". . . standards to ensure. A population to build. After all, this isn't just the Ivy League. This is Harvard. We're wealthier than a small country, smarter than a large one."

She swallows a smile down her throat. I watch it go.

"I see."

She holds out her hand. "Good-bye, Ms. La-fay-ette."

"It's La-fay-ette. Ma'am."

"Is it?"

I tighten my grip on her hand, and feel my finger slide down to her wrist. Her pulse flutters like a bird, like a thousand throbbing little birds, flying away as fast as they can.

Turns out, the birds know best.

V.

In the darkness, we move between the trees, crisscrossing the pathways on Harvard Yard. The moon is bright and round, but there is little light, except for the pale glow of our skin, Hopper's and mine.

"Slow down, Hop. I ate too much, too fast. Feels like I'm going to burst."

Hopper slows, and I fall into step next to him. "You know what they call that?" He looks at me in the moonlight. "The Freshman Fifteen." He smiles and I smile back, unbuttoning the top button on my jeans.

"Hope it's a lot more than fifteen."

"Hope so, Wrennie."

I take Hopper's hand and I hear the gravel beneath our feet, beneath the cold bite of the November night. I pull on the strap of my backpack, which holds a full thermos for the road. I'm going to give it to Hopper. Even now I can hear his stomach grumbling, louder than mine ever did. Anyway, we have a long drive ahead of us tonight. South, as far as we can get before the light. Tomorrow I will be happy our town has no name. Sort of slows down any hope of Breather law enforcement, not that I'm worried.

Hopper squeezes my hand. I might let him make out with me on the bus.

My pack feels light. It's nearly empty, I had forgotten. I left behind a trash can full of college brochures and course catalogues back beneath the desk in the Admissions office.

Just after the body hit the carpet.

Just before I'd clicked "ACCEPT."

Twice.

Once for Maynard Hopper Wilson, the smartist kid in the hole school, and once for me.

I almost wished, just this once, the Admissions Breather would know what had happened back there. Almost. As it was, she was going to wake up with a killer hangover, but that was about it. A hangover, and what looked like a nasty purple blood-bruise inside her left arm. It almost didn't seem like enough.

I smile, my teeth sliding into place at the thought of my dinner. I tell myself, for the first time, I am going to fit in here just fine.

"Come on, Sherlock." The dog barks, looking up at me. His teeth appear at the sight of mine. "I think our luck is changing."

John Harvard's toe gleams in the moonlight. It still smells like pee.

I rub it.

Gargouille

by Mary E. Pearson

lood still seeped from the wound in her thigh. The stub of the arrow protruded, catching on the bars every time the cart hit a rut, tearing her flesh a bit more. She tried not to call out because that only made Frans cackle at his fine catch, smug at the riches he surely thought awaited him at the end of the road. A lifetime of wages for his ilk. But the folly was his. Though her thigh would bear the scars of his arrow for the rest of her life, her back was already healing. She could feel the flesh beneath her cape knitting itself back together, erasing the evidence.

She held her face close to the bars, looking to the horizon, knowing they wouldn't come, knowing they shouldn't, but still she searched and hoped for a black cloud in the distance. For two days they had been on the road traveling north, past hillock and cottage, past thicket, field, and forest. The duke's chateau couldn't be much farther. She had never traveled this far by cart before, and now it was sinking in: by foot or by cart was the only way she would ever travel again-that is, if she lived.

I love you, Giselle. I love you. . . . I choose you.

It was those words that had caused her to be so careless. For that moment she was stronger than the world. Stronger than knife and net. Stronger than fear. After he left, she couldn't contain her joy. She danced for the flowers in the meadow. She sang. She spread her wings without an eye to the world.

"Gargouille! Gargouille!" A dozen children rushed across the square, forgetting their game of stones at the sight of the approaching cart and the enormous wings strapped to the top, unmistakable even from a distance.

"Back!" Frans shouted, pulling on the reins. "She bites!"

"I don't bite!" Giselle called out, reaching through the bars. "But come closer and I will ring your tender little necks like capons-and then stew you for supper!"

