They walked on.When they next stopped to drink water, Corinthia spotted something deep in the shadows of the oak scrub: a whorl of twigs formed into a bowl-like shape, sitting just at Corinthia’s height.
“A nest,” Stevie confirmed.“Nesting season is in the spring, though, so this is an old one.”
“Do they use them over again?”
“Not typically.”
Corinthia moved closer to the nest, carefully lifting oak branches out of the way when they threatened to tangle her hair, feeling extremely brave.Stevie’s commentary reached her like a cheerful nature documentary: “There’s an outer basket made of larger twigs and an inner basket made of smaller twigs and palm fibers.A nest within a nest.”
Corinthia drew level with the nest and raised herself on her tiptoes to see inside.
She dropped back onto flat feet.What she saw simply wasn’t possible.
“Stevie,” she called.“Do they typically line the nest with books?”
“Books?No.Maybe a few strips from a lost page.”Stevie laughed.“Just a few favorite quotes.”
Corinthia went on tiptoe again.There, nestled snugly in the inner basket, were three books: a discarded selection of poems by Emily Dickinson, a discarded copy ofWoodworking and You… and a book with a very purple, very scaled, space lesbian on the cover.“Stevie,” she repeated.“Come look.”
Stevie made her way through the twisted branches and joined Corinthia.
They peered into the abandoned nest—if it could be called abandoned, if it was being used as a sort of woodland bookshelf.
“Who put those there?”Stevie said.
“You tell me.”Corinthia gingerly reached into the nest and withdrew the sci-fi romance.She examined it with a librarian’s eye: no water damage, no spine cracking, no dog-eared pages.With the exception of a dried leaf inserted at the end of chapter three—a bookmark?—it was as well-cared for as if it had stayed in the library.
Part of her wanted to put it back in the nest.The librarian part did not.
“Should we take the other two as well?”Stevie asked.
“Hmm?”Corinthia glanced up at the volumes of poetry and woodworking.“Well, theywereon the free book cart.”She should know, because she put them there with her own two hands.
“The scrub jays certainly aren’t going to read them,” Stevie joked.
“No, of course not,” Corinthia said.She hugged the romance to her chest, where her heart beat against the cover, faster than the hike would have justified.“If they’re still there in a few days, I’ll collect them and put them back on the free book cart.”
“So you’re coming out here again?”
“Someone has to.”
“Why not just take them now?”
Corinthia had reasons; good reasons, she was sure.She just couldn’t think of what they were.“They’ll be fine,” she said, like the discarded books were children who were old enough to wander the neighborhood alone.
They walked back toward the Shadow Ridge Library, and Stevie picked up her happy lecture about scrubland ecology with a tangent on the renewing effects of fire and hurricanes.
When the walls of the green maze closed tighter, there was a rustle from within followed by a burst of blue movement.
A scrub jay landed in front of them on the white sand path.
Stevie stopped, and Corinthia stopped, and the scrub jay looked up at them with a shrewdly observant eye.It hopped forward boldly, examining the intruders—visitors?How did it view them?
“It’s probably looking for acorns,” Stevie said.“Acorns are their favorite food.They bury thousands of them in the sand.”
Stevie was closer but the scrub jay hopped past her to Corinthia, who wanted to backpedal but didn’t, for fear of scaring it.
A startling beating of wings, a rush of air, and a weight dropped onto Corinthia’s head with sharp pinpricks holding it in place.“Stevie,” she said, carefully, “is there a bird on my head?”
