Life with the werecrows was easy. They were reluctantly nocturnal, and I was accustomed to wandering the streets at dawn. The only ones I spoke to with any regularity were Nella and Ishmael, and neither questioned my different forms. I stole for them—loaves of bread, fruits from gardens, a chicken or pig when I could—and they left me to my crypt.
Sometimes during the day I would creep back to the cathedral and wander among their sleeping forms, studying their human features. Ishmael was handsome and worn, like he had once been a hardened merchant or performer. Nella was scarred around her neck and barely past girlhood, younger than I expected.
Bishop was a large person, more muscular in the day without their feathers, and I could imagine they had once been a part of the clergy. Maria and
