37. A Bird Is Seen and an Escape Is Made

37. A Bird Is Seen and an Escape Is Made

A flurry of wings went past the window. Hawthorn ran to see what was happening and had just reached the embrasure when a ball of green feathers jetted in, crashed into the wall, and tumbled to the floor. She flung herself back as it sat up, and for a moment, Guardian and parrot stared at each other in mutual surprise. At almost the same moment, another tremor shook the tower, and the pier swayed dangerously.

The parrot rolled onto its feet, shook its head, and promptly fell over again. Fluttering its wings and pushing with its feet, it crawled and flopped toward the window, only to be stopped by the wall. Squawking, it butted the wall with its head over and over. Its witless obsession was horrifying and pitiful.

Before it could do any more damage to itself, Hawthorn scooped it up. The parrot flailed, but she stroked its head and made shushing noises at it, and eventually it quieted. By then, all the other birds had passed. Slowly, as the tower continued to sway, the parrot lifted its head and looked at her.

"Let go," it said.

Hawthorn's hands tightened instantly. They stared at each other a moment.

"No." Hawthorn's voice shook. In her head again was the rustle of a yellow bird's feathers atop a black glass palanquin. Not again. She would not listen—

"I know you," it said.

"How?" said Hawthorn. Not Obsidian's voice. Still, when had Hawthorn ever spoken to a parrot?

"There is always a look about you," said the parrot. "Time changes. The earth changes. The palace and the Hawthorns do not."

In its golden eyes was something she had never seen in a bird before. A look of vast, ancient cunning illuminated them, akin to the way a Lady's eyes gleamed, but different. Wilder. Crueler. The Beast. Hawthorn nearly dropped the parrot, but under her fingers, its tiny heart was beating. Her grip tightened. If she could still it, right here, right now—

"I am not here," said the Beast. "The birds are mine, and I have summoned them to my banquet. They will feast on you, or I will feast on them. That is the way of things." It blinked. "I see you are far away. In the Rose Garden, unless I am mistaken. The Hawthorns have changed, if you shirk your duty in this way."

"Shouldn't you be glad, then?" said Hawthorn. "With nobody to stop you, this is your victory."

Had the Beast ever spoken? In a flash she remembered one brief scrawl by a previous Hawthorn in the margins of The Downfall of the Thistles, something about "the Beast's call." If only the girl hadn't taken it! Perhaps if Hawthorn kept the Beast talking, she might learn something useful.

"Suppose the sea were to overtake the whole world and drown it," said the Beast. "Even in its victory, it might still miss the irreplaceable shore."

"I've been imprisoned," said Hawthorn. "If it's a fight you want, free me and I'll bring you one."

The parrot laughed. "It is not only the fight. It is the song, it is the wish. But I can see you know of neither miracle. I will delight in this feast, even if it will not have time to develop its full savor."

Hawthorn frowned. "I have to say, I don't remember the stories saying that the Beast is so… loquacious."

The parrot laughed again. "Think carefully: Who tells those stories? And what do they gain by saying I am mute?"

That was something to think about later. Frin was climbing toward the Wasp's Eye by now. If Hawthorn could get out and meet him there, much time would be saved.

"I don't know about the song and the wish," she said, "but I can give you a fight."

The gleam in the parrot's eyes grew keen. "Excellent. Put me down and I'll let you out."

Had she really just made a bargain with the Beast? Surely that was even riskier than making a bargain with a Lady. Hawthorn tried to remember everything she had just said. No, she had only promised to fight the Beast, which she would have done anyway. All was well. So why did the parrot look so pleased?

She opened her hands and the parrot shook itself, preened, and spread its wings. It flew to the door and perched in the barred window a moment. With shocking suddenness, it plucked one of its own pinions and fluttered out between the bars. There was a clanking, scuffling sound outside the door. Something clattered. Then there was silence.

Hawthorn tried the door. It swung open with an ominous groan. She hurried back for her things, then left the cell. Where had the parrot gone?

The door must be closed back up. If there were guards or officials about, it was best not to alert them that anything was wrong. Hawthorn went to shut it, and as it swung to, discovered the parrot behind it.

It was lying on its back, the feather still clutched in its beak. The gleam in its eyes was running out like tears and pooling on the floor. Blood followed. For a moment Hawthorn saw Sparrow lying in the West Passage, their insides ravaged by slender monsters. That was where she had seen that light before. It was the light of the lanterns. The light of the Luminous Name.

She closed the door and replaced the lock. The parrot was dead by then. She took the feather from its mouth and tucked it into her pocket. The body was put through the little window; nobody would find it unless they opened the cell. With her overgown, she scrubbed at the blood and light on the floor, trying to smear them away. They did not vanish entirely, but both were fainter when she was done.

Map in hand, she set off to find the Wasp's Eye.