The snow crunches steadily beneath my boots as I walk, the sound sharp in the quiet morning, and I stop for a moment in the middle of the street without meaning to, my breath drifting up in pale clouds that dissolve almost as soon as they appear.

  My hands rest against the strap of my book satchel, fingers curled around the worn leather where it crosses my chest, as though the pressure alone can keep me steady. The air feels thin today. Too still. As if the whole town is waiting.

  I know I should keep moving. If I stand here long enough, someone might notice, but my feet remain planted, and the longer I hesitate, the louder the thoughts in my head become.

  Today.

  The word presses heavily against my ribs, heavier than the books strapped to my back. Today means further examination. I swallow at the thought.

  I readjust the strap on my shoulder and keep my grip on it, curling my fist around it until the leather presses into my palm.

  Breakfast had been far worse than the cold.

  Julian wasn't there this morning, thank God, but I could still feel him in the room with us, hanging in the air between us in the way my mother wouldn't look at me. Not once.

  She moved around the kitchen carefully, almost deliberately, placing the bread on the table with quiet precision, pouring tea without spilling a drop, wiping the counter long after it was already clean. Every small sound seemed magnified in the silence—the scrape of the chair legs, the faint clink of porcelain, the low sigh of the kettle as it cooled.

  I kept waiting for her to say something, anything, even if it was to tell me to sit up straight or pass the salt. She never did.

  She used to hum while she cooked, soft little tunes that wandered through the kitchen and made the mornings feel warmer than they were. I can't remember the last time the kitchen sounded like that.

  My fingers curl tighter around the strap.

  This Julian. Even thinking his name feels like letting him take up space he hasn't earned. It feels like he stepped into our house quietly and shifted everything just a little to the left, so nothing quite lines up anymore.

  Mama was never this distant before she started disappearing day after day for her so-called "errands," coming home later than usual, her cheeks flushed from the cold and something else she wouldn't explain.

  I remember asking once where she'd been, and the way she smiled too quickly and said, "Just out."

  Just out.

  And then the proposal, delivered at the breakfast table, as if it had been planned for weeks without me.

  My jaw tightens at the memory, and I lower my gaze to the snow packed hard beneath my boots. From a distance, the snow covers everything evenly, blurring the marks left behind. Yet up close, it's full of footprints.

  A gust of wind slices down the street, slipping beneath my coat and sending a shiver down my shoulders. I blink against it and force myself forward, each step deliberate now, the school growing larger at the end of the road, its windows dark against the pale sky.

  The thought of stepping back inside makes my pulse quicken.

  I picture the yard. The guards. The clipboard in her hands. The way her eyes didn't see me so much as evaluate me, weighing and measuring as though I were something laid out on a table.

  My grip on the strap turns into a fist.

  For a moment, I stop again, closing my eyes against the wind and the thoughts pressing in from all sides. I draw in a slow breath, the cold air burning deep in my lungs, and hold it there until the tightness in my chest feels almost manageable.

  It's only an examination, I tell myself. Only standing still and only answering what they ask. Nothing more.

  I let the breath leave me slowly, open my eyes, and straighten my back as much as I can, even though my shoulders still feel too tight.

  Then, without giving myself time to think again, I start walking, pushing through the snow with steady steps until the iron gate of the schoolyard rises in front of me, waiting.

  By the time I step through, the others are already there.

  Three of them stand in a straight line near the front steps, their shoulders squared, their hands either clasped behind their backs or folded neatly in front of them as if they've rehearsed it.

  Emil—I recognize her from class—stands at the end of the line, shoulders drawn in slightly, her dark blond hair parted into two neat braids, a few strands slipping loose around her freckled face, her green eyes flickering up only briefly before lowering again.

  Dr. Ziegler waits by the schoolhouse's front door. Her hands are folded behind her back, posture precise, dark coat falling in a clean line to her boots. She does not move when I approach. She watches, her gaze fixed on me long before I reach the steps.

  I know I'm late. Again.

  The snow crunches louder beneath my boots as I close the distance, the sound too sharp in the quiet yard. The other three do not look at me. That almost makes it worse.

