Cassi fashioned me a crutch for my ankle out of one of his bird stands—lightweight but sturdy, surprisingly well balanced. Then, with practiced movements, he turned his attention to the fire and began preparations for his promised fish fry.
I tried not to look too closely. I didn't want to see the once-beautiful scales blacken in the flames.
Cassi hummed something under his breath, low and melodic. I couldn't make out the words, but the birds seemed to understand. One by one, they fluttered in with sprigs of herbs and fragrant leaves clasped in their beaks, delivering them like offerings.
Strangely, I was getting used to the flashes of iridescent color every time one landed. They no longer startled me—instead, they brought a quiet comfort, like walking into a familiar room where nothing needed to be explained.
The sea breeze drifted in from somewhere behind the trees, cooler now, tinged with brine. I imagined it must be blowing from the direction of the mainland. Home. School. Tails.
At home, even the air felt stifled—like it knew we weren't supposed to move freely. But here, the breeze touched my skin like a secret promise. Everything was allowed to be wild.
A gust of feeling swept through me and I picked up a piece of thin, papery bark. Whispering so only my pink bird could hear, I said, "Can you get me a piece of charcoal?"
I wasn't really expecting anything. But to my astonishment, she tilted her head, blinked once, and darted off into the trees.
A minute later, she returned, a tiny piece of charcoal clutched delicately in her beak.
"Clever girl," I cooed, stroking the soft feathers on her head. She nibbled my fingertip affectionately, then nestled onto my shoulder like she belonged there.
I carefully tore the bark in two, satisfied it would do for a letter, and began to write with the charcoal, taking care not to smudge it.
It was strange—this little nub of charcoal smudging across bark. It was the first thing I'd drawn freely since Father had burned our colors. It felt like breathing through my hands.
Dear Sister,
I miss you more with each day that passes. This place is amazing—you would love it here, Tails. Everything is wild and beautiful and terrifying in the best way. Cassi gave me a pet bird—she's small, pinkish, soft as a whisper. I think you'd adore her.
I haven't been able to do much research yet… I sprained my ankle, don't worry, it's nothing serious. Cassi's been looking after me. But I know there's something ancient and important in this jungle. I can feel it, deep in the soil, in the way the trees grow and the stories the wind whispers.
Take care of your studies. I'll see you soon.
Your sister, Vie
Before folding the letter, I hesitated—and flipped it over.
I started to sketch the bird.
Carefully, I traced the arc of her wings, the delicate lines of her feathers. I shaded the down along her belly, the curious tilt of her head. It wasn't perfect—it wasn't even close—but when I looked at it, I could see her in it. The stillness. The watching.
When I finished, I amended the letter slightly.
OliVie, I wrote beneath my signature.
The name looked strange. Too formal. Too far away. Like it belonged to someone else entirely.
My little bird had been watching me the whole time. As soon as I set the letter down beside me, she swooped down, plucked it up with delicate precision, and flitted upward into the canopy.
"Come back!" I called after her, alarmed.
Cassi looked over, amused. "She's taking to you well. She's gone to make the delivery," he said, that lopsided, puppyish grin appearing again. "Have you named her yet?"
I shook my head, still staring after the bird.
"How about Juno?" he offered casually, returning to the fire.
I rolled the name around in my head. "Isn't that from mythology?"
"It comes from the skies," Cassi replied, cryptic as ever. He didn't look up.
The scent of cooking fish drifted toward me. It was surprisingly sweet, and citrusy, with a faint herbal sharpness. Not at all what I'd expected—no harsh salt, no burn.
My stomach growled. Despite myself, my mouth watered.
Cassi glanced over, and I caught him smiling quietly to himself before turning back to the pan. He didn't say anything, but the way his shoulders relaxed made my chest feel warm.
I wondered what Tails would be doing when the letter arrived.
Would she be combing her hair out by the mirror… Her delicate face uncoloured by lack of sunshine.
It had always been justified to us by beauty standards. Our pale faces were supposed to be a virtue, but I could see it was a lie. It was another way to tell us the outside world wanted us contained, tamed, and caged.
I hadn't seen my face for a long while, but I imagined my skin was full of colour now, like everything else around me.
I hoped the servant would take the letter to her so Father wouldn't see it.
I could imagine his hands on my letter and recoiled. I imagined he'd rip it up and toss piece after piece into the fire. I could see it in my mind's eye—fire eating away at my words like it was surely eating at the fish. Something once whole, beautiful, being scarred.
Tails and I had kept a secret between us.
We had a few coloured pencils that she kept tucked into the slats of her bed. On long rainy days when we were supposed to be reading, we'd draw.
One day though, we weren't quick enough to hide them and Father came into the room.
He saw us clutching them and hauled us both toward the nearest fireplace. Tails whimpered as he tugged cruelly on her neckline, choking her. He stopped us just short of the flames and then snatched each pencil and held us so we could see them burning up.
They did not burn brightly, just withered and died away.
He made us miss our supper that night, and we were no longer allowed to colour.
That was when we formed this secret, because he had missed one single small pencil. We dared not take it out. We didn't draw with it.
It was pinkish—just like Juno.
And like Juno, it comforted me to know Tails had it. I hoped she might colour in the bird...
Maybe she'd draw her in flight.
Maybe she'd draw us both.