Sophie Jack Crow
When Old Crow chose me as her apprentice, I thought I’d grow wings on the spot. Be flying within a week. My grandmother is famous as far as Old Crows go and I’m her only granddaughter.
But with a stubbornness all of its own my body refused her instruction. Spat upon my heritage! Instead of being cloaked in fine black feathers, after six months of trying, my skin still gleams as pale and featherless as moonstone.
Old Crow’s resorted to discipline now – making me follow her every move for hours on end. She’s determined we’ll sprout a feather by tea.
I am not so sure.
Old Crow scratches the floor of the living room with her left foot and strikes a pose. Her legs are bent, her back hunched and her arms swing from her shoulders like broken wings. “Come on, Sophie!” she shouts. “Keep up!”
I round my back and sink my weight into my sore knees. I’ve been copying her all morning and still haven’t got it right.
“If you can’t stand like a Crow, you’ll never shift into one,” she says.
Easy for her to say, she was probably born with feathers. Even in human form, short and dumpy (though she’d hate me saying it) in her old black leggings, baggy black sweater she looks more Crow than I’ll manage in a million years. It’s horribly discouraging.
Her eyes are over me like ants – searching my skin for signs of feathers, down, anything that might show progress.
“Marginally better, Featherfew.”
I wince at the formal name for young crows who can’t find their wings.
Old Crow sees it. “Sophie,” she says, more gently. “Try thrusting your neck forward. Feel your face elongate. Imagine that pretty little nose growing hard. Dark. Becoming beak. Can you do that?”
I imagine the muscles in my face contracting as my nose turns grey and lengthens to meet my jaw. I stifle a giggle.
“Con-cen-trate!” Old Crow says under her breath. Her gaze flicks to the window. “We are being observed!”
I glance at the window where a line of Crows balance precariously on the windowsill outside, ready witnesses to my failure. I am Old Crow’s grand-daughter, after all, and she is quite the shape-shifter. Quite the Old Style Hereditary Crow, in fact. I curse the fact I have not inherited her genes.
“Stop thinking!” Old Crow snaps. “Crows don’t sit about worrying whose genes they’ve got! You have no hope of turning Crow if you don’t at least think like one.”