  "Mr. B?cker."

  Her voice carries easily across the cold air. I stop a few feet from her.

  "You will learn," she admonishes, "that punctuality is not optional."

  The words are not shouted. They do not need to be.

  Heat rises to my face despite the cold. "Yes, ma'am."

  Her eyes hold mine a moment longer than necessary. Assessing. Weighing. Then, just as quickly, she shifts her attention past me, as if my lateness has already been recorded and filed away.

  "This will not occur again," she adds. It is not a question.

  "No, ma'am."

  She gives a single nod and turns slightly toward the door. "The examination is still being arranged," she says evenly. "You will remain in position until instructed otherwise."

  The four of us stand in silence, the wind brushing lightly across the yard, lifting the edges of our coats, when suddenly, I feel Roman shift from beside me.

  The scrape of his boot against the stone cuts through the silence, followed by a sharp exhale through his nose. He rolls his shoulders back as if bracing himself, but I can see the tremor in his hands before he tucks them under his arms.

  "This is—" he begins, then stops. Swallows. "This is ridiculous."

  His voice cracks on the last word.

  Dr. Ziegler does not turn.

  Roman laughs, too loud, too sudden. "We're missing lessons for this," he says, the words tripping over each other now. "For your... your inspections. Like we're livestock."

  ?ukasz glances at him, uncertain, then looks at the soldiers stationed along the fence. His jaw tightens.

  Roman's breathing grows heavier. "You've got soldiers watching us walk to school," he says, louder now, though the edges of his voice still shake. "You pull us out of class whenever you want. You measure us. Weigh us. Line us up."

  His courage is brittle, but it's there.

  Dr. Ziegler turns her head slowly. "Mr. Kowalczyk," she says evenly, "you will speak when addressed."

  Her tone is calm. Controlled. Not raised.

  Roman hesitates—just for a second. The fact that she does not shout seems to steady him in the worst way.

  "Or what?" he presses, though the question falters halfway through. "You'll write us up? Send another report?" He gestures vaguely toward her uniform. "Send it off to whoever you answer to?"

  ?ukasz steps in now, encouraged. "Yeah," he mutters, louder than before. "You don't even decide anything. You just pass it along."

  Roman nods quickly, seizing the momentum. "You stand there like you're in charge, but you're not. You're just—" He struggles for the word. "You're just doing what you're told."

  "A puppet," ?ukasz says more clearly this time.

  Roman's mouth tightens. "A coward," he adds, forcing the word out. "Hiding behind soldiers and symbols."

  The Nazi insignia on her uniform catches the light as the wind shifts.

  ?ukasz's voice grows sharper. "You think this makes you important? Dragging us out here as we volunteered for it?"

  Roman's fear has turned hot now, reckless. "We're not experiments," he says. "We're not something you get to examine whenever you feel like it."

  The yard feels smaller all of a sudden, the soldiers unmoving along the fence as Dr. Ziegler does not interrupt them or raise her voice, but simply stands there with her hands still folded behind her back.

  From where I'm standing, I can see the faint tightening at the corner of her mouth—so slight it might be nothing at all. Her posture remains rigid, professional, but something flickers in her eyes. Not anger. Something closer to a strain.

  Emil shifts beside me. I don't look at her fully, but I can see the way her braids move as she lowers her head to the ground, her hands clasped tighter in front of her coat.

  We hated Dr. Ziegler—we really did. But this feels different.

  It's one thing to curse her name under our breath, to stiffen when she looks our way. It's another to watch Roman and ?ukasz tear into her like this, their voices climbing higher, sharper, as if they've forgotten how close the soldiers are.

  It feels like watching a slow, inevitable crash.

  I don't feel sorry for her. Not exactly.

  But as the boys' words land—"coward," "puppet," "nothing without orders"—I see something dim behind her composure, a flicker that wasn't there before. And that frightens me more than her anger ever could, because if she breaks, it won't be here, it won't be now. It will be later.

  And Roman and ?ukasz won't be ready for what comes after.

