I pass the most wonderful day, most of it in the garden with Mrs. Morant, learning the secrets of plants. I meant it when I said I was interested. My mother always said I had a scholar’s mind. Everything piques my endless curiosity.
When dinner comes, I can scarcely believe an entire day has passed. We dine late even, Dr. Morant being off until nearly dark with appointments in town. After we eat, we retire to the parlor and play games and then Dr. Morant reads to us from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and it is like being home again. Yes, these are strangers who live in a very different place with very different lives, but it feels like home. Like a day and evening spent in the bosom of family.
The next day starts much the same as the last. I wake to sunshine, having now decided to leave that curtain open intentionally. As I rise, the raven lands to check on me. Then I head downstairs, and Tillie tells me that Dr. Morant has waited to dine with me. It is a quiet breakfast again. Like the morning before, Dr. Morant does not ask a single question, and I am not certain whether that is respect for my privacy or incuriosity. The third possibility is that he wishes a silent and contemplative meal, and that keeps me from asking questions, even simple ones about his day. Waiting to breakfast with me might seem as if he is encouraging a friendly atmosphere between us, but it is actually consideration for Tillie. She can prepare one meal, serving us and then putting away some for Mrs. Morant.
If there is a “worst” part of my day, that silent breakfast is it. After that, Dr. Morant has appointments, which means I can slip into the library. I find a book of folk tales I have never seen before and settle in to read. When Mrs. Morant comes down, we head outside to enjoy the sunny autumn day. My ankle is improving, and after we tend the garden, we wander the moors and Mrs. Morant points out the plants there.
“There are so many in flower,” I say as we pause to admire a spotted orchid. “And so late in the year.”
“We are very fortunate here. We have the perfect balance of sunshine and rainfall, and the soil is more hospitable than most moorland. The orchids are very pretty, but do you know what this is?”
She points to a tall stalk with tiny purple flowers clustered into a dome shape.
I shake my head.
“Devil’s bit,” she says. “Useful as an antiseptic and for reducing swelling. And those small white flowers behind you? Eyebright.”
“Used for eye ailments?”
“You have heard of it then.”
I laugh softly. “A guess, given the name.”
“Well, you are correct. We shall harvest some of these. Would you like me to show you how to prepare them?”
“Please.”
“Wait here while I fetch the basket.”
“I can get—”
She lays a hand on my arm. “You are doing enough on that ankle. Too much, Victor will say.”
Before she goes, I ask how to harvest the plants, so that I can be doing something while she retrieves the basket. She shows me and then leaves, skirts swishing against the grass.
I start with the eyebright, slicing it off with my nail so I can collect stem, leaves and flowers. I am piling the pieces on a lichen-laced rock when a croak makes me jump. I look to see the raven with the white tail-feather watching me.
My breathing quickens. I cannot help remembering that terrifying night when I had been herded by the flock.
No, not a flock.
When I was a child, my grandmother had taught the collective nouns for birds. Murder of crows. Murmuration of starlings.
Conspiracy of ravens.
It really had been a conspiracy, but not one to herd me to some dark and terrible place. They had brought me here. To safety. To a respite I so desperately needed.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
The raven croaks. Then she—because Dr. Morant called her a she—hops toward me and flaps toward me so suddenly that I fall back. Then she soars up and over my head to land on my other side.
Two other ravens fly down, hovering in a way that I do not think is natural. They watch me with dark eyes, wings beating almost lazily. The white-feathered raven croaks, as if getting my attention and then begins hopping toward the forest. I glance back at the other two and see they have moved closer.
Herding me again.
I rise to my feet. The white-feathered raven whooshes up and leads. I hesitate, looking at that dark forest.
“I have read too many fairy tales to think this is a good idea,” I say.
The raven’s croak is indignant, and she swoops down, feathers smacking me as if I am a difficult child.
They did not lead me into trouble before. I owe them the civility of my trust.
I follow the raven toward the forest. At the edge, I do pause. I cannot help it. Then I take a deep breath and enter. The raven wends her way along a path, and in the gloom of the woods, all I can make out is that white tail feather.
At a croak up ahead, I strain to see past her and make out four ravens in a clearing. They sit on the forest floor, like an avian fairy ring. And in the middle . . .
“Oh!” I say and rush forward, heedless of my bad ankle as I duck under the lead raven.
I arrange my skirts to drop to my knees. I am dimly aware that I have just made extra laundering for Tillie, my knees grinding my dress into the dirt, but it is too late to care, and I am not certain I would, under the circumstances.
In front of me lies a young raven, little more than a fledgling. One wing has been torn open, as if by a predator. Blood seeps from the wound.
As I lean back on my haunches, I realize I am being watched. The four ravens on the ground all eye me, and the clearing is silent, as if they hold their tongues and their breath, waiting to see what I will do. The only exception is the white-feathered raven, who calmly preens her feathers, as if she has no doubts.
“I need to get Mrs. Morant,” I say, keenly aware that I am speaking to creatures who will not understand me. “She will know what to do.”
I glance at the way I came, yet I am reluctant to leave the young bird, as if leaving will seem like abandoning it. That I have repaid the ravens with an utter disregard for their predicament.
I bend to look at the young one again. The wing appears broken, though I am hardly a physician.
“Edie?” Mrs. Morant calls.
I exhale in relief and shout back. “Here! In the forest! There is a wounded raven!”
“Ah. Wait then, and I shall fetch a cage.”
I do that, and I keep examining the young bird from all angles. Yes, I know absolutely nothing about how to help it, but my interest calms the quartet who had protected it, and they begin to hop about. One even flies off, as if its job here is finished.
