Airily

by Shay Emms

  Glossy black feathers shone in the patchy sunlight, filtering through the leaves above.

  A dead crow lay on the ground, torn apart. Blood spattered the ground, and drifts of feathers were stuck to the stained grass. Flies buzzed over the carcass. The poor crow was in four pieces; head and wings separated from the body. Airily’s stomach lurched, but she clamped her jaw shut.

  “It’s got to be rabies,” Fluppence said, voice quivering. “Nothing but a diseased animal would do this.” She edged closer to Airily and latched onto her arm.

  The memory of the swaying tree branches from last night rose in Airily’s mind. She shivered, and Fluppence clung harder. The crow had been killed recently, maybe even last night.

  Had she really seen something in the trees? She thought her eyes might’ve played tricks on her but maybe not. The dead bird couldn’t be a coincidence.

  The woods seemed the same; tall pines mixed with maple, oak, crabapples, and cedars. But something felt different.

  No birds Airily realized. There was no birdsong in the woods.

  She patted Fluppence’s shoulder. “Maybe I should take you home.”

  “No. I’m fine,” Fluppence said. “It’s just, what if it’s a bobcat? Or a rabid dog? Or a rabid bobcat.”

  “All the more reason you should go back,” Airily told her.

  “But Owlby has my book…I’m not going back. Besides, the mocking birds haven’t reported anything, have they? They’re the worst gossips in the woods.”

  Airily cocked her head and listened hard for any hint of a predator. She didn’t like the unnatural silence. Airily needed to see Owlby, and Flup insisted on going with her.

  Alright,” Airily said. “But let’s stay well above the trees. And keep an eye out for hawks.”

  Fluppence soared through the leafy roof until she disappeared from Airily’s view. Instant and deep regret clutched her chest; she should’ve made Fluppence go home.

  The huge trunk of Owlby’s oak tree leaned into the fence of a scrap metal and wrecking yard. It was a jumble of rusting cars, antique tractors, and shredded piles of twisted steel, copper, and aluminum.

  Airily and Fluppence landed on a thick branch that drooped almost to the ground. Where the branch met the trunk of the tree looked hollow. A strong glamour spell

  disguised Owlby’s front door.

  Fluppence hopped to the false hollow and knocked.

  Unnerved by the dead bird, Airily kept her back to

  Fluppence and watched the woods, reassured by the sound of birdsong and chattering squirrels.

  “I hope he’s not too busy,” Fluppence said. “I want to read that book I found.”

  “I’m sure he isn’t,” Airily said. The book would keep Fluppence busy while Airily talked to Owlby in private.

  The dark hollow’s glamour dissolved, replaced by an arched door. The door opened, and Owlby poked out his head.

  “Who?” His huge, yellow eyes blinked in the sunlight. Owlby looked young, his animated face unlined. Grey, brown, and white hair stuck up in two tufts on either side of his head, giving away his bird heritage—a Great Horned Owl.

  He stared over their heads, trying to spot who had knocked.

  Fluppence giggled and Owlby looked down. He smiled at them.

  “Well, hello, Fluppence and Airily. What brings you two here?” he asked.

  “Hi, Owlby. Can I read my book?” Fluppence asked.

  “Of course. Come in. Will you be staying, too, Airily?”

  “If you don’t mind. Also, I have news,” she said, dropping her voice to a low murmur. She didn’t want to remind Fluppence of the dead crow.

  Owlby nodded eagerly and stepped aside.

  Crossing the threshold into Owlby’s home always made Airily’s skin tingle. The inside of the tree was huge; it came furnished with rugs, sofas and chairs, woven baskets in a dozen shapes and colors, and kerosene lamps, all of them just his size. Even the old-fashioned printing press with movable type was perfectly scaled to Owlby.

  All of it was accomplished with strong Fair Folk magic—the kind the sparrow fairies lost generations ago. But at Owlby’s house, Airily felt as though she could reach out and touch the magic if she only knew how. Once in a while, she tried, but it always slipped away.

  Owlby pointed Fluppence to a curving staircase. “Your book is in the library.”

