The fourth bell tolls. A flash of light illuminates the room as the sun aligns with the mirrors in the Glass Tower. The light melts away my other thoughts. The beams tell the humans that we are here. We are strong. And we are not going anywhere.

My mother strides toward the doors. “We have work to do.”

Out in the school’s courtyard, I arrange some heavy blocks of wood into a pile. Beside me are clothes and blankets and even a stuffed sheep that is clearly well-loved. It was the last of these that broke my mother. When she brought out the girls’ belongings, the doll rested on top. My mother handed it all to me and let out a shuddering breath. “Burn the basket, too.”

I gather my resolve and strike the flint against stone. Sparks rush out and catch against the dried reeds at the base of the firewood. I work quickly and silently, moving between the courtyard and nap room to make sure nothing is missed.

Mother leaves to go consult with the other leaders of the Heliana’s schools, Oak’s Heart and Moon’s Shadow. When word of the disease breaks, they will not have time to themselves for many days and nights. Worried parents will need their questions answered. Grieving ones will need much more.

Smoke drifts from the firepit, stinging my eyes. I take a step back as the small folds and embroidery of a dress are engulfed in black. When it’s all but ash, I add more wood and more of the girls’ belongings. As I watch several pairs of small shoes burn, I fight the nausea in my stomach. A disease that only kills children. I didn’t know anything under the skies could be so cruel.

Heat kisses my skin until I’m sweating, but I don’t stop until the possessions are all gone.

The coo of birds carries from above me. Their talons curl around the windowsill as they huddle together and try to keep out of the twisting smoke. I focus on a ruddy-colored bird on one of the perches above me and start to call it. Though their Knowledge has been gone for centuries, ancient magic connects Leonodai to all birds. The practice of capturing short messages in magic and sending them on borrowed wings is taught to Leonodai children early. A lump forms in my throat as I realize that practicing with the birds may very well be what exposed the children to the disease in the first place.

It takes a tug of magic to link the bird’s mind to my own. The bird turns and focuses on me, a high-pitched whrrl sounding from its small chest. A low whistle from me seals it.

“Ox,” I tell it, picturing his face clearly in my mind as I do. Then I add my message, “The rooftop. Ninth bell.”