I had yet to meet the girl and yet knew everything about her: from the color of her wings—black, like mine, because we were both byproducts of extra-conjugal affairs, but sparkly, unlike mine—to how precocious she was—she’d already earned over nine-hundred feathers. I’d even heard her mother prattle on about how Naya’s voice rivaled the guild’s sparrows. Whoop-de-effing-doo.
