But when the baker’s back was turned, Petrus had glared at Duck with poisonous barbs for eyes. “Money,” he’d hissed. “Flour costs money. The time it takes to make a new batch of yeast costs money. Do you have extra money, Duck?”

  Duck had shaken her head, her gaze on the floor.

  “Then I suggest you be extra careful from now on.”

  Yes, it was a relief that Duck would not be spending any more time than necessary with the journeyman. Instead, Griselde farmed out Duck’s education to the local notary, who lived two streets over in the law district, and to Duck’s surprise, she took to learning her letters like, well . . . like a duck took to water.

  Master Nichol Frobertus was a wiry old man with a pair of coin-size spectacles that hooked over his springy ears, and he was never not squinting; he glanced at everything around him with ancient suspicion, his forehead collapsed in permanent wrinkles.

  And from the moment Duck entered his office, he was nothing but patient.

  “So, this is the baker’s newest protégé.”

  He leaned over his pulpit and examined her, his mouth serious, the yellow tassels on his robe and cap dangling — but his watery old eyes twinkled amicably.

  Duck squeaked out an answer in the affirmative, then peered at the room around her.

  She, made of one-fourth street dirt and three-fourths stolen food scraps, felt like standing in this office was sacrilege — it was towering with books, shelves reaching the ceiling and overflowing with gold-flecked spines and tomes that looked older than the notary himself. Where there weren’t books, there were parchments stacked and covered in scribbled ink, and where there weren’t parchments, there was a small amount of walkable floor. Everything smelled like antique oak, rich velvet, and expensive ale.

  And everywhere Duck looked, there were knickknacks and artifacts that could likely feed the Crowns until Epiphany, were she to swipe something . . .

  “You call yourself Duck? Is that your Christian name?”

  Duck ripped her eyes away from a tiny volume on the corner of Master Frobertus’s desk, which would just fit into her pocket. “I’m . . . not sure.”

  “You’re a foundling, correct?” Master Frobertus peered down at the paperwork Griselde Baker had sent with Duck. “Well, good. Not good for you, of course,” he scrambled to clarify. “It’s better for me to have a completely blank slate. Tabula rasa, you know?”

  Duck did not know, so she just stood there, her hands clasped, ignoring the stare of the marble bust of a young man on a pillar behind the notary’s pulpit.

  “What I mean is,” Master Frobertus said, coming around from behind the pulpit, revealing himself to be a shockingly shriveled specimen, almost bent in half by the stoop of his ancient back, “many children pick up bad habits or falsehoods drilled into them by their well-meaning families. But you come to me with a completely unfilled head. I don’t have to help you unlearn anything vile. We’ll save time.”

  He moved painfully slowly, shuffling along from his pulpit to a desk the size of a coffin. It took him a good minute to lower himself into his chair, and, once settled there, he looked as if he might remain in this very position until the Last Judgment.

  “Now,” he said as soon as he’d convinced Duck to take the seat opposite him, her feet dangling from her chair, “show me which letters you already know.”

  The session was not as excruciating as Duck had expected, but she was rusty — she had to admit her ignorance when she could not pick out a single letter correctly.

  But the notary was never rude. He praised her every small success, and by the end of the hour, Duck was able to identify all twenty-six letters, which made her prouder than a peacock — and Master Frobertus seemed rather smug as well.

  “Either you’re a wing-dinging natural with your syllabary,” he fizzed, his glasses falling askew in his excitement, “or I’m an even better teacher than I thought!”

  And Duck immediately wished that she could bottle up this compliment and play it again later when she needed it — and that the Crowns could have heard him.

  She wished the Crowns could hear how smart she was.

  “You’ll come back on the morrow, then,” he instructed her when they’d finished, “and we’ll see what shape your penmanship is in.”

  Very poor shape, as it turned out; she’d never held a quill before and made trembling squiggles on the parchment for a while before she could persuade her fingers to make an a.

  But she soon got better.

