A vast, cavernous space, like a canyon or aircraft hangar, blinding white light just past the edge. Wind echoes across the entrance, howling and amplified by it. And somewhere down beneath, footsteps echo, as he paces up the steel pathway to the stark, bitter world outside the Machine.

His black shoes and brass buttons shine, and the blue collar of his uniform is neatly pressed. A wrinkled hand comes up to the brim of his spotless cap, and beneath it eyes narrow, and a pinched mouth frowns. She is late, and he does not like to be kept waiting.

Two sets of tapping sounds echo all around him, then come up beside him. The tapping of metal legs stops as the tiny robot arrives next to him, but its fingers keep on tapping the typewriter keys attached to its front, as though it were programming itself. No paper comes out the top, but its lamp-like head looks up at him, questioningly.

He ignores it and turns around, as though to go back inside. But then …

* * *

“Hello?”

The man across the ledge from Feather squinted up at her, and frowned. For a moment she thought “Is there something wrong with my dress?” and adjusted her straw hat nervously. Then she realized that she’d kept him waiting awhile, and strode up to where he was.

“Hello!” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Feather-”

“Cowl,” he said, barely moving her hand with his own. “Mister Cowl.”

“Do you have a first name?” she asked, letting go hesitantly.

“Yes.”

She stood at attention, starting to sweat, as he examined her as if inspecting a uniform. “Your appearance is not appropriate for the inside of the Machine,” he said, as he paced around to her side.

“Oh heck, there really is something wrong with my dress!” “W-what’s wrong?” she asked, and wondered if the small creature beside her was typing out a list of demerits.

“This,” he said, and pulled off her beak with a THOCK. A human nose and mouth were beneath it, and she looked startled. “You’re meant to be a Handler, not an animal yourself. Please try to remember that.”

“Y-yes, sir!” she said. Her leonine tail whipped back into the folds of her dress as though it had never existed, just as he walked back behind her.

He made a full circle, grim and dispassionate, the typewriting robot hurrying out of his way as he did so. Finally, Cowl nodded to her, then turned around and started walking back inside. “This way,” he said.

She hurried after him, low heels clicking on the metal floor, and looked over her shoulder at the small creature carrying the typewriter. It looked so out of place. She wondered if it was lost.

* * *

They step inside the steel elevator, and the folding door slides shut accordion-like. Then he pulls the lever, and it lurches to a start and descends. He’s already steadied himself on the handrail, but she stumbles a bit and nearly trips on her low heels.

Part of the elevator car is floor to ceiling glass. It looks out on a cavern, brown rock receding into the darkness, lights shone on its face by small spidery robots with welding tools. They’re patching up bundles of wire, soldering some of them together and removing others. And there are lights that play in the darkness, like tiny fireflies. They’re hard to make out until you look out there and realize they’re more robots, way off in the distance, so far away you can barely see them.

One of them does something to join two wires, and the whole network lights up brilliantly, multicolored light streaming out into the distance. Flickering, glowing, gleaming to life across a space as big as a world. And the spiders all look up and take notice for a moment, before getting back to their work.

The woman stares outside at it all, her breath fogging up the window. She’s captivated, he notes. And she continues to stare, transfixed, gripping the rail as the elevator car shakes.

She turns away and looks at him, a moment before another spider gets shocked by the wire it’s holding. It falls off the rock face and smashes into the ground, just as the surface comes up and obscures the window. “It’s beautiful,” she says to him.

“The Machine is possessed of a terrible beauty,” Cowl says, running his finger along the doorframe and frowning at the oil that stains it. “But which parts are terrible and which parts are beautiful is not for me to say.”

He braces himself again, and she notices a second too late and trips and falls backwards as the car slams to a stop. The door opens, and he steps forward and holds out one hand for her. She takes it, and he pulls her back upright, then steps out as she’s getting her feet back into her shoes. “This way,” he says.