  Dr. Ziegler's gaze shifts briefly toward the hallway behind her, as though gathering herself. When she turns back, her expression is once again precise. Controlled.

  The silence that follows is heavier than before, and when the wind moves through the yard, it feels much colder.

  "The rooms are prepared," she informs us. "We will begin the examinations now."

  For a moment, none of us moves. It feels as though our boots have rooted into the stone.

  Roman shifts first. He turns his head toward ?ukasz, one brow arching in a silent, uncertain question—bravado gone, replaced with something smaller. Something unsure.

  Dr. Ziegler does not look at either of them directly when she adds, without haste, "Remain orderly. Do as instructed." There is no sharpness in her tone. Just expectation.

  She lifts one hand and motions toward the entrance. "Roman. ?ukasz." The names fall evenly from her mouth.

  The boys hesitate—only for a fraction of a second—before stepping forward.

  "Emil," she says next.

  Emil straightens beside me.

  I see the faint tightening of her jaw before she moves.

  Dr. Ziegler does not wait to see if we follow. She turns and walks ahead, posture rigid, steps measured, as though she assumes—as though she knows—that I am behind her.

  The others move ahead of me, their boots striking the stone in uneven rhythm, but the sound feels distant now—muffled, as though cotton has been pressed into my ears.

  My eyes lift.

  And stay there.

  A Nazi flag hangs above the doorway, fixed to the stone lintel, red cutting against the pale winter sky.

  The world around me seems to drain of color, turning faintly blue at the edges, as if the cold has seeped into the air itself.

  My eyes remain steady and open—not wide, not narrowed, simply fixed. My brow does not crease, my mouth does not part, and my lips rest in a thin, controlled line, neither trembling nor tightening against the fear that has settled deep in my chest—not panic exactly, but something heavier, a slow, dawning fear of what this town, this country, this world is becoming—but I do not let it reach my face.

  The flag is still burned behind my eyes—red against stone—when my foot catches the jagged edge of rock half-buried beneath the snow, and my weight comes down wrong before I even realize it.

  There's the briefest resistance, a split second where my body tries to correct itself, and then—

  POP.

  Pain shoots up my ankle, sharp and sudden, and my foot slips out from under me. I stumble hard, arms flying out as I try to catch myself, but there's nothing to grab—until I'm caught.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Hands catch me. Strong, immediate, unhesitating hands, one closing firmly around my shoulder, the other steadying my upper arm, halting my fall mid-motion and drawing me back upright before I can fully collapse.

  My ankle throbs, heat blooming beneath the cold, and for a second the yard blurs at the edges, the air thin in my lungs as I try to keep myself steady.

  Then I look up.

  My eyes are wider than I intend them to be, not in panic but in the lingering shock of almost hitting the ground, my lips parted slightly as I drag in a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

  I'm closer to him than I should be, my body still angled forward, the space between us almost nonexistent.

  Julian stands directly in front of me, close enough that I can see the warmth in his dark brown eyes, the quiet steadiness there, unhurried and certain.

  His grip has already loosened, no longer catching me but supporting me, as though he isn't restraining me at all, only making sure I remain standing.

  He looks at me with gentle concern, a soft smile resting on his face, as the shock of the fall leaves me too unguarded to pretend not to notice how handsome he is.

  I realize, slowly, that I am still leaning into him.

  Heat creeps up my face despite the cold, and before I can stop it, a small, embarrassed smile tugs at my lips, followed by a nervous, boyish little laugh I can't quite swallow back.

  After a moment, I straighten myself up carefully, testing my weight, and his hands linger just long enough to be certain I won't fall again before finally dropping away.

  Dr. Ziegler has almost reached the steps when she slows, and I see it happen—that subtle pause, that slight tightening of her shoulders as she realizes something behind her isn't moving the way it should.

  She turns slowly, her gaze sweeping the yard until it lands on me, no longer in line, no longer following, my elbow caught firmly in the grip of a man she does not recognize.

  Her eyes sharpen.

  "You, sir! What is the meaning of this?" she calls out across the yard.

