The clerk I'd spoken with had spotted me and fast walked to the counter to meet me, immediately ducking into the display case to find the passion tools I'd considered, the expensive ones since the cheap ones had sold.

"Which?" she asked, grinning.

I wanted to surprise Molt, who'd been a fun and informative companion, and I really wanted to see him smile. If I didn't spend my coin, eventually Boss Mead would claim it to keep me dependent. So… "The one with the—" Human stuck in my throat. "—remnant."

"You'll have to register it."

Which meant the civil ID I hadn't used since running from the constables and from home. I looked around. Students. Respectable professors. Nobody likely tied to the mob. "Can I give you the number? I don't have the card on me…" I said, patting my pockets for what I'd burnt a dozen years ago.

"Sure. I'll need to record your eye and primary feather color, and describe your idi—not that anyone checks, considering the sanctions the Bureau of Human Trafficking levies if it's fraudulent." She gave me a tilt-headed grin saying she didn't think I was stupid.

I was stupid. The number, were Boss Mead to get it, would allow him to trace former-me to my family. Him terrorizing them or using them against me would be catastrophic.

Unlikely. Not a zero chance, though.

I turned around and lifted my wings causing my primaries to brush the ceiling. It revealed my harnesses-and-leather-traces idioglyph. I flexed and flaunted the muscles below my wing joints because I could, and I was feeling good, powerful even—or telling myself I was—so why not? I knew from looking in a mirror that it made the black pigmented lines and circles wiggle.

"Guy move." The clerk snorted as she sketched it using a pen.

I blithely gave her the number with a return chuckle. I'd always been more comfortable with men, acting masculine, sometimes wondering why I'd not been born a man—until I rode one again and understood my privilege being born a woman.

The clerk wrapped the rectangular box in a swatch of appropriately dark pink satin, tying it with blue string she had to get from another department.

The clerk I'd spoken with had spotted me and fast walked to the counter to meet me, immediately ducking into the display case to find the passion tools I'd considered, the expensive ones since the cheap ones had sold.

"Which?" she asked, grinning.

I wanted to surprise Molt, who'd been a fun and informative companion, and I really wanted to see him smile. If I didn't spend my coin, eventually Boss Mead would claim it to keep me dependent. So… "The one with the—" Human stuck in my throat. "—remnant."

"You'll have to register it."

Which meant the civil ID I hadn't used since running from the constables and from home. I looked around. Students. Respectable professors. Nobody likely tied to the mob. "Can I give you the number? I don't have the card on me…" I said, patting my pockets for what I'd burnt a dozen years ago.

"Sure. I'll need to record your eye and primary feather color, and describe your idi—not that anyone checks, considering the sanctions the Bureau of Human Trafficking levies if it's fraudulent." She gave me a tilt-headed grin saying she didn't think I was stupid.

I was stupid. The number, were Boss Mead to get it, would allow him to trace former-me to my family. Him terrorizing them or using them against me would be catastrophic.

Unlikely. Not a zero chance, though.

I turned around and lifted my wings causing my primaries to brush the ceiling. It revealed my harnesses-and-leather-traces idioglyph. I flexed and flaunted the muscles below my wing joints because I could, and I was feeling good, powerful even—or telling myself I was—so why not? I knew from looking in a mirror that it made the black pigmented lines and circles wiggle.

"Guy move." The clerk snorted as she sketched it using a pen.

I blithely gave her the number with a return chuckle. I'd always been more comfortable with men, acting masculine, sometimes wondering why I'd not been born a man—until I rode one again and understood my privilege being born a woman.

The clerk wrapped the rectangular box in a swatch of appropriately dark pink satin, tying it with blue string she had to get from another department.