* * *

They stepped out into a damp, underground grotto, phosphorescent moss and glowing mushrooms covering the walls about five feet out from the metal path. Their footsteps clanked on it, and her gaze lingered on sparkling spores drifting out from a cap. It wasn’t as spectacular as the cave she’d looked out on, but it had its own beauty.

They followed the glowing vines in the ceiling, around the bend towards the sound of water. Then they came to the source. The walkway hung out over a deep stream that went past, and turned into a roaring waterfall just below them. It was only about ten feet high, but the sound reverberated inside the chamber.

There was movement on the edge of her vision, and she looked out to see what it was. Then she rubbed her eyes, and did a double-take. There were flying snails, all throughout the cavern, hovering over the walkways and the bridge over the stream. One eyestalk stuck out from their shells, and they paddled the air briskly using tiny feet-like things beneath.

“What are they?” Feather said, stepping back as one floated past. It turned to look for a second and blinked at her, then resumed staring straight ahead as it paddled.

“Cordbiters,” Cowl said, frowning.

“Why are they called that?”

There was a shower of sparks, as one of them bit into the glowing vines using a mouth just beneath its eyestalk.

” … oh.”

“Kindly place them all in the cart, please,” he said, and she saw what looked like a mine cart on rails just past the walkway over the bridge.

“How do I get them in there?” she said, turning around. But he’d already stepped around the corner.

“You’re the Handler. It’s your job to figure that out.” His voice echoed, and his shadow receded across the wall.

Feather took a deep breath, then turned back around to face her task.

It wasn’t hard to move the “cordbiters” at all. They were light — as a feather, she thought — and their eyes widened and feet paddled frantically when she pulled them from their places. She turned one over in her hands to look at it, but it just retracted and huddled inside its shell.

The ‘biters were just big enough that it was awkward for her to grab hold of them in one hand, so she had to use both hands to move them. For a few minutes she ran back and forth, grabbing them up one at a time and putting them into the cart. But after she’d done this a few times, she came back and saw that they were just swimming lazily back out. The only things to keep them secure were two straps across the top, and the flying snails just swam around them.

A spark-spray lit up the cavern, as one of them bit into the vines again. Feather mopped at her forehead, chilly and sweating at the same time, and turned on the indigo backlight on her watch to check the time. A ‘biter peeked over her shoulder, curious, and stared at it for a long moment, the light reflecting off of its glassy eye. It turned to look at her just as she turned to look at it, and after a second it whipped back into its shell and lay still.

Feather’s eyes lit up.

A moment later she whistled, and it echoed off of the rock as all of the snails turned to look at her. “Hey! Over here!” she said, and held up her glowing watch in one hand.

As one, the snails stared at it. Then they started swimming towards her.

“That’s right … ” she said, moving slowly, leaning her arm down into the cart. The slower she moved, the less the snails noticed her, and the more they focused on her watch.

Steadily they moved towards her, crowding around and into the cart. The first ones made a circle around her watch and stared at it, transfixed. The next ones inside jostled to try to get a close view of it, and ended up peeking over the shells of the others.

Feather watched as the last of the ‘biters swam closer slowly, unable to see the source of the glow anymore. As she waited on it, one of the ones in the circle around her hand opened its mouth, inch-long needles shining in the glow.

She yanked her hand out just as it bit down on the air, then grabbed hold of the straggler and stuffed it down into the cart with the others. They all yanked back into their shells as she pulled the straps tight, and the shells clacked into each other with a sound like billiard balls.

Feather leaned up against the cart to catch her breath, tense and exhausted. Then she put her watch back on and checked the time again, before heading back towards the elevator.

Just before she rounded the corner, she looked back towards the cart full of ‘biters. Eyestalks peeked out of it, and blinked at her. She turned away, hoping that they’d be alright until somebody else could take care of them.

As she left, the cart began to move.

* * *

“Go on, shoo!”

A gothic-looking towering vault, with a high, domed ceiling far up ahead. Metal coils snake in and out of old windows, and long rays of light shine in, through the arches supporting the dome overhead. There are large, flamingo-like mechanical birds in Feather’s way, clustering around her on the floor, flapping their feathered wings agitatedly. More of them line the galleries, high above, looking down at her and the movement around her.

