A night sermon. Crestana hated those, less for what they entailed and more because they'd often run long into the night. They'd keep her awake until the early hours of the morning, and her urges to dose off were often met with hushed disapproval.

A real Beak doesn't need to sleep.

Crestana wished those who preached such things would say it to the whole city. Sleeping for a Beak was a luxury modern times gave them, like how many humans ate three times a day when they could go without.

But they held the old ways synonymous with nobility and purity, and kept up such traditions like monks on some forgotten hillside.

Crestana had seen the rest of Excala; she knew exactly why most Beaks had abandoned 'purity' and 'nobility'.

She completed the final stroke in her hair routine, the mask verbalising a sigh as her brush swept past the ends of her hair for the hundredth time that hour.

Then came the nail clippers. Crestana knew to be careful with them: her father had a particular dislike for the sound. Always telling her off, saying it felt like there was a human in the house.

She clipped them anyway, as loudly as she could. She hadn't seen him today. For all she knew, he could be dead. For all he knew, she hadn't been attacked that day.

That's how it was. That's how it would be.

Her room had been a haven for as long as she could remember, but even that was beginning to pale in comparison to the freedom she got at the academy.

There were people she knew, albeit barely. Their plastic smiles weren't enough to fool her, but at least they were smiles.

Well...no. There was one interesting person, of course.

She stood from her mirror table and ventured over to the study desk by her bed. Meek, but it was leagues better than the suffocating writing desks in her classrooms, too small to fit even her elbows comfortably.

But the telephone sitting on her bedside table interrupted her return to the stack of homework. It rang in a pleasantly melodic way she wasn't quite used to. The telephone was mostly for show, after all. Very few people knew to call her on it, so Crestana could guess within a few people who the caller was.

"Hello, Crestana Mallorine speaking."

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"Hello, Crestana. I hope I'm not bothering you at all," her music teacher greeted. She could hear the maladroit grin from across the wire.

"Not at all, Mr Forecer. Was there something you wanted to talk about?"

"No...nothing in particular. Just that...I heard something happened to you today. Are you all right?"

"Ah...yes, actually. It isn't anything to worry about, Mr Forecer. I was just feeling unwell and--"

"Please, Crestana. Tell me the truth."

His voice had always carried an erratic quality that made him seem constantly sheepish, but the way he spoke to her then was something entirely different.

"I uh...it seems like it had something to do with magic, I believe. I'm not sure what, however. Really, nothing serious."

"I see...," he sighed over the phone. "Look...Crestana...."

"...what is it?"

"...nothing.... Sorry. I just haven't spoken to you since...what happened to your mother and all."

"I see," Crestana answered, now conscious of regulating how much emotion seeped into her voicebox. "It's affected us all deeply, but we're coping."

"I...."

He wanted to interject. She knew that much; the pause that came after one caught themselves before saying something brash.

"I'm sorry that...I can't hear you out."

"Excuse me?" Crestana asked, nervously.

"Nothing. Sorry for bothering you, but the sermon must be starting soon. I'll talk to you at school, then."

The line cut before she could get another word in.

She stood by the doorway next to her father as a stream of pilgrims completed their weekly journey, stepping through their manor doorway while flaunting delicate fabrics, each valuable enough to feed a family for a year.

A suit here, a dress there. For deniers of the human invention of society, they benefitted more from it than most humans could ever dream.

But the last time she mentioned that, there were excuses prepared already.

She liked talking to humans more. With humans, it was easier to lie. Spirits were open books compared to them.

Let alone her father who, even then, remained utterly indecipherable. One guest after another, he welcomed them with a mass-produced greeting. Soulless, lacking any identity as though coming straight from a conveyor belt. What Beaks were supposed to be.

Only a hand-crafted voice box could translate his mute expressions into words.

"Hello Crestana," a familiar voice said after they walked through the front doors and greeted her father.

"Caynes," Crestana exclaimed, finally managing to feel as though she could pull a smile.

"How are you? Are you feeling any better?"

"Fine now," she told him, glancing at her father, who continued with the greetings as though hearing nothing.

"If you need a day off," he whispered, "I'll back your absence up, so don't worry about it."

"I'll be fine, thank you," she said. "But thank you for the offer."

Caynes gave a courteous bow. "Today's sermon is being dedicated to the Spirits in Regalina recently subjugated by the Vesmos empire...in case you weren't planning on listening in."

Crestana returned his bow. "You really are a teacher."

"How did you think I got the job?" Caynes chimed, before following the crowd further into the manor.

As much as Caynes's antics brought her a small, genuine joy, it pained her to admit it was never long-lasting.