Beneath the shedding skin was new flesh covered in pale gray down except for her legs below the knees, her arm below the elbow, and the patch around her mouth and chin, all of which were covered in gray scales like a bird’s legs. Her fingers ended in curved talons stronger than steel and sharper than razors, the promise of power to come.

Marie hovered into her range of vision. “There’s water here, but I have to tell you not to be afraid. Quill said your skin will come off like a wheat husk and you are not to be alarmed.”

Marie lifted Isabelle and bolstered her into a sitting position. The change in elevation was all but enough to make her faint. Her heart fluttered like the last clinging leaf of autumn.

Peeling off Isabelle’s old skin was like pulling off a scab, sickly and disgusting, but oh what a relief not to itch anymore. Her hair came out in clumps. The detritus smelled like moldering leather.

Her body was nearly skeletal, as if she’d suffered a prolonged famine. Her new skin sagged on her aching bones. Her body had emptied every warehouse of fat and pillaged the land of muscle to get her through the transition. And now would come the work, on top of everything else, to replenish those stores.

“I admit,” said Marie, scrubbing her clean with a wet bit of cloth. “This looks even weirder than Quill described.”

“It’s called sloughing to down,” Isabelle said. “It’s a rite of passage. I’m a grown-up now. There’s usually a big feast to celebrate.” Gorging gave the fledgling the strength to thrive.

Once it had happened to her at her elder sister’s betrothal ceremony, quite stealing her thunder. She’d been saved from sisterly wrath only by her father pointing out that it might have been her wedding day instead, which would have been worse.

Generally the down lasted a few days before her cappotto di piume came in. Of course, there was that one time … She’d been a boy named Jacopo. His belly down had lasted a whole year, merciless cousins calling him a dandelion the whole time, though thankfully he got his proper feathers with his first molt.

Marie said, “If you’re an adult, does that mean you’ll finally start acting like a big girl?”

“Only after I get my party,” Isabelle said sulkily, digging for humor in the dark.

“You’ll have soup and like it,” Marie said, spooning up a bowl of hot broth.

“What’s been happening?” Isabelle asked. This small bare room gave her no clues as to the state of the world.

“You eat while I talk. Ask questions later.” Marie said.

Isabelle dutifully slurped the tepid soup.

Marie went on in her grave-whisper voice, “Quill left yesterday on the Thunderclap.”

The news that the Thunderclap had departed stung. It marked the absolute end of Isabelle’s ambitions.