  Julian's hand remains steady at my arm, not tight enough to hurt, just enough to keep me from stepping away, and when he answers, his tone is calm in a way that feels deliberate.

  "My name is Julian Zaworski. I am the boy's father."

  The word lands like a sudden slap.

  Father?!

  I flinch before I can stop myself, my body jerking back as though the claim itself burns, and I twist out from under his touch with a look I don't bother to hide, because he is not my father, and I do not belong to him.

  Julian notices and lowers his voice slightly, though his eyes remain on Dr. Ziegler.

  "I am here to inform you that you will not be conducting a full body examination on him."

  Dr. Ziegler exhales through her nose, as if scoffing, and steps down from the entrance with slow, deliberate precision, her boots striking the stone in measured beats.

  "On what grounds do you interfere with a health directive of the Reich?" she demands sharply. "Move aside, Pole."

  Julian does not move.

  Instead, he reaches into his coat, and I feel the entire yard tighten at once—soldiers straightening, hands shifting—until what he produces is not a weapon but a worn leather wallet that he snaps open with a clean, practiced motion, holding it up only inches from her face so she cannot ignore what is stamped inside.

  "By the authority of the Civil Administration, I serve as Special Liaison to the Stadthauptmann," He says confidently, his words measured and steady as though he has spoken them a thousand times. "I am enforcing a Sperre issued by the District Health Office. Look at the signature, Doctor. That is an SS-Obersturmführer's seal. The boy is currently a biological hazard and a subject of a General Government inquiry. If you strip him in this room, you will be personally responsible for breaching the quarantine and compromising a state file. Is that an 'authority' you wish to challenge?"

  "I'm a what?" I snap upright, heat flaring up my chest. "I beg your pardon—DID YOU JUST CALL ME A HAZARD?!"

  Dr. Ziegler's raised hand freezes midair, the motion suspended as though the entire yard has stopped with it, her gloved fingers curling slightly before she lowers them with deliberate care.

  She does not look at me at first. She looks at Julian. Slowly, one brow lifts.

  "The boy," she says evenly, though there is a sharpened edge beneath the calm, "is standing directly beside us."

  Julian does not so much as glance at me. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, the muscle feathering once beneath the skin before he smooths his expression back into something composed, something official, something carved from stone.

  "Yes," he replies, voice level. "I am aware."

  Dr. Ziegler shifts her weight, folding her hands neatly in front of her as though we are discussing paperwork instead of apparently me.

  "Then perhaps," she says, her gaze flicking to me now, "the subject should be informed of the nature of his condition before he takes offense."

  Condition?

  Julian exhales once through his nose. "That will not be necessary," he says. "The inquiry is ongoing. Until it concludes, containment protocols remain in effect."

  Containment?

  I stare at him, the heat that had been creeping up my face moments ago now gone cold, replaced by something sharp and electric that crackles in my chest.

  "Containment protocols?" I repeat, incredulous. "You make it sound like I'm radioactive."

  Dr. Ziegler's lips curve into a small, faintly amused smile.

  "In matters of public safety," she says mildly, "precision of language is important."

  Julian's eyes finally shift to me then, and there is something there—not authority, not anger—but urgency, restrained and tight as a pulled wire.

  "Daniel," he says, lower now, meant only for me, "this is not the place."

  And somehow that—more than the word hazard, more than inquiry, more than containment—makes it clear that whatever this is, is bigger even than my wounded pride.

  Dr. Ziegler does not look at the documents immediately. Instead, her gaze drops first to his hand, to the way he holds the identification steady without trembling, and then it travels slowly upward until her eyes meet his, and I see the shift happen—the irritation thinning into something cooler, something far more dangerous.

  "You have learned the theater of the Reich quite well, Julian," She remarks, her voice lowering, edged with quiet satisfaction in a way that makes my stomach twist.

  She steps closer, invading his space without hesitation, the sharp scent of antiseptic and cold air clinging to her lab coat as she lifts one finger and flicks the edge of his Dienstausweis lightly, dismissively.