Mister Cowl sets his tea down, on a stand just beside the cart, and strides swiftly over to where she’s trying to get the birds to move. Some of them see him, and they start waddling away, their clumsy, hopping gait and bobbing heads making them move much more slowly than him. One doesn’t make it in time, and he kicks it out of the way with a “SQUAWK!” before gesturing towards the tea cart.

“After you,” he says, to a shocked-looking Feather.

She steps towards it hesitantly, looking back towards the limping bird. “Why don’t they just fly away?” she asks. “They don’t look like they’re meant to walk very far … “

“Because they’re stupid,” Cowl says, stepping back up to the cart and taking his tea and sipping at it. Behind him, a couple of birds awkwardly hop up spiral steps towards the galleries, right next to a door that’s marked “ELEVATOR.”

“They seem pretty animated for stupid birds … ” Feather looks up, at the ones watching her still.

“A lot of things are.” He lifts a teaspoon. “Sugar?”

“Oh … uh, no thanks. I drink coffee.”

“Your loss.” He takes another sip.

The birds are still watching her. A few of them flutter their wings.

She looks away. “Anyway, uh … the ‘cordbiters’ are all taken care of. Did you need me to do anything with these birds, here … ?”

“No, thank you, madam. That will be all.”

She’s startled. “Are you-”

“Yes.”

“But it’s been less than an hour … ” She squints at the screen of her digital watch.

“There are more things in heaven and earth than you could ever dream of, and more situations in the Machine than you could ever attend to. But your time is tied to mine right now, and my time is limited.” He takes a long sip, and then checks the gold pocketwatch at his waist.

“Oh … “

Cowl snaps the watch shut, and pockets it. “Come back tomorrow at the same time,” he says.

“Alright … ” She nods. “I will, thank you.”

“Mind the birds.”

They cluster around her again, as she walks to the door that’s marked “EXIT,” and he finishes his tea as he watches her elbow through them. She’s still trying to be polite to them, he thinks. She’ll learn soon enough.

* * *

Feather disembarked next to her mailbox. A huge thing like a cross between a bus and an elephant galumphed away just beside her, smog coming out of its trunk. She coughed and waved it away, setting out across the dirt path, the forested hills in the distance just outlines against the sunset.

Gravel crunched beneath her shoes. She passed by a pond, and heard frogs singing and saw glowing dots floating in midair. One of her feet stepped in a puddle, but she shrugged and smiled as she walked past.

Her cottage was tiny, with circular windows and a treated roof that looked like brightly-colored clay. The electric light outside the front door buzzed as her silhouette walked up to the porch, growing lighter until her beak, tufted cat ears and lion’s tail could be seen clearly. She started to open the screen door, then saw her reflection in it and laughed, shaking her head to herself.

Kicking off her shoes, Feather dug out the keys from her purse and fumbled with them for a moment, trying to unlock the door. Then from inside the cottage came a pained moan, like a person struggling to keep from emptying her stomach. Feather’s eyes widened, and her beak fell off, revealing an open mouth. She hurried to unlock the door as her ears folded back into her hair, and her tail whipped back into her dress.

She left the door open, walking past the fireplace embers and holding her hands out to keep from bumping into furniture silhouettes. “Rissa-” she called out, before stubbing her toe on something and hopping around it. “Rissa, dear, are you alright?”

The door to her room was most of the way closed, a sliver of light all around it. It creaked as Feather pushed it open, and crept around it into Rissa’s room.

It wasn’t much bigger than a large closet, with barely enough room to stand behind her chair. Her shelves were lined with strangely-shaped toy models, and pictures and thick books of all different sizes. In her enormous chair, nearly swallowed up by it, a young girl in a white t-shirt and shorts was slumped back, taking deep breaths with her eyes closed.

