Prince Uzoma gestured expansively. ¡°We¡¯re all waiting, Paffuto.¡±


    Paffuto finally scrambled to his feet, his face and necktie a bloody mess. I couldn¡¯t tell what he spluttered in response, but it very clearly wasn¡¯t an apology.


    ¡°Oh dear,¡± Otto said mildly.


    Thirty seconds later, the entire dining hall was in an uproar, Paffuto was fully unconscious on the ground, and Prince Uzoma was standing over him, both fists clenched. ¡°Anybody else?¡± he called, grinning maniacally. ¡°Any other bigot here care to grace us with his opinion?¡±


    A few isolated imprecations were audible above the hubbub, which then immediately devolved into a flurry of side-scuffles. Chairs overturned. Plates crashed to the floor.


    And I just stood there in shock, taking deep gulping breaths, feeling as though something should be happening¡ªas though my back should be burning, as though I should be sprouting feathers of defiance on the spot¡ªbut nothing did. I just stood and breathed.


    ??


    Paffuto¡¯s nose was broken, and his parents were very upset. They were also outranked. They wanted Prince Uzoma expelled, but he was simply made to write an apology letter and pay a fine. The Prince wrote his letter during the three days of his in-suite suspension, in excellent humor, with a bottle of wine and fresh tin of cashews by his elbow. He would shout out occasionally, asking for synonyms for ¡°egregious¡± and ¡°unwarranted¡± and ¡°asshole.¡± We obliged, most unhelpfully, with the various adjectives we felt most aptly described Paffuto.


    On the final evening of his suspension, I finally had a chance to thank him. He was sitting in front of the fire, reading a book, while Otto and Barti were in town entertaining a visiting cousin. I perched awkwardly in the chair opposite him and took a deep breath. I wasn¡¯t sure how to do this.


    Without looking up from his book, he spoke first: ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    ¡°I¡ªhow did you know what I was going to say?¡±


    ¡°It was on your face.¡± Uzoma set his book down on his knee and peeled off his spectacles. ¡°So: you¡¯re welcome. And thank you, for providing me with a righteous excuse to fight.¡± He smiled, gently this time. ¡°But there is something I want in return.¡±


    I tensed uneasily, but all I said was, ¡°Of course.¡±


    Uzoma polished his spectacles on the sleeve of his shirt, looking surprisingly like my father. ¡°I would like to know,¡± he said, voice no more than a murmur, ¡°whether it is you that is part Winged One, or someone you love.¡±


    I went absolutely rigid. ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡±


    The Prince put his spectacles back on. ¡°I have known you but a short while, Leo,¡± he said kindly, ¡°but I have never seen you respond to anything like that. If I hadn¡¯t hit him, I think you might have. And I¡¯ll wager you never hit anyone in anger before. Am I wrong?¡±


    ¡°I¡ªperhaps.¡±


    ¡°So?¡± He looked up at me mildly. ¡°Which is it? You, or a loved one?¡±


    My heart was in my throat. ¡°Queen¡¯s University doesn¡¯t admit¡ª¡±


    Prince Uzoma laughed. ¡°They do, though. Everybody knows it. Everybody¡¯s willing to look away, especially when money is involved.¡± His smile widened into a grin. ¡°Or a Prince.¡±


    I gaped. ¡°Are you¡ª?¡±


    Uzoma¡¯s grin was feral now. ¡°My great-great-great-great-grandfather was Bes. I¡¯m one sixty-fourth. To look at me though, you¡¯d think it was more.¡± Uzoma flexed proudly. ¡°Are these not the muscles of a lion? And I have the stature to match! No tail, alas. Nor mane. Too bad; I¡¯m sure I would look magnificent with a mane. I hear my great-great-great-grandfather¡¯s was spectacular.¡± He stopped flexing and sobered. ¡°One sixty-fourth is supposed to be prohibitive for Queen¡¯s, but fund a new administrative office, and suddenly, you¡¯re just adding a touch of cultural je ne sais quoi to the student body, not tarnishing it.¡± Uzoma shrugged. ¡°I didn¡¯t lie on my admission forms. Did you?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t read mine very carefully,¡± I mumbled, then clamped my mouth shut.


    Uzoma grinned, delighted. ¡°It is you! I thought so! What are you, one thirty-second? One sixteenth, like dear Francesca?¡±


    I looked away. ¡°Does Otto know? About you?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Uzoma replied instantly. ¡°I hope everybody knows. I make no secret of it, and I am a vocal Aliist to boot. I shall be most put out if Paffuto doesn¡¯t know by now himself. But you didn¡¯t answer the question.¡±


    He could just look it up. There was no sense in hiding it. It was right there in the peerage, screamingly obvious in omission. I looked down at my clasped hands and whispered, ¡°One quarter.¡±


    ¡°Eh?¡±


    ¡°One quarter!¡± My knuckles were white.


    ¡°One quarter?¡± Even Uzoma, it seemed, had not been expecting that. He took his spectacles off again and scratched his head. He did not speak for a while, and he did not smile. ¡°You must have to be very careful in the bath,¡± he said at last.


    ¡°Not if everybody already knows,¡± I replied miserably. I put my face in my hands. ¡°At this rate I¡¯m going to be expelled in a month.¡±


    ¡°Does Barti know?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Good man,¡± Uzoma said heartily. He put his spectacles back on. ¡°I knew I liked him.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not worried about being expelled?¡± I asked.


    Uzoma shrugged. ¡°After they went through all the trouble of admitting me in the first place, knowing what they know? Not really. And so what if they do? Their loss.¡± He leaned over to peer at me. ¡°You really are worried though, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    I took my hands away from my face. ¡°Because they don¡¯t get to take this from me.¡±


    ¡°Hm.¡± Uzoma sat back again. ¡°Very well. We¡¯ll see to it that they don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°How?¡± I asked bleakly.


    ¡°Easy.¡± Uzoma¡¯s leonine smile had returned. ¡°I¡¯ll be sure to finish any fights you start. I have, quite literally, got your back.¡±