  "But do not mistake your proximity to power for the possession of it. You are a clerk with a temporary permit to exist. I am the biological conscience of this school. If I find that this 'quarantine' is a fiction designed to shield a defective, I won't just file a report. I will ensure the Gestapo examines your medical history next."

  The threat hangs there, thick and suffocating, and for a moment I cannot hear anything but the pounding of my own pulse.

  Then, without warning, she snatches the papers from his hand with a sharp snap, scanning them just long enough to confirm what she needs before thrusting them back at him with visible irritation.

  "Go. Take your 'hazard' and get out of my sight. But mark me, Julian—paper burns. Blood remains."

  Then she turns with rigid control, her coat flaring slightly as it catches the wind, boots biting into the snow with a hard, purposeful crunch that echoes through the silent yard.

  Snow scatters behind her heels in pale bursts as she makes her way toward the school building, the dark frame of the doorway swallowing her inch by inch until the heavy door swings open, then slams shut with a hollow thud.

  The yard feels colder without her.

  Julian exhales slowly beside me, the breath faint in the cold as his gloved hand closes around the iron gate and forces it open with a low, complaining creak, and for a moment I consider planting my feet, curious—reckless—enough to see how he would react.

  "This way," he says softly.

  Reluctantly, I step through the gate, but only because I choose to, not because he told me to, and I make sure my shoulder nearly clips his arm as I pass.

  The street outside the schoolyard feels quieter, and he falls into step beside me with that same infuriating composure, his boots hitting the pavement in a steady rhythm that doesn't change, no matter how much I try to adjust my pace.

  "So," I begin, folding my arms tightly across my chest, "Since when am I a 'biological hazard'?"

  "Since it was the only way to make sure nothing happens to you."

  "That's not an answer."

  "It is the only one you're getting at the moment."

  I let out a breath through my nose, something halfway between a scoff and a laugh.

  "Stop pretending you have any right to tell me what to do," I bite out, my jaw clenched.

  He inhales slowly, though his voice remains calm.

  "I expect you to understand that arguing in the street is unwise."

  He slows a fraction, turning his head just enough to look at me fully now.

  "Daniel," he says, and my name in his voice is quieter than before, almost careful, "I give you my word that you are not in immediate danger. If you are willing, I will take you home, your mother and I shall explain everything privately, and then you may decide how you feel about me."

  The way he says it—not defensive, not demanding—almost... kind.

  I hesitate for a moment, because for all my sarcasm—for all the sharp edges I keep ready between us—I do want answers. And the cold is biting through my coat, and something about the way he pulled me out of school—without explanation—sits wrong in my chest.

  "She's home?" I ask finally.

  "Yes," he answers without pause. "Your mother is home."

  Slowly, he extends his hand toward me—palm open, not forceful, just there, an offering more than a command. The gesture is almost gentle.

  I roll my eyes so hard it nearly hurts, and instead of taking his hand, I brush past him deliberately, my shoulder grazing his arm as I step ahead onto the pavement.

  I do not miss the way his hand lingers in the air for a moment before he lowers it.

  For several seconds, I hear nothing behind me but the wind.

  Then, his measured footsteps resume. He catches up easily, falling into step at my side again without comment, without reprimand, as though I hadn't just rejected the closest thing to friendliness he has offered me yet.

  Infuriating.

  We walk in silence after that, the distance to my house shrinking with every step, and though I refuse to look at him again, I am acutely aware of his presence beside me...

  And I hate that part of me wonders what would have happened if I had taken his hand.

  The front door shuts against the wind with a heavy click, and I barely have time to shrug off the cold before footsteps rush across the wooden floor.

  "Daniel!"

  My mother's voice breaks.

  She is there in an instant—breathless, pale, her hands flying to his face as though to make certain I am in one piece. I've seen her worried before, but... not like this.

  "Oh, I was so frightened! After hearing what happened to Mrs. Majewska... and then those evaluations... Oh, thank God Julian managed to catch up with you in time."

  I blink at her.

  "You... sent Julian?" I ask slowly. "You sent him to retrieve me?"

  Mother's fingers tighten at my collar. "Of course I did."

  "But why?"

