29. Paris

Brett led the aggressor outside, as if it were a normal thing to fight in the middle of the street in the wee hours of the morning. He seemed... resigned to it. Strangely placid.

For a moment, I wondered if I was dreaming. This seemed too absurd to be real, and gods, Brett's relative casualness over the challenge had my head spinning.

The man had accused him of killing his sister—Clio, the wife. Brett's wife, who had died.

That had been a tidbit of reality I'd tucked away and chosen not to think about, but her diary had lain it all out so plainly. She hated the Hawk Clan, living away from home, being forced to compromise her pride for the sake of what, unity?

She'd hated Brett, which seemed so impossible to me now that I wondered how much of that hatred was her own and how much had been borrowed from someone else for worse reasons than being reluctantly forced into a marriage she didn't want.

But by all accounts, Brett had killed her in self-defense, and that knowledge twisted up in my stomach, making me feel nauseous all over again.

I wandered after them onto the front steps, Rosaline right behind me. Her tiny hands were pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide and blinking slow, green and bright as Brett's.

The first time Brett took a hit from Orestes, she made a sharp sound, spreading her fingers and hiding behind them, peeking out like she couldn't stand not to watch.

"It's..." I edged closer to her, pressing my arm against hers. We weren't close enough that I felt entitled to wrap and arm around her unbidden, but I wanted her to know that I was there and willing if she needed it. "It's going to be all right."

Wasn't it? Neither Brett nor his accuser had reached for a weapon, which seemed like a good sign to me, but men of sufficient fury could do considerable damage with fists alone. The only thing was, this struck me more as a drunken brawl than a gladiatorial bout.

And still, Rosaline trembled, squeezing her eyes shut tight and turning her face into my shoulder.

"It's my fault," she whimpered.

Through the fight, it was all she said, over and over. It was all her fault; she was so sorry. And when she looked up, she'd watch until one of them took a hit, then whimper and hide her face again.

Toward the end, she was shaking, watching it all play out, as Orestes threw Brett and?—

"Stop!" she cried. "Stop it!"

But they hadn't heard her, or weren't listening, and Orestes pulled his arm back, his fist clenched.

I didn't know what the hell I was doing when I threw myself forward—causing a diplomatic nightmare, for one thing. But Rosaline was right; I couldn't just stand idly by while this stranger took his rage out on Brett. He was?—

I owed him more than?—

I didn't know! I didn't know and I wasn't thinking and I shoved myself between them to Orestes's wide, horrified eyes. I flinched back from his fist.

Behind me, a sharp curse as Orestes tried to pull his punch. I grimaced, shrinking down, my whole body going rigid with fear.

I felt the hit, but it was like my body gave way before his fist—like he'd splashed harmlessly through water instead of bruising muscle and meat.

Suddenly, my clothes were?—

They were a mess, folded all around me, tangled around my arms and legs. The sound I made was sharp and strange as I struggled to escape. And above me?—

"Paris?" Brett breathed, drawing my gaze up.

And up.

And up still.

He was far above me, as wide eyed and worried as the man who'd attacked him.

I cried out again, another sharp sound, and freed my arms. All that mattered was getting away, somewhere safe.

High. Up high. Yes, that was the answer.

I spread my arms wide and felt the air against?—

Gods, I couldn't put a name to it, but I beat my arms and rose and rose. It took me a moment to realize that I was flying.

Sweet fuck, I was a bird.

When I looked at my arms, the strangeness finally registered, my feathers gently adjusting to the movement of air around me. It was all so natural, extraordinary, and?—

Oh gods, what was happening?

Another unholy squawk, and I landed on the roof of a nearby building. Everyone on the street—Brett and Orestes and all the villagers who'd come out to watch the fight—stared up at me, some smiling and pointing, others faintly surprised, but not one of them had screamed and run away in horror.

No, this was... this was normal here. Or at least, it wasn't impossible, like it would have been back home.

I shivered, shrinking into the cape of my folded wings against the cold and attention alike.

And then, in a swirl of magic and a flap of wings, Rosaline changed. She transformed into a little bird with a tiny hooked beak. Like something between a songbird and a hawk. A kestrel?

She flew up and sat beside me, and when she settled, she sidestepped along the edge of the roof until she was nestled into my feathers, pressed against my side, same as I'd done down below.

One with the birds, Brett said. Good gods.