Shadow Scale by Rachel Hartman

mother were the only people who knew what I was, and they never told. His mother sews my dresses and helps me look properly human.” She adjusted her majestic—and false—bosom at this juncture, underscoring her point. Josquin politely found something deserving of attention in his coffee.
    “He’s been riding as a herald since he was ten,” Dame Okra continued. “He knows every village and road.”
    “Most of them,” said Josquin modestly. His blue eyes crinkled with amused affection for his old cousin, despite her surliness.
    “The best roads,” snapped Dame Okra. “The ones worth knowing. He’ll translate. He’s already engaged his fellow heralds to ride ahead and spread word of a reward for information leading to the hermit and the muralist. That will save you time, I should think. And he knows you’ve got to get to Samsam in time for—”
    Dame Okra suddenly froze and took on a dyspeptic look, her eyes unfocused.
    Abdo, who’d claimed a chair and cup of coffee for himself, looked first at Okra and then toward the front of the house.
I wish you could see this, Phina madamina. Dame Okra is having a premonition, her soul-light darting out like lightning. A big spiky finger from her mind to the front door
. He pointed to illustrate.
    She reaches out with her mind, too?
I asked.
She claims it’s her stomach
.
    Maybe she can’t tell them apart
, said Abdo cheekily.
    Dame Okra jerked grotesquely, recovering herself. “Saints in Heaven!” she cried. “Who’s this creature at the front door, then?” She leaped to her feet and rushed up the hall just as someone knocked.
    I hurried after her. I had not yet had a chance to mention Finch. “Before you answer that—” I began, but it was too late.
    “Augh!” she cried, her voice dripping disgust. “Seraphina, did you invite this person here, all plaguey and pestilent? No, sir, you may not track contagion into my house. Go around to the carriage yard and strip down.”
    The doctor had removed his grimy apron and gloves and changed his robes; he still wore the ominous beaked mask, and his boots were indeed too muddy for her fine floors. I squeezed by Dame Okra, who puffed up indignantly.
    “Leave your boots here,” I told the doctor. He hurriedly pried them off. I took his arm and said, “You are welcome. I failed to warn her you were coming.”
    I led our new guest to the dining room, Dame Okra squawking behind us. Josquin stood again, with a cry of “Buonarrive, Dotoro Basimo!” and offered the older man his seat.
    Finch shuffled over in his stocking feet, shoulders hunched anxiously, and sat. Josquin took the seat beside him.
    “You know this ghoul?” demanded Dame Okra, switching the conversation back to Goreddi. She lingered behind in the doorway with her arms folded skeptically.
    “Dr. Basimo keeps Count Pesavolta apprised of plague cases,” said Josquin brightly. “They’re trying to prevent another epidemic year. It’s a noble endeavor.”
    The doctor perched on the very edge of a chair, his hands clasped between his knees, eyeing us through his glass lenses with trepidation.
    “He’s one of us,” I said to Dame Okra. “We found him this morning.”
    “Take your mask off, then. You’re among friends, by St. Prue,” Dame Okra called, coming no closer and sounding not the least bit friendly.
    “You don’t have to, if you’re not comfortable,” I said, belaying her demand.
    Dr. Basimo considered a moment, then pulled off his bag-like mask. I knew what we would see. I’d warned Dame Okra, but still she gasped. Josquin averted his eyes and took a quick sip of coffee.
    Under the mask’s leather beak was a real one, thick and strong like a finch’s. Unlike a finch’s, it had serrated edges, reminiscent of a dragon’s teeth. He had no separate nose, just avian nostrils atop the beak. His bald, liver-spotted head and scrawny old-man’s neck made him look like a buzzard, but no buzzard ever gazed so intelligently through mournful