  A look passes between her and Julian.

  Julian removes his gloves with deliberate care. "Let us sit down," he says gently.

  I don't want to sit down, yet somehow they guide me to the red sofa chair in front of the fireplace anyway. The flame flickers, soft and gold, casting long shadows across the carpet.

  My mother stands behind me, her hands settling over my shoulders. I can feel how cold her fingers are despite the warmth of the room.

  Julian kneels in front of me.

  That unsettles me more than anything.

  "Daniel," he begins quietly, "the examinations being conducted at your school are not ordinary. They are looking for Jewish boys."

  The word makes my stomach tighten, even though I've heard it all my life. Even though I am one.

  "They are looking," Julian continues carefully, "for a physical sign. A mark that cannot be hidden during inspection."

  I frown. "What kind of mark?"

  Julian hesitates.

  My mother's fingers press more firmly into my shoulders.

  "It is a religious practice," Julian says slowly. "Performed when a Jewish boy is an infant."

  I stare at him. "What practice?"

  He glances at my mother—just for a second—then back at me.

  "It is called circumcision."

  The word means nothing.

  "That doesn't explain anything," I say sharply.

  Julian nods, as if he expected that.

  "It means," he continues gently, and now his voice lowers, "that when you were a baby, a small part of your body was altered. In a place that would only be seen during... medical examination."

  I freeze.

  The room goes very still.

  He doesn't say the word. He doesn't have to.

  Heat rushes to my face so fast it almost burns.

  My mother's hands are still on my shoulders. Julian is kneeling in front of me.

  And suddenly I understand exactly what part of my body he's talking about.

  "I don't want to hear this," I snap.

  "Daniel," my mother whispers.

  "No." I shake my head hard. "No, I don't— I don't need to hear this."

  Julian doesn't move. "You need to understand why you were in danger today."

  "I wasn't in danger," I say, even though I know that isn't true. "They were just examinations."

  "They would have noticed," Julian says quietly.

  "Noticed what?" My voice cracks. "You still haven't said what is different!"

  My mother moves around the chair so she's kneeling beside him now. I hate that they're both at eye level with me. I hate that I feel cornered.

  "You are circumcised, Daniel," she says softly.

  I stare at her.

  The word feels heavier now.

  "I don't—" I swallow. "I don't know what that means."

  Her expression crumples slightly.

  "It means," she says gently, forcing herself to say it, "that you are not the same as other boys in that... area. Jewish boys are marked by the covenant when they are infants. It is part of who we are."

  My mind refuses to process it.

  Not the same.

  Physically not the same!

  All my life, I've known I was different in other ways. Quieter. Sharper. Not like the boys who laugh too loudly and shove each other in the yard.

  But this?

  This is something else.

  "That's not true," I say automatically.

  "It is," Julian replies, not unkindly.

  I shake my head harder. "I would know."

  "You would not," my mother whispers. "You were eight days old."

  Eight days?

  "You never told me," I say, turning on her. "You never said anything!"

  She flinches. "How could I?" she asks softly. "You were a child. And then you grew older and... it felt improper. A mother does not easily speak to her son about such matters."

  "So you just— what? Pretended I was normal?"

  "You are normal," she insists, her hands reaching for mine. "You are my son."

  "That's not what he just said!"

  The fire flickers violently, like it's reacting to my voice.

  "All those times," I continue, my thoughts racing, "when you wouldn't let me bathe with the other boys at school. When you wouldn't let me change near them. You said it was so I wouldn't talk too much. So I wouldn't say the wrong thing."

  "That was part of it," she admits.

  "Part of it?"

  Her silence answers me.

  The floor feels unsteady beneath my feet, even though I'm sitting down.

  "They would see," Julian says quietly. "And once seen, it cannot be unseen."

  I feel sick.

  My whole life, I thought I was careful. Careful with words. Careful with names. Careful with whom I trusted.

  I never imagined there was something I couldn't control. Something on me. Something I didn't even know about.

  My mind empties.

  "And you told him?!" I demand suddenly, turning toward my mother. "You told him we're Jewish? After everything? After all those years, you told me not to say a word? Not to tell anyone?"

