“They’re fishing.”
“For information?”
“Take your pick. If he falls, we all fall.”
“Shut up, you crow-brain. I know that already.”
“You’re the one stepping on my foot,” He leaned to the side with a pointed look at my feathered arms.
I glared at him, trying in vain to make my avian form a tad smaller. There already wasn’t enough room and one single feather out of place would give us away.
Then again—there were worse gambles playing out in front of us. I could scarcely breathe for the horror of it.
“He’s going to accept you know.”
“Be quiet. You don’t know that.”
“Of course he will. It’s too good to pass up.”
“He’s a better man than that!”
“Then someone will sabotage the meeting. This can’t end well.”
“Stop trying to jinx it!”
“I don’t have to, you’re doing a fine job of that on your own.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“What are you trying to say?” Oops. That was one emotion too many, one ruffle that I couldn’t smooth. My wings bunched and creaked—before I exploded out of the closet in a wave of feathers and dust. Late. Too late.
I’d given our position away.
The first bullet through my wing didn’t hurt as badly as I thought it would.
(c) Sara Harricharan