  At the top of the stairs, five flights up was a round room with walls entirely made of bookshelves that soared another story high. Amazingly, Fluppence had read Owlby’s

  extensive collection, or at least the books he was willing to let others read.

  An eager grin lit Fluppence’s face and she flew upstairs, excited to read even that water-damaged discard. Airily was glad to see her sister’s anxiety over the corpse in the woods fade.

  When Fluppence was gone, Owlby turned his keen,

  yellow eyes on Airily.

  “What do you have to tell me?” he asked. Almost every sentence he uttered was a question.

  Airily checked the living room, as if a spy might jump out from behind the worn sofa. “Can we talk in private?”

  Owlby blinked one eye, then the other. “Of course.”

  He headed for the staircase and gestured for her to

  follow. Instead of going up, they went down until they reached Owlby’s office. It was a small room, just big enough for a desk and two chairs. More bookshelves lined the walls, holding his private collection. Airily felt a stronger tingle of magic, and goose bumps broke out all over her body. She shivered.

  “Have a seat.” Owlby took the chair behind the desk. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a stubby yellow pencil and a spiral notebook. Despite the difficulty, he made sure he

  always had paper and pencil to get interviews and take down notes.

  “So, what’s this news?”

  She hopped onto the other chair but remained standing. It was the only way she could see over the top of his desk.

  “There was another dead bird in the woods by our house. Fluppence and I found it on the way here. It’d been torn apart.”

  “Kind?”

  “A crow.”

  A frown creased Owlby’s face, and his brow wrinkled as he wrote his notes.

  “What time did you come across it?”

  “Um, two or so. Maybe a little earlier.”

  “Any idea what time it died?”

  “Last night, I think. Only…” Airily’s feathers fluffed with anxiety. Her fingers knotted together, worrying a vest

  button.

  “Yes?”

  “I need your help, Mr. Owlby.”

  He laughed. “Mr. Owlby? Just ask, Airily. I’m happy to listen.”

  “Can you, maybe, not write this down?”

  Again, his eyes blinked out of sync and he hesitated.

  “It’s not news,” she assured him. “It’s personal.”

  He hung onto the pencil and pad of paper for a whole

  minute before reluctantly setting them aside.

  “Alright,” Owlby said. He sounded sad but gave her his full attention.

  “You know people moved into our house, right?”

  Owlby nodded.

  Airily told him everything—starting with the new family and going downstairs when she’d been told not to. As her story went on, Owlby leaned farther over the desk, intent on every word. He glanced at his pencil several times, and Airily could tell he was itching to write down her tale even if it wasn’t fodder for The Daily Whoot.

  She told him about the shadow in the trees and tried to put into words her half-formed suspicions. Owlby’s head bobbed at her information and his eyes narrowed. When

  Airily reached the end of her story, she waited for Owlby to say something. He stared blankly at the desk. The silence stretched on.

  At last, he said, “There’s been a change in the woods lately. Have you felt it?”

  “Yes.” Airily thought back to the
unnatural silence around the crow’s murder site. “At first I thought it was just me

  imagining things, but it’s not, is it?”

  “No one has seen or smelled anything. I went to Burn, Grandfather Coyote, those hyperactive foxes, and nothing.”

  “But if no one else has seen anything, aren’t we the ones imagining things?”

  “No,” Owlby said. He looked at her, eyes blinking off-time. “The dead birds aren’t happening by accident, disease, or known predator. Everyone in the woods would notice a new cat or a rabid animal. This thing is hiding its presence, and figments of the imagination can’t hide. Therefore, by

  going unnoticed, whoever-it-is has declared themselves loud and clear.”

  Airily cocked her head. It made sense. Sort of. But it still didn’t help them figure out what was out there.

  “I need to ask you for help, too,” Airily said.

  “Your young human, Josh?”

  Airily blushed. “I need him to forget he ever saw me.”

  “I can come up with something,” Owlby said with a nod. “But it’s going to cost.”