  My mother's eyes shine with unshed tears. "He already knew. He came to warn us."

  My heart pounds out of my chest.

  Julian speaks quietly. "Your family records were not as erased as you believed."

  I look between the two of them, breathing too fast.

  "And why," I say slowly, "does that matter now?"

  Julian straightens slightly. "Because I am not merely a local administrator," he says evenly. "I serve in an official capacity within the Civil Administration. I work... with the German authorities."

  Everything rearranges itself in my mind.

  The authority in his voice when he stopped Dr. Ziegler. The way soldiers listened to him. The way doors seemed to open.

  It makes sense.

  It makes so much sense that I hate it.

  "So you are one of them," I whisper.

  "I work among them," he corrects.

  I let out a short, breathless laugh that sounds nothing like amusement. "So what? What is this? Some kind of test? You save me just to hand me over?"

  "If I intended to hand you over," Julian says evenly, "I would not have brought you home."

  The words echo in the space between us.

  I don't answer. I can't. My throat feels too tight, like something is lodged in there, pressing upward.

  My eyes burn in a way that makes me furious with myself.

  Not now. Not in front of them.

  I pull my knees up onto the sofa without thinking, curling forward, pressing my forehead against them.

  If I make myself small enough, maybe they won't see. Maybe they won't notice.

  My hands grip the fabric of my trousers. I focus on that. On the rough weave beneath my fingers. On breathing evenly. On not letting my shoulders shake.

  I will not cry.

  Not in front of my mother.

  And certainly not in front of him.

  But inside, everything feels like it's splitting down the middle.

  I hear my mother shift closer.

  "Oh, my darling..." she breathes.

  "I told him because I had to," she says, her voice trembling but steady. "Because he is in a position to know things before others do. To keep us from being blindsided."

  She folds her hands tightly in her lap. "You think I would entrust our secret to someone careless?"

  I shake my head against my knees. Just once. A warning.

  If I lift my face, I know it will show.

  And I can't bear that.

  Julian rises from the floor. The movement pulls at the edge of my vision, though I don't lift my head. I see only the dark line of his boots against the carpet, the shadow stretching toward the sofa.

  He looks down at me.

  I can feel it.

  I hate that I can feel it.

  Then his gaze shifts.

  "To attempt a reversal," he says gently, "I will make inquiries."

  The word scrapes somewhere in my mind, but I cannot make it settle.

  My mother's breath catches. "Is that... is that safe?"

  Then there is a pause.

  "Nothing in war is ever safe," Julian replies evenly. "But he would be safer enduring a procedure than living in constant fear of discovery."

  The words pass over me like cold air. They do not land. They do not arrange themselves into meaning.

  My ears ring too loudly.

  I press my face harder into my knees.

  I do not mean to make a sound.

  But something breaks loose anyway.

  A small, humiliating whimper slips out before I can swallow it back.

  And then the tears come.

  They soak into the fabric at my knees, and I am grateful for that at least—that no one can see my face.

  Julian takes a few measured steps away. I hear the faint shift of leather, the quiet clasp of his hands folding behind his back.

  "There are other matters," he says.

  My mother straightens slightly. I hear it in the way her skirt moves against the floor.

  "You, Marianna, will also have adjustments to make."

  Silence.

  "You must blend," he continues. "In conduct. In habit. In appearance."

  Another pause.

  "Tell me—do either of you know anything of Christianity?"

  My mother hesitates. "Uh..." I feel her glance toward me, but I do not look up. "Um, we... we celebrate Christmas," she says carefully. "But more as a winter festival than a religious holiday."

  Julian nods. I hear the faint sound of it—the subtle shift of fabric at his collar.

  "Then you are already on your first steps toward becoming a Christian."

  My mother lowers her gaze.

  "If that is what it takes," she says softly. "Then we shall learn."

  This has to be a dream.

  Any moment now, I will wake up in my bed, tangled in blankets, annoyed at how strange it felt.

  Any moment.

  But the fire keeps burning in front of me.

  And I don't wake up.