The children ran away squealing, and Giselle heaved a momentary sigh of relief. The villages were the worst. Frans used their fear to keep them at a distance, but their intense curiosity still prodded them to poke long sticks through the bars and throw rotten food and dung to watch her flinch. Frans didn't mind these antics, but when curious hands drew too close to the precious cargo strapped to the top of the cart, he shouted warnings about her special powers to kill and maim. For this much she was grateful, that their fears and imaginations gave her some distance from their cruelty.

A cautious crowd milled forward. He let them have a good look while he took a long swig of ale and recounted the tale of her capture. The story had changed with each village as Frans learned what held their attention. He also learned when to cough from his dry, dusty throat so that story-hungry villagers would refill his flask, eager to hear of his bravery and his long, harrowing journey.

She looked out at the curious faces staring back at her, their eyes sweeping over her face and arms, scrutinizing her filth, the sweat and dirt streaks, her long black hair now matted with blood and tangles, the dark circles she must surely have under her own eyes by now. She probably did look like a wild beast.

She turned away, gazing to the south at the dim, smoky horizon, no sign of wing or rescue. Soon it wouldn't matter, and that was why they didn't come. Soon she would begin to forget. One day? Two? She wasn't sure. It was so rare that gargouilles were captured. It hadn't happened in years-at least to none of her clan. Now she had shamed them and put them all at risk. Anyone associated with her would have to make a hasty departure and begin a new life elsewhere. Giselle would cease to exist. But the worst part was etienne. She would forget him, and he would be obliged to forget her too. This new reality made her suddenly roar with pain, an unearthly sound that chilled every darkening corner of the town. Shivers ran through teeth. Villagers screamed and crossed themselves. Frans hit the bars with his whip to quiet her. "etienne!" she cried again, and slumped in a heap at the bottom of the cart. etienne.

Frans bellowed warnings at her to show his bravery to the crowd, but Giselle only looked at the ground surrounding the cart and not at him. Feet edged closer.

"It looks almost human."

"Can I touch it, Mama?"

"Are you daft? Those things are crawling with vermin!"

"And their bite is poisonous-especially the females."

"Poke her with the stick and see what she does."

Giselle felt another jab in her ribs and pulled away to the other side of the caged cart, still casting her face downward to avoid the stares of the crowd. That was when she saw him. Among the many feet crowding the ground around the cart, she saw his shoe. She would know it anywhere. She didn't look up right away. Slowly she lifted her head and deliberately looked at Frans first, trying to brace herself before she turned to scan the crowd. The slightest slip or gasp could bring his doom. She had been careless with herself-she couldn't be careless with his safety too. But then shame overtook her and she cast her eyes downward again. She couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze. How could she have done this to him? To them? Tears formed in her eyes, and trickled down her cheeks. Villagers laughed and jeered at the crying animal who had frightened them just minutes earlier.

Go away, etienne. Forget me. Soon I will forget you. Her throat squeezed back a sob and she looked up.

His eyes were locked on hers, bright against the darkening sky. His lips pulled tight and his jaw twitched. He was as still as stone except for the breeze lifting the black hair at his shoulders. Her eyes traveled down to his fists clenched at his sides. It took what was left of her strength not to reach out to him, not to reach through the bars and touch the cheek that had caressed her own just days ago. The ache of need ripped through her. If she could speak, she would. Instead she shook her head, trying to tell him to go. It would be more than she could bear if he were found out too. He eyed the padlock on the bars. No, etienne, no. It will do no good.

He shook his head in return and then sneered, spitting on her. His action drew a smile from Frans, who allowed him to take a step closer, so close he could have reached out and wiped the spittle from her face. Giselle feared he would. "A miserable little wretch, isn't she?" he called to Frans.

"She's a gargouille, boy, what would you expect? But you should have seen her a few days ago. A beauty she was. Won't be long before the duke has her cleaned up and shining again. She'll be a prize, this one will."

"How much for the wings?" etienne asked.

"Are you mad? Gargouille wings will heal anything and bring a king's ransom. Even the duke will have to scrape his coins together for this one. Too rich for paysan blood like you."

"What about the girl?"

"You mean the gargouille? Worth just as much. They grow back their wings, you know?"

etienne nodded understanding. "A never-ending supply. You're a wise and lucky man, sir, to have made such a catch." Her wings would not grow back, and etienne knew it. Nor did they hold magical healing powers for the landwalkers. Their powers ebbed as soon as they were cut away. They were worthless decaying flesh now. She knew etienne only played along, pretending to intently listen to Frans spout the myths that had followed them, and then Frans embellished even those as he went, soaking in the rapt attention of the crowd that closed in around him.