Feather stood there for a long moment, watching Rissa fight off her latest attack. Rissa’s face was pale white, and just as the color seemed to be gone from her skin, it was gone from the rest of the room as well. The wallpaper was dull gray, and the shadows behind her bright telescreen and between the raised keys of her touch-typer were ominous. Crumpled up pieces of paper and old dirty dishes littered the desk, and even the toys and pictureframes on it seemed dark and menacing as they loomed over her.

There was no sound except for her breathing.

Finally she swallowed, spent another few seconds breathing fast to catch up and then tried to sit back upright. Feather moved in quick to help her, but she brushed Feather off and brought herself up, pulling the chair back towards her desk as she did so.

Feather tried to step up beside her, but the room was too narrow. It was a long second before she spoke. “Are you doing okay?”

The corner of Rissa’s head that she could see shook side-to-side. No.

“Is there anything I can get you?”

No.

“I made some soup this morning, before I left … “

No. No. No.

Feather reached around carefully, to take the dirty dishes from her desk. As she did so, her eyes fixed on a (fading, black and white) photograph, of a very young girl standing in front of a magnificent four-legged gryphon. The gryphon’s beak and eyes were shining and its wings were spread proudly, and the girl was grinning and holding onto tufts of its fur.

Feather smiled, sadly. “Remember when we … “

Her voice trailed off. She saw Rissa double-click on something, and begin to type on her ‘typer. The words appeared on the screen: “Yes, I remember what it was like. You’re an excellent flier, when you let yourself be a gryphon.“

“Someday, do you think we could … “

But Rissa had already started to type. “No, I don’t. Gryphons weren’t allowed at your school.“

“Or at work.” Feather sighed, and looked down while Rissa kept typing. When she looked up, she’d already finished a sentence.

“Or more or less anywhere. But it was fun while it lasted,” she wrote. “Kids should have fun and games. Grown-ups have more important things to worry about. Like tending the Machine, and their sick little sisters.

“It’s okay. I’ll be alright. I’ve got schoolwork to do anyway.“

Her eyes were still looking straight ahead, up at the screen, and her limp arms rested on the desk that was too tall for her.

Feather played with a strand of her hair for a moment; dry, dull, and lifeless. She let it settle, and remembered that it hadn’t always been that way.

“I’ll get you some water,” she said.

Rissa said nothing.

Feather finally stepped back around her chair, and went out and closed the door softly.

* * *

The next day, Feather got dressed in her work clothes (a pair of ratty old sweats and mudboots, perfect for the underground parts of the Machine) while Rissa was still asleep. Tossing her keys and other essentials into a fanny pack, she stepped out the front door quietly, into the cold air and hard dirt path lit by the sunrise. Then she jogged out to the stop at the end of the road, past the pond where the frogs were still singing; past the mailbox that hadn’t been visited yet.

And there she waited.

She set two new high scores on the games on her phone while she waited.

She kept checking the time, so she knew how long it was taking. After an hour and a half the sun had risen, and the frogs had hidden, and the air was starting to get warm. The mist had disappeared from the road, and so she stepped out and looked in both directions. Nothing.

If only she hadn’t had to sell her jalopy! Or maybe … but no. As much trouble as she’d get into for showing up late, Feather would be in even more trouble for showing up as a gryphon. It wasn’t just a thought, or even a feeling; it was a state of mind, and it was hard to break into and out of. It stayed with you all day, or all week even, and it got in the way when you tried to do things. Things like get along with people who weren’t as fond of magical creatures as Rissa was.

Feather waited a long time.

She spent the next few hours pacing up and down the path that led up to the stop, looking up from her phone whenever she heard an engine noise but never seeing the right one. Pretty soon it was getting uncomfortably warm outside, for someone who was wearing sweats, and she was getting uncomfortably hungry. So with a last look over her shoulder, she headed back towards her house, half relieved and half disappointed.

Feather considered calling her workplace to tell them what’d happened, but she knew that it’d do her no good; they almost never answered the phone, and even if they did they wouldn’t listen. So she was just putting her phone up as she got up to the front porch. The main door past the screen was open, and the smell of frying bacon was coming from inside.

