31. Paris

Icould scarcely breathe as I watched Rosaline swoop down, one moment a small, graceful bird, the next a young woman, delicately stepping onto the ground with bare feet and quickly ushered back into the house against the cold.

I wasn't cold. No, I was covered in thick, downy feathers, insulated against the worst of it.

What the fuck was happening?

People all around the street were staring up at me, some speaking softly and some staring in awe because I was—I was a fucking bird. Were they all the same?

What I'd assumed to be religious fervor took on a new light—the dedication to birds, yes, but also feathers strung in their hair, thick cloaks laden down with them like enormous wings.

And something about sitting up there on the roof, watching Rosaline transform so easily—it hurt, but my mind couldn't untangle the why of it.

Maybe, it was that she'd lied to me—that they'd all kept this secret. Yes, as I prodded gently around the truth of that, blinking down at Chief Brett, so often called the Hawk, that did sting.

But this pain was something deeper. I—I would never be Paris, son of Sampson, again. At least, not in the way that I was used to.

I understood now, the ache in my bones that'd plagued me for days. They felt better now, light and flexible and strong all at once. I had changed.

I could not imagine changing back, and where would that leave me? At least in feathers, I didn't have to decide. I was not Nemedan, and I could not return to Urial with such a heavy secret and—and it would have to be a secret.

In Urial, no one believed in magic, only miracles spun by distant gods.

When I considered who I could tell that I housed a giant fluffy ball of fucking bird inside me, the list of people I might trust with that information was strikingly short: Helena and Hector.

Perhaps once, I'd have considered telling more people, but what friends I had back home were casual, and Tybalt? Gods, that would be a mistake, certainly now that I'd betrayed him.

Well, he'd betrayed me first.

In any case, what had been between us was broken. I'd have to be a fool to share this with him now.

Gods, a wave of failure crashed over me like an avalanche. How could I negotiate on behalf of my kingdom if I couldn't return to it?

"Paris?"

Below, on the walkway lining the street, Brett was staring up at me, a pucker between his brows. His voice was soft, but I could hear clearly like this—little things, like the scraping of tiny mice feet beneath the floorboards of the building I perched on.

I blinked, bunching even deeper into my shoulders.

"Can you change back?" he asked gently.

Some of the village children had come out. They rushed forward, grinning. "Change back, change back!" one of them chanted.

I didn't know if I could, but the pressure made it so much worse.

At an arched brow from Orestes, they fell silent, gulping.

Brett was still looking at me. In that pink, early morning light, the gold of his hair had turned a soft, pastel shade, and he looked—gods, he looked stricken. I'd not seen him so twisted in his grief since he'd thought there was nothing to be done for Esmerelda.

"It's all right if you can't right now, but please, come down. You still need rest. You—" He broke off, and his grimace crinkled the corners of his eyes. My heart lurched when he held up his arm, his elbow crooked so his forearm was held steady, parallel to the ground. The meaning was clear.

I'd seen falconers on the hunt before. Brett was calling me to him, and a strange skittering feeling rushed through my chest.

I pushed off the roof, using a pulse of my wings to slow my descent, to mark my landing.

When I gripped his arm, Brett hissed, but he held his arm steady. "Claws," he whispered.

But the perch was so unnatural, I didn't dare let go at first. I was afraid of falling, and of—of something else, like if I didn't hold onto him tight enough, I'd lose the one lifeline I had.

King Albany had sent me here. Had he known I'd fall ill? Planned for it? The whole business took on a darker tilt, and I picked up my clawed feet one at a time, marching on Brett's forearm until I found a comfortable position.

"That's a little better," he said, holding up his free hand. His fingers were crooked, held up for my inspection before he brushed them across my feathers. "You are amazing," he whispered.

I blinked, turning my head—gods, it was like my neck was made of rubber instead of bone—so I didn't have to look at him.

As much as anyone, Brett had kept all this from me. He'd left me to flounder in the dark and—and I didn't want to be amazing. All I really wanted was to understand what was happening to me, what everyone's placid acceptance of this meant.

There was so much I didn't know, that I hadn't been prepared for, and as Brett carried me inside, I didn't feel proud or beautiful or amazing. No, I felt like a fool and a sucker and a failure.

The Nemedans didn't worship birds, and I'd been making an absolute ass of myself from the start.