His lies were nothing she hadn't heard before. There had always been stories about their kind, fearful stories, none of them true. The gargouilles were as human as anyone else. They lived among the landwalkers and always had, only different in their own way as a redhead is from a blonde, as odd as a sixtoed baby, as rare as an albino. The rarity was what grieved her and where she had let her clan down. Their numbers were dwindling. They had been hunted for their wings for centuries, becoming like anyone else once their wings were cut.

The irony was that gargouille blood ran through the land-walkers too-only a trace from some long-ago mutual ancestor, but enough to make them take flight in their dreams, to remember the lift, the wind, the freedom and exhilaration of not being bound to this world, to remember the fluttering of hair on currents, the taut stretch of wing and chest, the longing to soar again once their feet touched land, the bitterness when their eyes opened and their flight was nothing more than a trick of sleep. The landwalkers looked at the gargouilles and saw their dreams and unfulfilled desires. They looked at them and saw what they secretly wanted to be, and then despised them for it.

"How long before the wings grow back?" etienne asked Frans, his voice laced with doubt as he deliberately surveyed her back, which showed no signs of emerging wings.

Frans rubbed his bristled cheek. "Not sure exactly. A week, maybe two."

"Perhaps with nourishment they might grow faster?" etienne suggested.

Frans weighed this thought and turned to Giselle. "What do you eat, beast?"

Giselle lifted her gaze to meet Frans. She surveyed his protruding belly and his rotten teeth. "I drink the tears of angels and share the bread of saints."

There were gasps and mumblings in the crowd at the sacrilege. Frans stood silently, perplexed. It was the first question he had asked her and he didn't understand her answer. He finally laughed it off and threw her a piece of hard barley bread, and shoved a stein of water into the cart through the bars, before going back to telling his stories.

Giselle gulped the water, the overflow dribbling down her cheeks. She wiped the drips away with the back of her hand. The tears of angels give me flight, she thought. The gargouilles had their own legends too. Her grandmother had passed them on to her as all gargouilles were bound to do, stories that explained how they came to be who they were, where their kind diverged from those married to foot and ground, stories that elevated them and gave them a reason to hold their heads high. Her grandmother told her that they once flew with the angels; they were the guardians of the sky; they were the watchers who knew and made right. They were blessed with their velvet wings because they were better. They were chosen. When the angels retreated to the heavens, the gargouilles became the angels of the night. Those were the stories Giselle wanted to believe.

One thing she knew for certain: they had to preserve their heritage and their kind because they were precious few. There were of course, a few scattered rogue gargouilles who lived alone among the landwalkers, assuming their way of life, but even their identities were unknown to the clans. "As useless as a harp with no strings," her mother said of them. Only the clans still preserved the work of the angels. They were all that mattered, and there were only fourteen left in Giselle's clan. etienne, he came from the north. He was to be a match for Bridet, but the minute his eyes met Giselle's, they both knew. Bridet knew.

He came to visit Giselle often. Her mother was always spare of words, so etienne would retell Giselle the stories of old, and he told them like no one else she had ever heard, captivating her with every sentence. They flew in the night, circling with stars and moon, diving through treetop and forest, too dark and too fast to be seen as more than a passing shadow, a whoosh of air, a flicker of starlight, and they were gone. And then one night by a sliver of orange moon, they walked. Giselle unfolded her wings, felt the paper-thin but steely strength of their flesh, etienne's fingers running along the velvet crest of her wings, his lips sliding down her throat. His wings snapped outward, wrapped her in their warmth. His kisses were gentle and tender, always waiting for her answer. And her answer was always yes. Yes.

The next day she knew it before he said it. She knew what was coming as they walked together in the meadow, their wings carefully hidden away in the daylight. She knew the words on the edge of his lips because some things are just known-they don't have to be said, but he said them anyway. "I love you, Giselle. I love you. I choose you."

"And I choose you back, etienne."

The match was made. It was complete except for the celebrations with their families. He left to tell his parents in the north. And Giselle danced by daylight in the meadow. Danced, and sang. And she spread her wings without a care for the world or who might be watching.

