Seeing her again.
Kitty’s head cocks to one side, then the other, like a dog trying to identify a noise. “For cream?”
“Cream?” My jaw bobbles open and shut. “Sure, I s’pose. I can get ya some cream.”
Kitty nods. “And marmalade?”
What? “I’m not sure if there’s extra marmalade after the party. Maybe?”
Her eyes narrow. “Scones, then. Scones and cream.”
Christ alive, I’m negotiating food compensation for letter delivery with a small, furry magical being.
“Scones and cream,” I agree.
Kitty takes the letter. “Don’t be sad. Lady Alyth didn’t kill you. She likes you.” She grins, all sharp, fangy teeth. “Pretty English boy.”
And she’s gone before I can formulate any response to that beyond wheezing like a fool.
21
Alyth
I follow Kitty’s directions to meet Samson at the stables this morning, but for the life of me, I cannot recall what the damned bird means.
Goldfinch.
I should have paid more attention when he told me the code. But he said it all so quickly, in that thick accent of his. It’s a warning or a message or…
Something.
I’ll ask when he arrives at the stables. It’s cold, the sky heavy and dark and threatening snow. The perfect morning to sleep in next to a fire at the castle rather than stand outside on the frost-covered lawn with the scent of dirt and horse manure weaving around my cold breath. I step inside, taking shelter from the icy breeze in an empty stall.
I hear the soft trill of a wren and look around, surprised. There are plenty of cats in the stable; birds dare not use the hay stored in the loft for nests, and not even the rafters are safe from the feline hunters. A moment later, Samson steps inside.
The code, I think. From his smug look, I can see this is a bit of a test. What did a wren whistle signify? I think over what Samson said. Robin was for danger; I remember that one. What was wren? Did he mention it?
“You have a message for me?” I ask.
His eyes crinkle. “That’d be a goldfinch.”
Ah. The letter from Kitty meant he had information for me. But the wren he just whistled means… “All clear?”
“Exactly that.”
I frown. “No, you said…a partridge meant all clear?”
Samson looks affronted. “That was a partridge call!”
“That was definitely a wren,” I say.
He puckers his lips and lets out a soft whistle. “Partridge,” he insists.
“You’re doing it too fast. That sounds nothing like a partridge.”
Samson rolls his eyes.
“We could have argued about birds inside,” I say, glaring at him. “Why did you have me come here?”
