"Do I still look like me?"
"Yes," James said, with nothing in front of it.
Her free hand went up to the horn. She found the new point of it with her fingers, felt along the ridge, and James saw her jaw set.
"Don't—"
Her eyes were already shut.
The horn withdrew. It sank down into her hairline the way it always had, smooth and complete, and something eased in her face.
Then the wings.
The left one began folding away out of the world, going thin, going transparent at the edges — and stopped halfway, hanging there half-present, while the right wing stayed exactly where it was, entirely solid, entirely visible, not even beginning.
Nyra's brows pulled together.
She pushed harder.
The half-hidden wing flickered — there, gone, there — and the other one did not move at all, and James felt the heat come up under his palm where her hand lay in his, from warm to hot in the space of four seconds.
The monitor above her shoulder changed its rhythm.