  Under the careful, wizened tutelage of Master Frobertus, on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays after the chores at the bakehouse were done, Duck came to his office and absorbed his lessons the way clapbread soaked up molasses.

  After only a couple of weeks, she started to see letters everywhere — on the signs of the various shops around the market square, stamped onto the flour sacks delivered to Griselde, scrawled on the mail that arrived for the baker. Even Griselde’s own seal, branded into the tops of her bread loaves: GB. When Petrus was on the other side of the kitchen and Griselde was otherwise occupied, Duck practiced sounding them out, tracing them with her fingers, imagining them tacked onto the beginnings of other words like goose and gravy and bacon.

  Her whole world was letters. H for horse, d for dog, n for knead and knot and Gnat.

  She heard the letters when Griselde sang her boisterous songs near the ovens; she picked out the sounds when Petrus bragged about Hugo’s latest infant tricks; she listened for the moments when her words stuck together like underproofed rolls when the Crowns sneaked up to the counter and placed their orders on market day.

  It felt good, to fill up her brain with new knowledge. When the baker sent her off to bed after a long day’s work, Duck could feel all that information in her head, sloshing around like water in a jug.

  The next time Griselde decided to take Duck to a tournament, she’d be able to read the sign for the Cheap Wife, no problem.

  “Any questions?” Master Frobertus always asked at the ends of their lessons, and Duck always shook her head and meant it; the notary’s explanations were clear, his orders thorough and gentle. She could have listened to him drone on about proper inking practices and common spelling variations for hours.

  One Thursday, Duck finished a session and opened the door to leave. The contrast of the notary’s dimly lit office and the bright sunshine of the late summer afternoon made her squint — and when she stepped off the porch, she bumped right into Griselde Baker.

  “Out you come, and in I go!” the baker thundered, reaching down to steady Duck by the shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” Duck chirped. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “How did she fare today?” Griselde directed this question to Master Frobertus, who, upon hearing the baker’s voice, had ambled to the door to greet her.

  “She’s much brighter than your last one was,” the notary asserted, and Duck immediately warmed. She had not been sent here to practice letters or learn the reading and spelling of words, but it turned out she was more than just a thief. Maybe there was an academic within her as well.

  “I told you so.” Master Griselde folded her arms. “Think she’ll do as well with numbers?”

  “I should think.” Master Frobertus scratched his chin. “By next year, you’ll be able to pass all the accounts to her, I’d say.”

  “Wonderful! A triumph!” Griselde clapped her hands. “I so weary of the little things. Now, here. For your trouble.” She pressed a parcel of steaming bread, wrapped in muslin, into the old man’s hands.

  “She isn’t any trouble at all,” the notary said. “Not a lick.” But he held the loaf up to his nose and breathed in deeply all the same.

  Duck chased a pigeon down the road while the grown-ups caught up on neighborhood gossip, and when Master Frobertus finally landed a thin-lipped kiss on Griselde’s mitt of a hand, Duck made her way to the baker’s side — not to escort her, exactly, since Griselde’s steps were confident enough to lead her around Odierne unaccompanied. But if Duck was asked to navigate, she would do it.

  “He’s very pleased with your progress,” Griselde said, “and so am I.”

  Duck inhaled, long and slow, filling her lungs — and her smile couldn’t be stopped.

  “You’re an excellent listener, he says, and always very practiced,” the baker went on. “However, he did say he caught you reading and that you denied it.”

  A thorn pricked Duck’s insides. “I . . .” she started. Quite suddenly, and without any warning, Duck had seen the letters b-a-t on a parchment in the notary’s office, and, sounding them out, found herself muttering the complete word under her breath as if it were a spell:

  Bat. Bat. Bat.

  She peered up at Master Griselde with guilt shining in her eyes. The baker, however, gave a giggle and nudged her apprentice playfully.

