# Chapter 9: The Scroll's Revelation

Four days had passed since Amelia had laid her second egg.

Four days of searching, of pouring over crumbling scrolls and faded manuscripts, of learning to live in bodies that felt less foreign with each passing hour. Four days of the cabin slowly transforming into something that resembled a chicken coop.

The floor was a minefield of white splatters. Amelia had tried, at first, to clean up after herself—but her body didn't give her warning. Her cloaca released waste whenever it needed to, a constant trickle or sudden gush that she couldn't control. She'd taken to staying near the kitchen's linoleum, where the mess was easier to wipe, and she still wore a skirt—a black one she'd cut a slit in for her tail—to maintain at least a shred of dignity. John wore the floral skirt with similar modifications, though his deer penis sometimes poked out the front when it unsheathed unexpectedly. They'd both learned to tuck it back in quickly.

They'd settled into a routine: wake, eat, search the scrolls, take a walk, eat again, search more, sleep. The urges to fuck had dulled, becoming manageable. They could look at each other now without immediately feeling the pull of instinct—though Amelia still caught herself breathing deeply when John walked past, that sharp deer-musk filling her nostrils.

The eggs sat in the corner, in the nest of pillows. Amelia didn't know what to do with them. She couldn't bring herself to throw them away, but she couldn't eat them either. They just sat there, two pale orbs, reminders of what she had become.

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This morning was like all the others.

Amelia woke to the smell of herself, to the familiar stiffness in her avian legs, to the soreness in her cloaca that never quite went away. John was already up, standing at the window, his floral skirt hitched up slightly as he stared out at the lake.

"Morning," she said, her voice rough.

"Morning." He didn't turn around. "I found more berries. The bushes near the eastern trail are loaded."

"Good."

She pushed herself upright, her talons clicking against the floor. She adjusted her black skirt, making sure her tail feathers were properly through the slit, and poured herself a cup of cold coffee from yesterday's pot.

They ate in silence, standing at the counter. Neither of them could sit anymore—her cloaca made …