When Mrs. Morant appears, she carries a large brass birdcage. I rise and hobble to take it from her, but she waves me off. She reaches the young one, looks down and tuts. Then she glances at the lead raven, who pauses her preening to make a noise like a greeting.
“Led Edie to your wee wounded one, did you, Madeleine?”
When I startle, Mrs. Morant laughs softly. “Apologies, child. No, I do not believe our matriarch corvid is the reincarnation of our legendary family matriarch. It is simply what we call her. A family jest.”
I nod at the cage. “That is like the ones in the story, is it not? That Madeleine had cages for tending to the wounded ravens.”
“Yes, and we do the same in her honor. Did she actually do so? Is it the same cage?” Mrs. Morant shrugs. “As I said, it is a tale with a touch of truth. Which parts are true are determined by the listener. We choose to believe we had an ancestor named Madeleine who tended to the ravens, and so we do the same, and being clever birds, they have come to expect it.”
She sets the cage down beside the wounded young one, and the others on the ground hop away to give us room. “Would you like to do the honors?”
“I-I know nothing of birds. I do not wish to hurt it more.”
She leans sideways, whispering as if the ravens might hear. “Madeleine brought you. That is a mark of great honor. I will do it if you wish, but I believe you ought to try.”
I swallow. Then I arrange my skirts again to bend onto the ground. I open the cage door. There is only the simplest catch mechanism on it, one the birds can probably open themselves if they wish.
It is a large door on a large cage, at least two feet high, with a perch and a soft cloth on the bottom. I very carefully maneuver my hands under the bird, braced for it to object. It does not. I lift it, scarcely daring to breathe, and ease it through the door and down on to the cloth. Then I wrap the sides of the cloth around it, as if it is a swaddling babe.
Only when it is settled do I breathe again.
Mrs. Morant reaches to lay a hand on mine. “Very well done. Now allow me to carry it. You do not need any extra weight with that twisted ankle.”
When I open my mouth to object, she adds, “And that ankle will make a bumpy ride for the little one.”
I nod and rise. She takes hold of the cage, looks around for the matriarch and gives her a nod. I do the same, and we set out back to the house.
***
When Dr. Morant returns, we are in the greenhouse tending to the bird. He comes out the back door and strides toward us, and I catch the flicker of movement, looking up to watch him. His back is straight, his expression foreboding. I tense, as if we have done something wrong. But he pauses on the back patio to turn his face up to the sun, and his expression softens as his eyes close. He stays there a moment, drinking in that autumn sunshine, and then resumes his stride, his face going serious again.
“Tillie tells me I have been mistaken for an avian physician again,” he says, without preamble, as he enters the warm greenhouse.
“Madeleine led Edie to the wee one,” his aunt says. “I had gone back to the house, and she chose that moment to mount her appeal.”
Mrs. Morant is in front of me, so I cannot see her face, but her nephew’s expression darkens more, his lips pressing into a thin line, as if she is giving him some look I cannot see.
“It seemed prudent to follow,” I say. “If I made a mistake—”
“You did not.” Dr. Morant’s abrupt tone is far from reassuring, and seeing my face, he softens it. “My aunt knows I am happy to help where I can. Now, I presume this is the patient?” He walks over and peers down at the bird and then curses. “It has been attacked.”
“Are there predators who can take on a raven?” I ask. “Or would the bird have been on the forest floor, having fallen from the nest?”
“It is too old for that. This would be a fellow bird. Owl, most likely.”
I look up sharply. “Owls attack ravens?”
“Attack and eat, if they can. We do not have any in these woods. Unless you count the little owls, but they do not bother the ravens. Trespassers can invade, however, if there has been a disruption.”
He opens the cage door.
I hesitate. Then I ask, “Am I the disruption?” When he glances over, I push on. “Are you saying that because they helped me the other night, they were not on guard for predators?”
“Disruptions come in many forms. I doubt it was you, and even if it was, they will take care of it. Drive the owl out. As for this one . . .” He pulls out his hands, the little raven cradled on them. “I see you and my aunt have cleaned the wound. There is only the wing to set. Alma, if you will assist me . . .”
“I would,” Mrs. Morant says, “but I promised I would help Tillie with the canning. Edie, would you mind taking my place?”
“Not at all. I fear I am no nurse, but I can follow instructions.”
“That is all he needs,” she says, and bustles out before her nephew can object.
After she is gone, Dr. Morant eyes me, as if ready to send me on my way and do this himself.
“Would you like me to lay a cloth on the table?” I ask. “That is what we did when your aunt cleaned the wound.”
“A fresh cloth. There is a stack—”
He stops as I pull open the right cupboard door. I take out a clean cloth and spread it on the gardening table. He sets down the bird and shows me how to hold it, which is the same way I had held it for Mrs. Morant.
Dr. Morant works as swiftly and confidently as he had with my ankle. He assesses and sets the wing without a word other than instructions.
I long to ask for more. When his aunt cleaned the wing, she had explained each step as she went, just as she does with her gardens. Dr. Morant does not, and I do not dare ask for fear of distracting him. Only when he is finished, do I speak up.
“What must be done now?” I ask.
“He goes back into the cage, on the bottom with a fresh cloth. You should cover the cage. There is a fitted cover . . .” He opens a drawer and takes it out. “This stays on to keep him calm and discourage him from attempting to fly. You will need to check on him every thirty minutes today to be sure he is settled.”
“And if he is not?”
“Then he will need to be moved to a box. We cannot have him reinjuring that wing. Ask my aunt for help. You ought not need to do this all on your own. You are a guest here.”
“I do not mind—” I begin, but he is already leaving the greenhouse, and a moment later, I am alone with the bird.