She pulled the screen open, and took a deep breath of the sizzling grease smell. She thought she detected eggs, too. “Rissa?” she called out. “Are you making breakfast?”

“Brunch.” It was the electronic voice of her assistive communications device. “Would You Like Some.“

“Yes, thank you … “

Feather stepped into the kitchen, and saw her thin, wispy sibling up next to the stove, one hand slowly stirring the eggs and the other hand typing on a small keyboard she had up on the counter. “What Are You Doing Home,” it asked.

She sighed. “They didn’t show up.”

“That’s Too Bad.” Rissa turned over the bacon without looking up.

“Do you need any help?”

They talked, and made and ate brunch together. Feather realized how much she’d missed talking to her; all these hours they could’ve spent with each other put into the both of their classes, instead. Then her job search, and now her new job. How much longer did they even have left? How much longer did she have left?

After brunch, Feather asked Rissa if she wanted to go out to the pond together. Rissa’s face was impassive as always, and her hair was tangled and unwashed. But she finally nodded to Feather, and after a few moments’ preparation the two of them stepped outside.

Rissa’s footsteps were fragile and awkward, and she was hesitant about leaving her sandals behind. But she finally stepped out onto the cool, wet grass; then, nearer the pond, let the mud squish between her toes. She ran her fingers contemplatively over a willow branch, her other arm holding her lightweight keyboard, while Feather picked ripe white swampmallows. Then the two of them ate them, sitting down by the pond, getting their feet wet and behinds muddy.

“Remember when Brianna was here?”

“Yes.“

“Those were the days.” Feather grinned, and splashed her feet into the water.

Rissa typed for a moment before hitting Enter. “I Was Thinking Of Different Days.“

“Oh?” Feather looked over at her.

“Before I Was Stuck In This House. Before I Was Stuck In This Sick Body.“

“I’m sorry … ” Feather said, but Rissa’s face was still blank. And she was still typing.

“It Doesn’t Matter. None Of It Matters. You Have Your Work. I Have My School. The World Isn’t Here For Us To Experience. We Are Here To Survive In It. Anything Else Is Secondary.” Rissa slammed the Delete key a couple of times, as she corrected what she was saying. Someone else might have dismissed that, but Feather knew she was frustrated.

A Nipper grabbed onto Feather’s foot, in the pond, and she kicked it away before looking back at her sister. “Aren’t there things that you’d like to experience?”

Rissa sat there for a long moment, staring straight ahead, before typing it out without looking. “Yes.“

“What are they?”

“It Doesn’t Matter.“

“Rissa … “

“Your Work Is More Important.“

Feather knew then what she was talking about. But she had to weigh the consequences, in her mind. Would she be able to show up for work tomorrow that way? Would she be able to show up at all?

Maybe he wouldn’t mind if she hid her beak and her tail.

Maybe a coat would cover up the feathers.

Maybe shoes for her claws, and gloves for her talons, and wings pressed close to her sides …

“And I Have Work To Do As Well,” Rissa finished.

Feather took a deep breath before speaking. “Rissa,” she said, “would you like to fly today?”

Rissa was silent a long moment. Then she lowered her head and closed her eyes. “Yes,” she typed, long fingers stabbing the keys.

“Alright … ” Feather stood.

She closed her eyes and imagined flight; silky fur, and downy white feathers, and pointed ears and a beak. She imagined walking on all fours, wings outstretched on her back, seeing farther than anyone can. She imagined herself as she’d once been, as she’d once let herself be, as-

HONK!

She jumped, and her leonine features grew back into themselves, retracting so fast she had whiplash and leaving her in a cloud of feathers. She was on hands and knees in the grass, breathing hard with exertion, looking up to see what had …

The bus.

The bus.

HO~ONK!

Feather looked up past her beak at Rissa, tail swishing behind her. Rissa’s face was impassive; guarded, again. She looked up at Feather, and then looked down the path towards the stop.

