Wren
They dressed me for it. That was my first clue about the size of the thing.
Berta and Selene and Mira, who had arrived that morning "coincidentally, for no reason, stop asking questions, Wren", descended on my wing at midday with the wine-red dress, freshly pressed, and spent the whole afternoon on me like generals on a campaign. Mira did my hair the way my mother used to. Berta cried twice before I'd even left the room, which by Berta standards showed remarkable restraint.
"You all know what's happening," I accused the mirror.
"We know there's an agenda," Mira said, pinning a last curl, and then met my eyes in the glass, and her voice went soft. "Nine years old, Wren. Tommy Hale. I told you then you were the best thing in that whole schoolyard and nobody could see it. Go let them
