On the Edge of a Bell Tower

In that moment, running across the rooftop, I want nothing more than to leap off the side, alter my arms into a collection of familiar inky feathers, and glide to street level. But I don’t. Not with Lise still watching, and definitely not with Mickaël behind me.

I’m banking on Lise’s energy being too low to follow me; she’d been training some of the council’s children on altering earlier in the day so she’ll likely be drained. Mickaël’s easy to shrug off, but Lise? Near impossible. It is her job to be by my side, I know, but it can be exhausting.

Mickaël’s quick, silent feet soon overtake me, and suddenly he’s ahead of me, running like a cat across the shingles, leaping deftly from one building to the next. We’re lucky the architecture in this city is built so close together. He makes a precarious jump, his fingers rippling into a scaly texture as he grabs hold of a drainpipe, then hoists himself up. Gecko hands: a trick he taught me, too.

I follow, only stopping when he does: when we’ve both scaled the side of an old church. He hops into the opening of the bell tower only to sit down on the ledge and dangle his feet outside. He watches me as I climb in much less gracefully, my skin itching to alter, but I hold back. I don’t sit next to him, just put my forearms on the ledge and lean, letting the cold air cool me off after the exercise.

“Better,” he tells me, and I consider pushing him off the ledge. Just because he taught me climbing when we were both pesky kids does not mean I want continual updates on how superior he is. Or thinks he is. I’ve had years of practice--far beyond what he knows about--and I’m often tempted to let loose, to show him what I can really do. But I always hold back. Try not to alter too much, run too fast, jump too smoothly.

“Lise is going to be very upset with me when I return,” is all I say in reply, squinting into the distance as if I might see her. She despises our climbing adventures, partially because she hates to admit that she could never keep up. She’s much more water-oriented than either of us.

“When is Lise not upset? I think she enjoys being in distress over you, Julienne.” Mickaël puts a hand in the air, twirling it slowly, watching the skin flutter between colors and textures. He’s well practiced; he transitions seamlessly from one to the next--black cat fur, cardinal feathers, lizard scales, and back to human skin again.

“Do you just do that to show off?” I don’t bother hiding my annoyance, and his green eyes flash when he looks at me.

With a slow precision, his eyes still on mine, Mickaël alters his whole left arm into peacock feathers. And not just the tail feathers, though those do cover what I can see of his bicep down to his wrist. His hand is the shimmery dark blue of a peacock’s body, his fingertips a pale yellow to match the skin around one's eyes. “And what are you saving up your alterations for tonight?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

I can’t tell him. Or I won’t, anyway, so I push away from the ledge and blow out a breath. “Alterations aren’t a party trick,” I recite back to him.

He shifts back to his regular light brown skin. “Not a very good trick when anyone can do it.”

While he’s right--everyone can alter their skin to mimic other creatures--I don’t take the bait and admit that most can’t change that cohesively, let alone make such a show of it. We both know he’s very skilled, so I just kick a boot against the ledge idly.

The last rays of sun are almost gone, and I should technically be back at the dinner. Though, so should he. Not that many would miss him. Most of the council refer to him only as ‘the bastard son,’ which is harsh, but he doesn’t much try to make any other name for himself either.

Regardless, I know for a fact neither of us will be returning to the council dinner, because when the sun sets, we have much, much more exciting things to be doing.

“I should go before Lise finds me and skins me,” I say, sticking my face out of the bell tower to absorb what little sunlight I can still get.

“Do you mind going cheetah print before you do? It’d be a lovely rug, if nothing else.”

This time I do push him, and his fingertips turn into butterfly wings, as if that will help his balance, as he attempts not to fall out of the bell tower.

“Goodbye, Mickaël,” I say with a satisfied smile, then step back out onto the rooftops.

* *

previous: https://theprose.com/post/524433/rooftop-in-golden-light

next: https://theprose.com/post/527193/crows-come-out-at-night