Feather jumped to her feet, brushing herself off and trying to get mud and grass stains off of her clothes. She walk-hopped towards her shoes and socks, one paw still leonine, then grabbed them up in one hand and hobbled towards the dirt path. “I’m sorry … ” she said, out of breath. “I’m sorry … “

Rissa watched her go, barely moving or blinking, and waited until the engine had roared and then died away into the distance. Then she typed out a word, and hit Enter.

“Goodbye.“

* * *

Feather spent the entire ride next to a large, impressive man in a suitcoat. He sideyed her while reading his newspaper, as she tried to brush off the grass stains from her knees and mud stains from her hands and her bottom. And she grinned sheepishly up at him as she noticed that he was looking at her, sweating profusely and trying to make her beak and her tail go away.

They were still there when she showed up at work. Mister Cowl tugged on both, trying to get them to come off, but nothing happened except that it hurt. So instead he just frowned at her, and gave her a look that said “What am I going to do with you now?“

If he hadn’t seemed to have much time to babysit her yesterday, he had all the time in the world today. Cowl watched her wrangle the cordbiters, sweep up the dustbunnies, and shoo all the pogo-stickbugs into their pens. He took his tea while he watched her wrestle the birds in the atrium, the ones who were too stupid to know they could just fly up to where she was trying to get them to. He didn’t offer her a cup this time, and she didn’t ask for one, either.

He let her go at midnight on the dot, and by then Feather was hot and dirty and exhausted. She nodded off on the bus, and nearly missed her stop when they called it out. Finally she made her way up the long and winding dirt path toward her house, each step heavier than the last one, and took a long, warm shower before tiptoeing into the kitchen to get something to eat.

There were no lights on in the house. Quiet snoring came from the door to Rissa’s room. Feather took an electronic candlestick from the wall and flicked it on to look in the cupboards for dishes, then set it aside to get some leftovers out of the fridge. There were still cherry buns left over from yesterday’s breakfast, and she devoured two of them before realizing what she was doing.

As she threw her trash away, looking close with the light to see what she was doing, she saw something that caught her up short. It was the package to this morning’s bacon. The label said that it had expired awhile ago.

At this, Feather had to stop. Do I feel sick? she asked herself. I don’t think so … what if it takes awhile, though?

Then her eyes widened. What about Rissa? Is she doing okay? If something happens to her-

A loud snore punctuated her musings.

Feather looked up, and sighed. Calm down, Feather … you were always a worrier. She’s going to be alright, and you probably are too. If anything, waking her up in the middle of the night will be bad for her.

More snoring.

I’ll get up early and check on her tomorrow … I’ll set an alarm, and if her breathing seems irregular I’ll make sure she’s okay before leaving for work. And if something happens, I’ll take her straight to hospital. That’s what I’ll do …

SNO~ORE.

Feather took a deep breath. Right, then. On to bed …

Five minutes later she crawled under the covers, having forgotten to set the alarm.

* * *

A sound startled Feather awake. She jumped, under the covers, then flailed about for a moment, knocking things off of her nightstand before finding the lamp’s “on” switch. It took her another long moment of sitting upright, waking her brain back up, before she realized that what she’d heard was a pained human moan.

“Rissa?”

Another moan, louder this time.

“Rissa!” She got up.

The moans were coming from Rissa’s bedroom, but Feather didn’t go there right at first. There was a special tea Rissa drank, one that helped her with her digestive problems. If there was anything Feather could do to help, making that would be it.

“I’m coming … ” Feather called out, sliding her pink slippers on and shuffling into the house’s cold main room. She made for the kitchen and hurried to get the tea ready, as the moans became more frequent and more intense. This was the worst that Rissa had been in awhile, and it worried Feather.

Teacup and saucer in hand, Feather shuffled back out of the kitchen. As she did so, Rissa gave the most awful, pained, gagging moan that she’d ever heard, trailing off only slowly.

Feather laughed nervously as she pushed the door open, trying to quell her own fear. “I’m sorry, I know it’s taking awhile … “

The sheets were rumpled, and the quilt had been thrown off. Rissa lay on her side, motionless, clutching her stomach with both arms. And it took Feather until she’d set the tea down on the nightstand to notice that she wasn’t moving. Or breathing.

