“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”
Tears blurred my vision as I wrapped Baldbeak’s wound gently in my handkerchief. The blood was barely visible against the iridescent black of his feathers, but when it touched the white silk, it ran through the furrows and pinpricks of the embroidery, making it seem to glow. He was just an armful of bones and glossy feathers now. Feathers that stuck out at odd angles, like torn pages protruding from a book. His beak open in a final gasp. His eyes filmed over and unseeing.
I felt a touch on my shoulder.
“Netta. I’m sorry.” Mieka knelt beside me.
I couldn’t speak.
“What happened back there?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at the crowded trees.
“It’s all right,” I managed to say. “No one is coming after us.”
“But how—” She broke off with an effort and rubbed my shoulder gently. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “He was a brave bird.”
“He was more than a bird,” I said.
It was strange how quickly his body had gone from being ahimto anit. I touched one of the wing feathers gently, feeling the slight rasp of the barbs against my fingertips, then cupped my hands around the whole mess of it—of what had been Baldbeak—and lifted it gingerly upwards. His body was the size of a small dog’s, and black feathers overflowed my cupped hands like molten tar, but he was still so light. Had he been this light in life? I remembered the solidity of him on my shoulder, the affectionate clutch of his claws.
I suddenly noticed the movement of my Hair against my shoulders. It slithered forward in an unnerving, purposeful motion, tangling itself around the dead bird in my hands.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
The Hair wrapped itself around and around Baldbeak’s broken body. I felt a building pressure in my chest again, an ache in my bones, as if they were pressing against my skin. I gritted my teeth against the pain and terriblepushof it, every part of me seemingly straining forwards towards the dead bird, with the Hair making a taut and shining shroud around it.
Baldbeak twitched.
Mieka screamed.
I gasped, almost dropping him, but managed to hang on at the last moment. The bundle of feathers, beak, and bone writhed and clicked in my hands in a series of sinister, sinuous motions, seemingly rearranging itself. The feathers smoothed and flattened. Finally, the beak opened wide, the little tongue protruded, and then he coughed.
“No,” said Mieka. “This isn’t possible.”
It did seem impossible. Only when the familiar gleam came back to Baldbeak’s eyes and he let out a small but definite croak did I truly believe it. His voice was hoarse, guttural, but unmistakably still his.
“Baldbeak,” I whispered, smoothing the sparse feathers between his eyes. “Are you all right?”
There was a long, anxious silence. And then:I feel … strange. But nothing hurts.
He shook himself vigorously, then hopped up my arm to his usual perch on my shoulder, feeling reassuringly heavy and moving without even a hint of stiffness in his limbs. By contrast, I felt as hollow as bird bones, as if something had drained from me.
Mieka was shaking. “Netta. You can’t … You haven’t. It’s not possible. How?”
“I don’t know.” Even my voice sounded empty. “I just … wanted it so badly.”
Baldbeak clicked his beak at Mieka in a friendly way, and she shrank back as if he had struck her.
It occurred to me to wonder if Baldbeak was …wrong, somehow, now? He seemed his usual self, but had I imbued him with some sort of dark magic that would manifest itself later? I stared at him, and he stared right back.
What?
“Are you still … you?”
He cocked his head and gave an irritatedraark.
“All right, you’re you.” Every joint in my body ached.
“But what areyou, Netta?” Mieka burst out. “I’ve never even heard of power like this. Except for …”
