Chapter 4

The test came two days later.

Milo's preschool teacher called and said he had done something terrible.

When I arrived, Milo stood in the courtyard staring at a dead bird. The class had been caring for several birds whose flight feathers had been trimmed. According to the teacher, Milo and one other child had been alone with them. The other boy had run away crying and accused Milo.

Milo refused to confess.

I touched his cheek. It was cold and numb.

“Is there security footage?” I asked.

The teacher shifted. “The courtyard camera isn't working.”

“Then we have two conflicting accounts.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “Your child is feline beastkin. What do you expect? Sometimes they can't control their animal instincts. The real question is how you people raise them to be both cruel and stubborn.”

Milo flinched.

I raised one hand. “Stop.”

The teacher's mouth fell open.

I knelt in front of Milo. “Tell me what happened.”

He looked straight at me. “I did something wrong, but I didn't kill the bird.”

The other boy relaxed at the first half, then cried louder at the second.

I did not know exactly what Milo had done. I knew cats had hunting instincts. I also knew Milo was not a cat operating on instinct. He was a child who had helped a stranger find a guide dog and nearly given up his home to repay a few decent meals.

“I believe that you believe what you're saying,” I told him. “We're going to find out the rest.”

The teacher called me unreasonable.

Beyond the preschool fence stood a bank, its street camera angled toward the courtyard. I called the police because an animal had been killed and two very young children were involved. The officers obtained the relevant footage quickly.

The camera had caught the courtyard in one corner of the frame.

The bird had hopped toward Milo. The other child grew jealous, grabbed at it, and then threw himself on it during the struggle. Afterward, he whispered to Milo before summoning the teacher in tears.

Milo's ears folded as we watched.

“I argued over a bird that belonged to everyone,” he said. “That was wrong. But I didn't kill it. You said I shouldn't give away my...” He struggled for the phrase. “My right to not be blamed.”

“Exactly.”

The teacher immediately changed her story. Milo simply had not explained himself well. No one had meant to accuse him unfairly.

I did not let her hide prejudice behind a misunderstanding.

I required an apology from her and from the other child's parents. Then I withdrew Milo from the school.

That afternoon, we buried the bird beneath a tree in the park.

As we walked, I asked what the other boy had whispered.

“He said if I took the blame, he'd let me play with him. He wouldn't call me an animal anymore.”

“Has he bullied you before?”

Milo glanced up. “The old you didn't care. Dad said he sent me to a human preschool so I could observe humans and learn how to deal with them. Not to make friends.”

Pain pressed behind my ribs.

“I thought about the offer,” Milo continued. “I wanted a friend. But I didn't want one like that. You said...”

“You made the right choice. Friendship bought with a lie isn't friendship.”

His mouth curved shyly.

Then he tugged my sleeve. “Can you pick me up?”

I understood that he meant more than the distance to the car.

I bent down. “I thought I was a despicable villain.”

He put his arms around my neck and rubbed his cheek against mine.

“You're my favorite, strongest Mommy Queen.”

I laughed and hugged him tight. “And my brave little Milo is my favorite Baby King.”

He did not ask whether affection was a trick.

This time, when I kissed his forehead, he leaned into it.

Finding a new preschool took longer than leaving the old one.

The first director promised they treated every child “exactly the same.” When I asked whether the teachers understood that young beastkin sometimes transformed under stress, she admitted they had never discussed it.

The second school had separate cafeteria tables. The administrator called it a dietary accommodation. The beastkin children called it the animal table.

At the third school, a rabbit-beastkin teacher crouched to Milo's height instead of reaching for his ears. She showed him a quiet room any frightened child could use, then asked whether he liked blocks, paint, or books.

Milo hid behind my coat. “Birds.”

The teacher did not flinch. “We have a bird feeder outside. No class pets, though. Children shouldn't be made responsible for an animal before they're ready.”

His grip tightened around my sleeve. “Can I see the feeder?”

We enrolled him there.

For the first week, Milo asked every morning whether I would return. I never told him he should know the answer. He did not know. That was the wound.

I told him when I would arrive, and I came before that time.

On Friday, he ran out wearing a paper crown and carrying a drawing of three figures. One had gray ears. One had golden eyes and stood at the far edge. The figure in the middle had arms long enough to reach both sides of the page.

“That's you,” Milo said. “Your arms aren't really that long. I needed them to fit.”

I crouched beside him. “Who's over there?”

“Dad. He's away.”

“Do you want him closer?”

Milo studied the drawing. “I don't know.”

It was an honest answer, and I respected it.

I put the picture on the refrigerator. Late that night, I found Milo standing on a chair, moving Adrian's paper figure half an inch closer to ours.

He saw me and froze.

I turned toward the sink. “I came for water.”

The next morning, the figure had moved another inch.