” … Rissa?”

Feather nudged her arm gently. She did not move.

“Oh. Oh … ” Feather started to shake.

“What was it?” asked a voice in her head. “Was it the bacon? But it couldn’t have been, because I don’t feel sick … “

Her feet had already started to move. She’d made it back to the kitchen and started dialing the emergency numbers on the phone when she realized she had to give CPR. So she ran back to the bedroom, falling and kicking off her slippers and stretching the phone cord, and got to the foot of Rissa’s bed before remembering she had a beak.

“Hello? Hello?” the phone said.

Feather tugged at her beak with her free hand, then smashed it into the door frame a couple of times. Nothing.

Sweat poured down her sides.

“Hello?“

Feather threw the phone down and screamed.

* * *

Insects glow and sing outside. The pond’s still surface reflects the moon, and a frog eyes one of the hovering motes of light and licks her lips.

Suddenly there is a noise, shrill and piercing and angry and pained. The frogs are silent, some of them turning to look in the direction of the noise. Then there is another scream, a sound like an angry predator, and its dull bass roar shakes the earth. The frogs scatter, hopping and splashing to get away, and after a moment even the insects are silent.

Drywall smashes, wood splinters and panes of glass break into shards. A taloned arm crashes through one of the outer walls of the house, then a whole section of roof lifts up, as an angry gryphon rears back and cries into the darkness. Its ears are pointed, its eyes are glowing teal gems, and its fur and feathers are pearly white.

Finally it reaches up and tears down the wall, revealing a bed with a crumpled human form on it — one which is now all covered in sawdust. The gryphon reaches down and tenderly takes it by its clothes in its beak, and then steps outside before transferring it to one taloned arm. Then it spreads its wings wide, wider even than the house itself, and takes off, turning around in midair and speeding towards the road and the bus route.

* * *

Feather knew the general direction the town was in, but she didn’t know any way to get to it except by following the road. There were no cars or streetlights beneath her, and the trees obscured the road. Moonlight glinted off of the upper branches of the trees, and their brightness stung her eyes. She could see in such detail; could feel the wind slice through her fur and feathers, and hear its roar over her racing heart. But the light on the trees nearly blinded her, as she tried to squint down at them to see where the road had gone, realizing too late that she’d lost it.

Feather looked back for a moment, dismayed, beak hanging open and wingbeats slowing. Then she looked down at the limp form in her claws, and held it close to herself as she pressed on, determined. She could feel Rissa’s body up next to her heartbeat, and she willed her own vitality to affect her somehow, to give life to her failing organs.

The lights of the town were far in the distance. She could see them just past the lights of the Machine. From here it was a giant shape, black and ominous, which blocked out a big chunk of the sky and blotted out the glow of moonlight beneath. Feather flew over the edge of the Machine to get to the distant town, and she found herself coughing from its noxious fumes. Then whiplike organic tendrils snaked out from below and tried to grab hold of her limbs, and of Rissa. She grappled with them, cutting them with her claws, and pressed herself even harder to fly past.

She kicked the last one free just as she finally cleared the dark area. But by now Feather was exhausted. The lights of the town were ahead, but they were still far away. Feather found her wingbeats slowing, her head drooping, her eyes squeezing shut in spite of herself. Feather shook her head and pressed on, conserving her energy, trying to stretch it to last until she arrived.

A whole minute passed as she barely flew at all, gasping air into her lungs, catching her breath. That minute stretched into two, and then three. The lights were closer, but not close enough.

Feather took a deep breath and then pushed herself toward the lights, flying bulletlike at them with her limbs (and with Rissa) held close to her sides. After a minute the town spread out underneath her, building and lights and parked carriages, and she flew in between wisps of smoke coming up from the stacks of the buildings that were just near the hospital. As she was about to touch down she spread her wings like a parachute and flapped them with all her might, trying to slow down enough to land safely.

