Walter had escaped.
Lydia sighed, and first of all repaired the break. She’d thought Walter too daft to manage this kind of trouble. The more fool her. Snortington’s Reds were docile breeds, determined homebodies who usually stayed close to other fowl or their chosen people. A snuggling chicken, she would have said, and sweet-tempered Walter had never shown the slightest inclination to wander before today.
She didn’t have time for this, not really. She was supposed to help her mother pack a basket for Mrs. Kaur’s charity bazaar, and then she had to stop in to see Mr. Beconshaw and Mr. Finglass with a few things from her father. Dr. Wraxhall may have retired from his medical practice, but he still kept up care for a few of his long-standing patients. Chasing after a stray bird was not where a daughter’s first duty lay.
Wayward chickens, wayward children.
She and Peter had both been disappointments to their parents. It had been a secret shame they carried between them. They’d tried to make up for it in every way they could: Lydia at home, and Peter in the army. Now Peter was gone, and Lydia was feeling the strain of trying to be two perfect children at once.
Except… it was winter. Despite the inconvenience that might vex them, her mother and father were in no danger if she changed her plans for the day. Whereas Walter, edible and sheltered and a little stupid, could find any number of ways to get hurt. There were eagles in the world, and dogs, and hungry people who couldn’t afford to pass up a fresh bit of poultry, if it came blithely strolling toward them in the lane.
Walter needed her more.
She finished her repair, gathered a pocketful of scratch grains, and set off to find the little ingrate.
Not ten steps out of the yard, Walter’s footprints intercepted a confusing muddle of snow and muck and sodden leaves. A few steps past that, the tracks of several birds led off into the forest. Walter’s were slightly larger than the others, and easy to spot—but there were at least five, maybe six other fowl that had passed this way. All at once, too, from the way the tracks were layered.
Lydia pulled her scarf close about her neck and ventured into the greenwood.
Tall trees cast the path in deep shadow, and dry needles muffled the thump of Lydia’s winter boots. The trail at least was clear enough. Two of the smaller birds had kept to the outside, while Walter’s tracks zigged back and forth along the centerline. Almost as though—Lydia paused and frowned, as a chill skittered down the back of her neck—as though he were being herded. But no lost feathers littered the trail, no droplets of blood or torn-up earth to mark a skirmish.
Lydia climbed higher, as the prints led up the wooded hill and toward the ruins.
Bickerton Abbey wore the memories of its long-dead splendor like a tattered cloak over ancient bones. The forest hadn’t quite crept up the hill and reclaimed the stone arches and fluted columns, but it was sending out grasping fingers in the form of brambles and moss and grasses. The snow had whitened stone and growth alike, and the undisturbed banks glowed like marble in the shafts of sunlight pouring through the empty windowpanes. As Lydia strode through the tumbled walls of the nave—ducking her head in reverence, since after all this had once been holy ground—she could hear the unmistakeable soft sounds of happy chickens echoing from somewhere amid the columns.
She stepped around the northernmost column and stopped, shocked.
One column had fallen in a slant against the wall, making a bit of shelter against the world. Beneath it Walter’s red plumes were unmistakeable, vivid as flame against all that old stone.
He was the bright, beating heart of a little huddle of feathered bodies.
Six—yes, she’d been right—little grey bundles were cozied up on every side of him, on a nest of grass and branches. Six grey hens, bantam-sized—but as they moved, flashes of silver caught her eye and made her gasp aloud.
They were Bickerton Greys.
She hadn’t set eyes on that particular plumage in a good ten years, but it wasn’t the kind of thing a chicken fancier forgot. Bright silver lacing shimmering over a softer dove grey. The Bickerton Grey was a local breed, spun off of the more popular Sebright by some scientific-minded farmer in the early half of the century. All of them, every last bird, had been lost years ago. A few people had claimed occasional sightings in the deepest part of the woods—but they were clever birds, quick and canny and fierce. Nobody had ever found a nest of theirs.
Until now.
Among the hens, Walter tilted his head, chucking affably as though trying to introduce his old friend to his new paramours. The Greys shifted warily, more alert to the threat Lydia represented.
She tugged off her mitten, put her hand in her pocket, and scattered the ground in front of her with scratch.
Walter made for it at once—but one of the Greys objected, squawking a warning and shoving her smaller shape in between Walter and the scratch.
Lydia took a step back as a show of good faith, making soft and soothing sounds.
The Greys were not fooled. They packed themselves in closer, muttering what sounded like chicken curses and ruffling their feathers in pique.
Walter looked at Lydia and clucked an apology: Buk.
Lydia pulled her mitten back on and considered the situation. It looked like this feral flock was staking a claim to her prize cockerel.
Well, he wasn’t a prize cockerel yet—but Lydia knew her birds, and Walter was the best Snortington’s Red she’d ever seen. From the tip of his rose comb to the gorgeous fall of his crimson tail, his points were impeccable. His temperament was just as winning, as he was easy to handle and adored being brushed and buffed to a gleaming shine. Lydia had planned for him to dazzle the judges of the Black-Breasted and Other Reds Class.
And he still could. Two months yet before the show. Plenty of time for her to coax Walter back to his home yard—and for her to capitalize on this new opportunity.
Silver feathers flashed in the sun, but not nearly so bright as the future now unfolding in Lydia’s imagination.