  “You rascal,” the baker said with a wink. “Now that the truth is out, there’ll be no more resting on your laurels at the bakehouse. From now on, you’ll be in charge of reading every label, every invoice, every order.” She sighed in amusement, and then: “I certainly understand that there are reasons to keep your true capabilities under wraps — new skills mean new responsibilities, after all. But perhaps you might show off to Master Frobertus next week? He does love to see proof of his handiwork, and, well, I plumb enjoy it when he brags about you.” She glanced down at Duck, and her cloudy eyes were like torches, gleaming with pride—

  And Duck could not endure it.

  She skipped ahead a little, pretending to be burning off excess energy after her long lesson, but she was actually slightly frantic.

  Two adults knew she was smarter than she was pretending to be.

  Duck needed to be careful, or else both Master Frobertus and Master Griselde might notice other things about her.

  Things Duck didn’t want them to notice.

  And Duck was trying very hard not to notice how glorious it felt when Griselde praised her.

  It felt like sunshine, and she could not endure it.

  In all of my summers, I have never seen such a thing.

  Three tiny, fluffy nestlings in the crack of my left claw. They have ground the shells of their eggs to dust beneath their scaly feet. The baby birds have two modes: mouth or eyes. Hungry or staring.

  I wonder if they can see things that I cannot. I wonder what a worm tastes like.

  Several times a day, the mother bird flies off to find them grubs to eat, and in those moments, the babies are in my care.

  “Hey! Come back here!” I called the first time she soared away from my toe. “I never agreed to any bird-sitting!”

  She is gone for longer and longer stretches as the summer days march on, and I am left alone with the nestlings.

  The three birds stare up at me, unblinking. Their feathers are pure fuzz, nothing like the sleek gray feathers they will have when they get older.

  “What are you looking at?” I growl.

  The birds bob their heads, and one of them lets out a single chirp. Something inside me flutters. Such a small, small sound, that chirp.

  “What about you two?” I address the other nestlings, all round black eyes and pointy beaks. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

  One of the birds stretches its skinny neck, as if trying to make itself taller. “No need to hurry time,” I tell it. “You’ll be grown soon enough.”

  Stretch. A good name for this bird — if someone were to care enough to name it.

  The third bird seems unable to wait for its mother to return with its food; it tears a twig away from the nest to munch on. “Yes, I know you’re hungry,” I say. “Your mother will be back soon, and then you’ll feast. Be patient.”

  Chirp. Stretch. Munch.

  I have tried to evict the mother bird more times than I can count. I have tried to kick out my foot so the nest flies out of my toe, eggshells and all. I want them gone.

  But I also know exactly what I could call these nestlings, if they were to stay.

  “Listen to him, cooing over his babies!” Harpy jeers. “The old devil’s gone soft!”

  “Eat a rock!” I shout back. “Do us all a favor!”

  If watching these nestlings makes me soft, then I am cotton. I am feather. I am fluff. I was made to watch.

  “Grow,” I tell them. “Grow tall. Grow strong.”

  And grow they do. The nestlings shed their down. They nip at their sleek new pinfeathers. Their heads and bodies get bigger, and their eyes do not; they lose that wide, staring sense about them, but there is something wonderful about the way they look out at the city now.

  Seasoned. Their first summer. A miracle.

  And then one day, when the mother bird leaves to get their food, she does not return. The nestlings and I watch the skies, but even when the clouds drift and the afternoon deepens, she does not come back.

  “Do not worry,” I tell the birds. “There are plenty of things that crawl along our stones. You will be well fed.” But something in my stones is unsettled, hollowed out.

  Tonight, for the first time, I can sense a chill in the air, the end of summer approaching. One of these mornings, I will wake up and find frost on my horns, and the woods beyond the fields will be flame-colored. Another autumn, and our cathedral is still here.

  And the next morning, when I wake up, Chirp is not in the nest.

  Chirp is standing on the ledge, leaping off the edge that faces the roof. Its wings flutter, barely stirring the air, and it spirals down to the stones with a small thud.