It didn’t work. She clutched Rissa to her chest as she tumbled end over end on the cobblestone street, crashing through men-at-work barricades and smashing a melon cart parked up next to a wall.

Feather unfolded onto her back, her ears ringing and her feet covered in sticky juice. And on her downy chest lay her sister’s form, laying still as if sleeping.

* * *

Cowl opens one eyelid, unamused, at the flapping and beating sounds over his roof. Then he sits up in bed, at the bashing, crunching noises outside, which go on for a second and end in a THUD.

He lights a match over his nightstand, then touches it to the stub of a candle that’s still in its holder. After that he takes it and stands up, feet finding his slippers, and huddles in his nightclothes all the way to the front door, where he looks out the glass window. The window is murky and it’s dark outside to boot, but he can see something large just across the street, and people all ’round running up to it.

A hand grabs his coat and his blue cap, and he puts them on before taking his candlestick back up and shuffling on outside. Now he can hear people calling to each other, and he can see the commotion: There’s an enormous gryphon laying prone on the street, its wings flat to the ground and its chest heaving with exertion. It looks to see what the people around it are doing, as men run from the hospital carrying a stretcher.

One of Cowl’s eyebrows rises.

The doctors and nurses lay someone out on the stretcher, right there on the street, and start working on him or her. After a long moment, the gryphon heaves and stands up on all fours, scraping melon rinds from its feet and shaking itself dry. Cowl holds up a hand, but he’s too far away to get wet, and the doctors don’t seem to mind.

They continue to work, and the gryphon watches them closely, its feathery head just over their shoulders. Cowl looks around at the street, at the dim lamps overhead casting shadows on them, and shivers before fumbling to check his watch. Another long minute passes.

Finally one of the doctors shakes his head and removes his stethoscope, and closes the fallen form’s eyes with one hand. The gryphon blinks, as through disbelieving, then again as it fights back tears. It screams, and the sound is so loud that everyone jumps, as it echoes off buildings and across town. Cowl drops his candlestick and cringes, peering through his arms as the gryphon’s scream dissolves into screeching sobs.

It takes Cowl a moment to realize what’s happened. Then he closes his eyes, and places his hat over his heart.

* * *

Wind blasts through the upper reaches of the Machine’s atrium, as “stupid” birds flock together from floor to rafters, huddling to stay warm. In the cold winter light Cowl takes his tea from beneath a thick coat, sipping at the hot liquid and stirring to cool it down.

A huge creature behind him snorts. Cowl’s teacup smashes to the ground, as he whirls around and presses himself up against the cart to look. Across the room from him is a feathery white gryphon, the same one from that night. The same one from the papers.

“H … ” He coughs. “Hello, Feather! G-good to see you again!”

Her claws click on the floor as she paces up to him. “Things h-haven’t been the same without you … ” he goes on. “How have you been? I’d offer you a cup of tea if you could take it that way … “

She glances over at the tea cart, then back at him, unamused. By now he is wringing his hat in his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t express my condolences … about your sister.” He coughs. “Terrible tragedy, really … “

Feather looks away, and closes her eyes.

“You’re welcome to take time off for grieving purposes … ” He’s backing away, putting the cart between him and her. “Take as much as you like! And you can come back any time … “

Feather snorts again, derisively. Then she spreads her wings wide, feathers gleaming in the sunlight, eyes closed and head held high. Her beak shines.

She takes off, wingbeats echoing throughout the room, blasts of displaced air knocking Cowl onto his behind and nearly tipping the cart. In lazy circles she flies upwards, through rays of light coming from tiny windows. And as she does so, the birds all look up at her, their glassy eyes comprehending.

They take off after Feather, circling with her, flying up into the light. And as she leaves the Machine and looks out on its vast gray expanse, giant tentacles stir but flop back to the roof, exhausted. They don’t have any strength in the sunlight. They don’t have any strength to fight back.

The birds land on them, and pick at them with their beaks. A second later, Feather joins in, her claws gleaming as she pounces.