  “I know,” Airily said. She would owe him a favor. “If it’s something I can do, then sure.” Wicked fae were said to charge favors that were impossible to keep, so whoever they bargained with would die trying. Owlby certainly wouldn’t do that to her. Airily just hated owing anyone, anything.

  “Don’t look so sour. I’m not going to ask you for a dragon’s tooth.” Owlby smiled. “I can make a forgetting

  potion for you. If you slip the potion into the young man’s food, he’ll fail to remember the night entirely. But you must give him the potion within the week, and you can never let him see you again or the memories will come back.”

  “So, what do you want for the potion?”

  “I’m not sure what I want yet,” Owlby said. “How about three medium-sized favors to be named later?”

  “Why doesn’t anyone ever know what they want?” Airily groaned.

  Owlby squinted at her. “You’re right. I’ll narrow it down. I want a story, something collected, and the library needs dusting. Does that help?”

  “Alright,” Airily agreed. All three were things she could do. She hopped along the chair’s springy cushion and stood at the edge, reaching for Owlby’s outstretched hand.

  “Let’s go make that potion!” Owlby grinned.

  Owlby offered to escort them home, and Fluppence agreed. Airily’s pride made her want to refuse, but she was grateful for the owl’s presence.

  The sun had nearly set when they left. Airily looked at the dark forest and insisted they fly above the tree line, so they stayed in the fading gold sunlight. Owlby’s flight was

  completely silent; his specialized feathers dampened the sound of his wing beats. Airily became aware of how noisy she and Fluppence were.

  Every few minutes, Airily touched the buttoned inner pocket of her vest where she’d stowed the glass vial of forgetting potion. By the time the House came into view, the sky had darkened to indigo. Airily told the other two to hang back while she flew around the cherry tree, making sure Josh had gone inside.

  Owlby landed on the roof and waited until Fluppence and Airily went inside.

  “Where have you two been?” Poppa called from the main room.

  Airily and Fluppence hurried down the hall.

  “Owlby’s,” Airily said. “Sorry it’s so late.”

  Poppa perched on the bench at the dinner table. He scowled over the top of The Daily Whoot.

  “Normally, I don’t worry, but with the attacks in the woods, I don’t like it,” he said.

  Fluppence glanced at Airily, eyebrows raised in question. Airily gave a short, curt shake of the head. If Poppa knew they’d found a dead bird and went to Owlby’s anyway, they’d get in real trouble. She swallowed a lump in her throat and tried not to look as guilty as she felt.

  “No more Owlby’s, not even together. No more going into the woods, period,” Poppa said.

  Airily and Fluppence nodded. “Yes, Poppa.”

  “That was way too quick.” His narrowed eyes lingered on Airily.

  “What’s for dinner?” Airily asked with a forced smile.

  “Leftovers,” Poppa said. “And there isn’t much of that. We may need to crack open the canning.”

  “Didn’t the Andersons fill their feeders?” Fluppence asked.

  Poppa ran a hand through his spiky bangs, primping them up. “No. I think they’ve gone on vacation. I asked the mocking birds, and they haven’t seen the Anderson’s car in a week.”

  “Well, the Leonetti’s garden–”

  “Is picked clean,” Poppa finished. “The summer crops are gone. There won’t be any more 'til fall.”

  “We’ll get by,” Airily said, without much conviction.

  A grim smile twisted Poppa’s mouth. “Don’t worry. You’re going to get your wish, Airily.”

  “My wish?”

  “We’ll go collecting in the kitchen tomorrow night.”

  Her hand clenched around the potion in her pocket. She should be excited, but she was terrified. Airily forced a grin—otherwise, Poppa would be suspicious.

  Before she had time to say anything, Fluppence came to her rescue.

  “Maybe they have cookbooks. Can I come?”

  “No,” Poppa told her. “But I’ll start training you and Witter for House collecting in a month or two.”

  Fluppence gave a little cheer.

  “Witter! Time for dinner,” Poppa called to the back of the apartment. He stepped off his perch. “So, will it be pickled watermelon rind tonight or pickled peaches?”

