Francesca
AS I STARE DOWN AT the monstrous thing on the beach a burning feather floats toward me; I feel the red-hot kiss of it sting my cheek. That hurt. My skin crawls. My vision blurs. They’re real. This is what the thing on the beach means. Those masked faces I keep seeing in the crowd. Grandfa’s warning, the last time I saw him. The Birds ...
They came for him. Now they’re here. They’re coming for me—
I turn from the vile thing, unable to look at it a moment longer. And this is when I see her. I don’t know how I could have missed her. She’s standing stock-still while the rest of the guests cluster along the cliffs. She’s not looking down at the beach like the others. She’s staring straight at me. It’s almost a relief. Here is a problem I can actually deal with.
Stupid little Sparrow. Shouldn’t fly this far from what you know. Shouldn’t fly this close to the sun.