I did not start any more fights for the rest of the year.

I suppose, in theory, I didn’t start the first one, either. Not truly. That blame lay either with Paffuto or, from a strictly legal sense, with Uzoma himself. But Uzoma had been right: if he hadn’t stepped in with the first punch, it probably would have been mine.

Mostly, it was because I did not have to. Sheshef did not return. I scanned the skies every month with my heart in my throat, but they remained empty of anything other than clouds and birds and the ceaseless, glittering spores. I was entirely relieved.

Almost entirely.

A small, traitorous part of myself longed to see her there, her shadow spilling across the ground, dove-gray wings caressing the air as she backwinged to a perch: the steeple, the Observatory dome, my windowsill. I dreamed of it once, on the night of the full moon: that she came to my window and landed there, pushed it open just enough to peer in at me, her eyes darker even than her shadowed face, making no sound at all. Simply looking. As soon as I awoke the next morning, I rushed to my window, to look for signs that it had been real, but there was nothing to see. The window was latched.

I did not see her again until I returned home for the summer. In fact, she didn’t even wait for me to get all the way home.

The carriage had stopped by the side of the road near a stream rilling down the dark cliffside face so Giacomo and I could stretch our legs and relieve ourselves, still half a day’s worth of road before us until we reached the villa. Giacomo had stepped to the other side of the carriage again to see to the horses, and I was about to re-fasten my trousers, when suddenly a pebble rattled down from above. I looked up.

Sheshef was bathing in a waterfall, halfway up the cliff.

My mouth fell open, but no words came out.

I didn’t know what to do. She was right there, in full view of me and Giacomo and God and everybody—the horses, even—as heedless of her privacy as always. Giacomo hadn’t seen her yet; if he had, he would have said something, or made a noise at least. But he would see her as soon as he looked up. And if I shouted at her to go away, he most certainly would look up.

I, meanwhile, could not look away.

Her motions were even more birdlike than I was accustomed to seeing from her. She ran her fingers through her hair no differently than the maids I’d inadvertently spied on by the well one summer day, back when I was no more than seven, and she scrubbed at her face and neck much as I did. But then she knelt to the shallow pool of water cupped in the rock and wallowed briskly, shivering and fluffing her feathers, no different from any sparrow or finch. Sparkling droplets flung from her feathers rained down upon my upturned face.

As if in a dream, trousers still not fastened—and it might have been somewhat difficult to do so now—I reached down for the pebble that she had knocked loose, thinking I could throw it at her—gently!—to capture her attention. Get her to look at me, urge her to fly away, with my eyes and my arms and the silent mouthing of my lips.

But the pebble stayed in my hand. I was transfixed.

When finally she looked at me, nictitating membranes sliding free of her eyes now that the water was no longer in danger of splashing into them, I said nothing, did nothing. My pulse was fast, my breathing shallow. All thoughts had fled. My blood was elsewhere. My mind was as empty as a pumpkin.

And then Giacomo gasped.

I jumped, nearly convulsing. My hand flew to my trousers, thinking to fasten them at last—but no, now my hand was there, that would seem even worse—I whipped it away again, torn, still staring—

“Git!” Giacomo hollered.

Sheshef ceased her preening and stared at him impassively.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Go on!” He waved his arms at her impotently. “Shoo!”

Sheshef looked back at me, eyebrows raised slightly, as though saying Can you believe this idiot?

I bit my lip, hard. Giacomo had known me since I was a babe. He knew what I was. He knew my father, and what he did. But even from him, I should keep some secrets.

How much did I dare to reveal?

“Sheshef,” I said, keeping my voice as even as I could, “it’s probably best if you do that elsewhere. This road is fairly busy at this time of year.”

Giacomo turned to me, his eyebrows even higher than hers.

“She’s from the local flock,” I explained, feeling my blood begin to migrate north again in the form of a flush. I hoped it would keep Giacomo’s attention away from anything lower. I turned away and climbed back into the carriage. “Let’s go.”

I gritted my teeth as the carriage lurched forward again, willing myself into a less prurient frame of mind. Birdbath. I did not want Paffuto’s slur to become any more real.

But I could not rid my mind of her. And when at last we quitted the carriage, and my things had been taken up to my room, and the villa had dined and settled for the night, I flung every single window wide open and paced in circles, around and around. I could not sleep. I could not think.

She had waited months.

And so had I.

Sheshef did not come that night; the moon was waxing still. I barely slept, feverish and addled. When I woke, I went to the Observation Tower and cast about inside, rummaging through the piles of discarded components, waiting for inspiration to strike. But nothing came to me even then. I could not concentrate on anything. All I could see in my mind’s eye, so accustomed to cams and worm drives and lenses, and the positions of the stars and planets, was water sluicing from wingtips.

I stomped outside, restless and irritable, and nearly ran into Master Fiore.

I was so out of sorts, I simply said the first thing that came to mind: “I don’t have fencing today.”

“Good morning to you too, Master deRye,” Fiore replied acidly. “I do hope your journey wasn’t too taxing.”

I sighed and rubbed my face. “Well met, Master Fiore. What brings you to the villa on this fine day?”

“I am permitted to make social calls, am I not?”

I stared at him blankly.

“I heard you had something of a ‘social call’ of your own, on the road,” he added mercilessly.

I looked over Fiore’s shoulder, where another man had appeared: Giacomo. He was red as a strawberry, and he was frantically combing his hair with his fingers.

Social call.

“Indeed,” I replied slowly.

Fiore glared at me, daring me to say something. And once again, I simply said the first thing that came to mind: “Too bad you’re not noble. I think you would have made an excellent husband for Francesca.”

Somewhat to my surprise, Fiore laughed. “I’m far too old for her,” he said lightly. “People would talk.” Then he clapped me jovially on the back and ambled off with a spring in his step.

I turned back to look at Giacomo, seeing with much fresher eyes now the memory of his initial abduction of Fiore from the tavern when I insisted on having the fencing lessons to which I was entitled. That was not the first time they had met. No wonder Giacomo knew where he lived.

Giacomo somehow went even redder—he now looked like a beet—ducked his head, and rushed to the stables.

I would not antagonize the poor man further. Instead, I turned my feet to the forest path behind the villa. I had to see to my orrery.

It had accreted a great deal of dirt and chaff throughout the year, and several bird nests. I checked them for eggs, but it was too late in the year; all that was left were shells. Still, I took them out gently and set them aside. They rocked gently in the breeze as I labored over the metal rings and gears, brushing them free of grit and grass. I had to go back for rags and oil, and even so, I wound up taking my shirt off to use it for the final buff as the afternoon grew golden. I stopped only when my hunger ravaged my stomach—and I returned afterwards, as the shadows turned the forest a smoky blue.

And there was Sheshef, already perched at the very top, dark eyes gleaming with excitement, wings half-spread for balance, gray and gold in the sunset. It took every ounce of self restraint I possessed to keep my pace even, to not bound to her like a pup.

As soon as she saw me approaching, she leaped from the top of the orrery and glided to the ground, coming to a graceful halt just in front of me. She held something in her hand, and offered it up for inspection.

I took it from her wordlessly and examined it. It was a paper rose, so cunningly crafted that only the feel of it hinted that it hadn’t grown naturally from the ground.

“I made paper for you,” she said shyly.

I leaned down and kissed her.