“Most,” he confirmed. “I don’t think we’ve found half a dozen birds all together. Though I suppose the snow could be covering some—but still, that’s a lot of birds left to look for.”
Harriet picked up one stray feather. Silver lacing, in a familiar pattern. She looked around—and there, another one, toward the side of the tent nearest the church.
And there, through the tiny ancient graveyard—a track. The kind a flock of marching birds might make, as they struggled through snow.
“Lydia,” she breathed. “Look!”
Lydia did look, blinking, and hope burst warm onto her face. “You think… the abbey?” she asked.
“Worth checking, I’d say.”
“You’re free to chase those wild hens all the way to Dover, if you want,” Mr. Brome said, when they asked if he might like to join them in search of his lost bantams. “Mine are more likely to be found somewhere closer to home. They’re civilized birds,” he said, sniffing.
“I’ll be heading into the wood,” Miss Inch said with a huff. “Mine have a tendency to try to run that way.”
Miss Rushcliff’s brow furrowed and she bit her lip, but said nothing.
All the competitors broke apart, with many a glance of mutual suspicion and wariness.
The search was underway.
Mr. Brome went directly home, on the assumption his respectable chickens would do the same. And indeed, his yard was full of birds, who had climbed in thanks to a snowbank the wind had piled high against one of the fences. But instead of cool grey plumage, these were laced bright gold.
He harrumphed into his mustache. These weren’t his birds at all.
The interlopers were milling about, still looking a little wild about the eye, and scratching at the snow where the dirt of the yard showed through. Mr. Brome tsked and fetched a bit of feed, scattering dried corn and grains and a lump of fat that the birds immediately dove for.
“Oh,” said a voice behind him.
Mr. Brome spun about to see—who else?—Matilda Outerbridge standing there, one hand on his gate. Surprise softened her features, made her parted lips lush rather than the thin line he was more used to.
He didn’t like that she looked so—human. “I’ll thank you to remove your birds from my yard, Mrs. Outerbridge.”
She drew herself up, and he felt an unaccountable relief to see her armor slot back into place. It made him uneasy when she was vulnerable. It was too like tenderness—and tenderness meant hurt, and hurt reminded him of the old days, when every breath had felt painful—
No. Better to be safe, even if it was a little lonely at times.
But then it was his turn to be surprised.
“Thank you for feeding them, Mr. Brome,” she said.
He blinked. That had sounded—sincere. A bit snobbish, perhaps, the way a queen would thank a subject for obeisance, but it lacked her usual venom. He tried to bring back a little of his own. “I hope you don’t think I’d punish an innocent chicken for the sins of her mistress.”
“I would have expected precisely that, sir.” That hard, thin line was back on her mouth. It was less reassuring this time, for some reason. The chill of every winter was in her voice when she went on: “You’ve been doing just that for the past ten years.”
Mr. Brome bristled, stung in a way that never seemed to get any easier, no matter how much time passed. “I wish they’d never crossed over my threshold, Mrs. Outerbridge, and that’s the truth.”
She looked at him a long while. “Are we still talking about the chickens?”
“The chickens, and.”
“The chickens, and,” she repeated, and her stern mouth wobbled as she sucked in a deep breath.
Mr. Brome looked away. “Your birds might as well stay here for now,” he said. “Since my own are still out there somewhere.”
Mrs. Outerbridge’s shoulders straightened. Mr. Brome had always thought she’d have made a fine and frightening general, were she not a woman, and nothing in her posture now dissuaded him of the idea. “Then let us find your birds, Mr. Brome.”
“You’re offering to help?”