  “A noble attempt,” I tell it.

  It tries again, this time hovering in the air for a moment, catching the wind with its wings before falling.

  Still, with every thud of baby bird on stone, I am crackly with pride . . .

  Until Chirp, finally getting the hang of it, turns its beak to face the long, far drop off the ledge.

  “N-no,” I stammer. “No, Chirp—”

  But it is gone.

  Three flaps of its wings, and it glides down through the air, steering beautifully away from the cathedral, off to somewhere else.

  Somewhere else.

  My insides tighten. I feel heavy, as though I were just cut out of the mountain yesterday.

  “May you be plucked and boiled by nightfall!” I shout into the air, then turn with a chortle to the other nestlings. “What a fool, don’t you think — Stretch?”

  Stretch has already practiced on the ledge like Chirp and now stretches its neck out with glee, fluttering alone into the sky.

  “Stretch!” I call. “Come back here, you featherhead!”

  But Stretch does not come back.

  The mother bird, gone. Chirp and Stretch, gone. Our cathedral’s financiers, gone. The mother and baby, all those years ago, gone.

  Even with the summer sun bleaching the top of my head with its heat, there’s a new chill in my stone.

  “Well?” I growl at Munch, who eyes the ledge where the other birds disappeared. “You have wings. Use them. Go already.”

  If I could kick out my foot, I would. If I could shake the nest loose from inside my toe, I would. If I could turn away from the sight of Munch making its own flight away from our cathedral, I would—

  But I watch. I watch the last of the nestlings leave.

  Serves me right for letting that mother bird build her nest here. Serves me right for giving them names. Our cathedral does not have a name. Things without names get forgotten.

  And so I forget their names.

  I forget the stale nest in my toe. I forget the gentle nuzzle of their downy feathers against my stone. I forget the street children living beneath us. I forget that they might be hungry, might be weary of the heat, might be lonely.

  The next time a bird tries to land in my mouth, I’ll roar its feathers clean off. And I’ll laugh by myself.

  Always by myself.

  Another summer, come and gone. No more remarkable than any other. Just another summer. And autumn approaches.

  May we be stone at the bottom of the river by the time the next summer rolls around.

  Midnight Visitors

  In the middle of the night, Duck woke up.

  She was still tired, the sorest parts of her singing out like gonged bells. She’d been at the bakehouse for weeks, and she’d expected her muscles to be used to it, but by the time dinner rolled around every evening, her arms and legs were wet noodles and her brain was no more useful than a bowl of lukewarm mush.

  Groggily, she lifted her head off her pillow at a sound at her window—

  And looked directly into a pair of wide, laughing eyes.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” Ash said.

  Duck immediately threw back her covers, scrambling to wrap her arms around his neck.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered as fiercely as she could. She wanted to pinch him, she’d missed him so much — the familiar scent of her beloved Ash filled her with new energy, that sweet dirt under his chin and behind his ears, the bite of days-old, half-rotted fruit on his breath, too much fresh air on his scalp.

  “We just came to see how you’re getting along.” Ash looked to the window just as Gnat dropped into the room, quiet as a pouncing cat, his right arm up against his body.

  “Cock-a-doodle-do,” Gnat said, his eyes narrowed, his mouth already smirking. “So. This is where you live now.” He considered the beams in the ceiling, the varnished walls, the stale old trenchers covered in birdlime on the floor to kill off bedbugs.

  Duck fussed with the edge of her nightshirt, trying to predict his assessment.

  Did he think the room was ritzy and that Duck was now a snob just for living here? Well, if he did, she argued ferociously to herself, he was the one who had arranged for her to be here in the first place—

  Or was he turning his nose up at the splinters on the windowsill, the faint stink of sour pee that constantly drifted up the chute outside her door, the bits of hay poking out of the bed linens like spines? He could hardly blame Griselde for such inconveniences, Duck argued in her mind. She was only a baker, not some wealthy blacksmith—

 

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