I reach behind my wing, where an ugly pocket has formed in my skin, and I pull out the trans flag bead lizard. I gently clamp it between the teeth of the little Grace and draw them a mental map of Acheson—through the downtown district, through the government district, all the way to the ALC and the bank. I show them Nick’s face, Erin’s, everyone’s. They stare at me with wide, beautiful eyes.

The clergy will want to bless me before my first march on the city. They will want to make a show—they have always made a show. They will make a worship out of it, a consecration.

I will make sure Nick does not miss it.

I hope.

“The day before the general sends me out into Acheson,” I tell her, “you get this past the gates and into the city. Am I clear?”

“I don’t know when that is.”

“Then find out.” I let the words snarl in my throat. She cringes. “These people would kill for you. Put your saintliness to some goddamn use.”

“Of course,” she says. “Of course.”

Please let Nick know what it means. Please let the Watch come back for me. Please don’t leave me alone. Because I don’t know if I can stop this myself.

Days pass. I don’t know how long it’s been since my spine snapped in the river, but I do know that the days are getting longer, peaking hotter. It’s the middle of the night, and I sit on the roof of the health center, wings spread out to soak up the moonlight. Graces walk the perimeter with their handlers. The river glimmers. Lanterns dot the landscape like fireflies. I squint as if I can see past the walls, into the city, to my friends.

I can’t stand the waiting. I can’t take it. I press my head to the gravel roof and pray, for the first time in a long time, for this to work.

The what-ifs come again. What if the Grace is killed before they can deliver their message? What if Nick doesn’t understand it? What if they make it too late? What if they never make it at all? Even in the warmth of a February—is it still February? Maybe it’s March—evening, I’m shivering. I just want this to be over with. I want to see Nick again. I’m so damn tired.

The door to the health center swings open below me. Sister Kipling steps out into the night, a heavy bag weighing down her shoulders. A guard at the door dips his head in reverence as she heads past the pond, through the field, to the road leading through campus. I pick myself up a bit, tucking my wings against my sides, and peer out over the edge. She keeps walking until she becomes nothing more than a little dot in the distance.