I choose you back.

"She only looks like a simple peasant girl. Are you sure she's a gargouille?"

"Look at the wings, boy! I cut them from her myself-and she put up a hellish struggle!"

etienne's jaw clenched. His shoulders lurched. Giselle gasped, terrified that etienne would reveal himself and suffer her same fate. "There are too many!" she cried. "Too many! Leave! Go!"

etienne pulled his shoulders back, his face softening at her distress, and Giselle sobbed in relief.

"Quiet, beast!" Frans yelled. "These good people want to look, and look they will!"

The crowd rumbled approval. A few patted him on the back, eager to show their own bravery by stepping closer to the beast. Still others offered to buy him a meal and brew at the tavern. Frans rubbed his chin wistfully. It had been a long ride. His barley bread was brick-hard and dry, and his small wedge of cheese was nearly gone. A hot meal would be welcome, maybe even a bit of meat or smoked eel with some porridge, and then he could feed the beast the remainder of his barley bread. A few moments ago was the first time he had fed her since he caught her, and she was looking weak, with no sign of new wings yet. A dead, wingless gargouille would not be worth nearly as much to the duke as a live, healthy one. But he eyed his treasure on top of the cart. Going into the tavern was too big a risk to take. "I'll have my meal out here."

Several villagers rushed to the tavern to bring their honored guest some food, and the rest of the crowd dwindled, eager to get home to their own suppers and their twilight chores, possibly more mindful than usual of the darkening sky and the creatures that might inhabit it.

Frans turned to etienne, who was brave enough to step close to the cart and was broad-shouldered and a head taller than most in the crowd. Frans flipped him a coin, which etienne easily caught. "I'm going over there to rest and eat. Two more of those coins for you if you wait here and see that no one touches the cart-or beast." In this village three coins was easily a day's wages. etienne properly smiled and nodded. "And mind you," Frans added, wagging his finger, "I'll still be watching! I expect diligence for those coins!"

"Of course," etienne answered.

Frans walked some distance away and settled against the stone wall of the tavern to view the cart from a more comfortable position and await the meal the villagers were bringing him. A half dozen lingered with him, eager to hear more stories about distant lands, since by now Frans had expanded how far he had traveled and the adventures he had seen.

etienne stood guard, periodically circling the wagon so that he could speak to Giselle without his lips being seen by the watchful Frans.

"When he sleeps and the others go, I'll slit his throat and get the key to the lock."

"No!" Giselle cried through clenched teeth. "It's wrong to take a life!"

"But look what he's done to you!"

Giselle hung her head, ashamed for being so careless. Her clan had often retold the story of a long-ago uncle who had flaunted his wings and brought on not only his own death but also those of three more of the clan. His carelessness had been unforgivable. Tears fell from her eyes to the splintered floor of the cart. "What has been done to me can't be undone," she whispered.

"There must be something-"

Giselle jerked her head up. "There is nothing, etienne! You must face it. In a matter of hours I will barely be a gargouille. I will be as one of them. I will forget our clans and their stories. I will forget who I am. . . . I will forget you."

etienne shook his head, his eyes glistening. "You won't forget me, Giselle!" he whispered. "I won't let you. And if you do, I'll find a way to make you remember. We will be together again. Do you hear me? I'll find a way. Say my name so you won't forget. etienne. Say it! Now!"

"etienne," Giselle sobbed.

"Again!"

"etienne." Her voice was barely a whisper, weak with sorrow.

"You love me, Giselle. You always will. A gargouille match is forever. Remember that. Forever. Look into my eyes. Memorize them. You'll see them again and you'll remember. You'll remember me."

Giselle stared into his eyes, memorizing his pale gray irises surrounded by a rich ring of black, the eyes of the north, but still uniquely etienne's. He deserved more than she could give him now. More than a landwalker's life. He was still a watcher of the night. Soon she would be fearful of the dark like most landwalkers were. She would cross herself at shadows flitting past the moon. She would recoil at the hideous creatures that adorned the corners of the cathedral and mocked the gargouilles. She would wonder at a stonemaster who could carve such monsters. "Forget me. Bridet was your intended anyway."

etienne shook away her comment. "When you reach the duke's-"