  “Peaches,” Witter yelled from his bedroom.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A

  t two in the morning, it felt like the whole world was asleep. The heavy silence of the house thickened the attic air. Only Airily and Poppa were awake.

  All the collecting supplies were on the table. Even though the House had been empty, Poppa kept the equipment clean and in working order. There were bundles of string, a pair of dull fish hooks, two collecting sacks, a pry bar made of some scrap metal, smaller sacks with tight drawstrings for items like flour and rice, a scoop made from a folded jar lid, and the half-blade of a pair of nail scissors to cut and slice. Some supplies they used to have, like wax paper to gather butter, needed to be collected again.

  “Mission objective,” Poppa whispered so he didn’t wake Witter and Fluppence.

  “Food from the kitchen,” Airily recited. “Staples first treats second.”

  Poppa nodded. “We don’t go farther than the kitchen. No exploring. You’ll keep a lookout near the door to make sure no one comes down for a midnight snack.”

  Airily swallowed a few times before she answered, “Yes.”

  She couldn’t let on that she’d been in the kitchen and seen Josh, but she was dying to warn Poppa about Josh’s late-night kitchen trip. Airily stayed silent. This time it would be

  different. There were two of them. She’d be paying attention, and maybe Josh wouldn’t even come downstairs.

  All day, she’d wondered what to sprinkle the potion on and wished Owlby had given her more than one dose. Opening the fridge would be difficult, so the milk was out. She couldn’t just sprinkle random food. If Josh’s mother or father ate the potion, they’d forget a chunk of time, anything from the last hour to an entire week. That wouldn’t help Airily at all.

  What was the one thing a kid could be counted on to have and eat? Sugary cereal. Better still, the cereal would be in the cupboards or the counter, somewhere within easy reach. Even on lookout duty, all she needed was a second to pour in the potion.

  “Alright. Let’s pack,” Poppa said. They laid out the

  collecting gear so Poppa could take a visual inventory, then they each stowed a portion in their collecting sacks.

  Airily’s collecting sack was much smaller than Poppa’s. She couldn’t carry as muc
h, packing only the extra rope, one hook, and the empty cloth sacks. Poppa took the rest, and his collecting bag was still flat and empty-looking. If they collected everything they needed, it would be full of food on the return trip, and Airily would carry the equipment.

  Poppa shouldered his bag and asked, “Ready?”

  Airily nodded, unsure she could trust her voice not to break if she replied aloud. What she really wanted to do was flee—run and hide in some dark hole where none of her problems could find her. She hated to admit it, but she was scared to go to the kitchen again. But it was the only way she’d get the potion into Josh’s food.

  “I’ll go first.” Poppa led the way into the walls that Airily had used only two nights before.

  Poppa grabbed the ladder rung. When he was about ten paces down, it was Airily’s turn. Her hand shook as she reached for the ladder. She clenched her teeth. There was nothing to be afraid of. She was acting like a little scaredy-chick.

  The climb down was long and silent. Periodically, Poppa stopped and put his ear to the wall to listen for anyone awake and walking around.

  At last, they reached the first floor and the first hatch. Poppa had it unlatched by the time Airily jumped off the last rung. He poked his head through the door, listening once more.

  “Come on,” Poppa whispered.

  The under cabinet was the same bug-strewn crossing as last time. Airily vowed to clean the space later. Poppa found the baseboard door with ease. For the millionth time, Airily reached for the vial in her vest pocket. Still safe.

  The kitchen had been almost entirely unpacked, and there were only a couple boxes on the counter. The balls of newspapers had been swept up and the dishes, pots, and pans put away. The cabinet doors were still off their hinges. Poppa’s mouth hung open in surprise, and Airily hid her grin behind her hand.

  “They must’ve ordered new doors,” Poppa whispered. “Find a good vantage point. Something high. I’ll check the cabinets.”

  Airily nodded and flew up. Under the pretense of looking for a good spot to watch the door, she checked the cabinet contents herself. The light in the foyer was off, and even though she could see well enough, she wished for the comfort of light.