Page 85 of The Unknown Birds

“What?” Dusty demanded. “Why?”

“For being a spy and fraternizing with the enemy.”

“Sir?” Ashley asked, her head spinning as she grew faint.

“Did you, or did you not, receive a parcel of German baked goods last December?” Hawkins demanded, playing the card he must’ve kept tucked up his sleeve for months waiting for the perfect moment to throw it back in all their faces.

“Ash can’t help what’s sent through the mail,” Dusty argued.

“I’m inclined to disagree. I believe those baked goods were hiding secret intelligence, which you used your position as runner to distribute behind enemy lines. What’s more, I suspect the MPs can be persuaded to my way of thinking.”

“You can’t be serious,” Dusty said.

“Secret messages? I never did,” Ash protested, panic pushing bile up her throat and making it difficult to breathe.

“Then perhaps you should be more careful of the company you keep—” Hawkins began.

“I’ll do it,” Rook interrupted, jaw set, utterly defeated.

“Good,” Hawkins replied, though their fight had made him somewhat less smug than when he’d first arrived. He marched swiftly away, and Ash stumbled towards the latrine to expel her dinner.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to Rook. Not sorry she was spared, and even less sorry that he was, but sorry to be a pawn against him in Hawkins’s unfair game of chess.

“Don’t be sorry, Little Bird.”

“Doesn’t make a lick of sense,” Dusty grumbled. “He can’t afford to shoot his best runner and both his best snipers too.”

“He knew it wouldn’t come to that. It was only ever about the threat. The power. He has it all and we have none. He needed me to admit as much and demonstrate it in front of everyone tomorrow.”

“Will you shoot wide?” Ashley asked.

“No. It will be done, one way or another. I can make it instant.”

The next morning the regiment assembled in the darkness before the dawn.

Some of the chosen twelve arrived, a jaunty swagger in their bearing, but steely Rook was grim-faced and resigned.

Ash hovered close behind him, with Dusty at her side, ignoring the coals that burned deep in her gut. She wanted to fly at Captain Hawkins—all wings and teeth and claws—and scream until he admitted this was wrong, but she couldn’t bear to be the reason Rook had to shoot another soul, and so she crossed her arms and vowed to hold her tongue.

Two MPs dragged Merle between them, a blindfold covering his eyes. He was pale and seemed to tremble with each step. They stood him before a hitching post and bound his hands on the other side, while the quartermaster issued freshly loaded guns.

Hawkins preened and strutted. He was relishing his role. When an all-too-cheerful gold lit the horizon, “Squad attention!” he fairly roared, as though commanding the very sun, far too eager to carry out the execution.

The men snapped into a rigid posture, rifles tight against their sides, like marionettes in the captain’s morbid show.

“Ready!” Hawkins called, and Ashley chewed her cheek to shreds. How could any of them be prepared to shoot a friend?

“Take aim,” he ordered.

Twelve weapons were raised in a long, straight line as Merle’s lip quivered beneath his folded mask. Forgive me, my darling Alice, he seemed to pray.

“Fire!”

They might as well still be in trenches. A murderous thunder rent the dawn, and Ash was grateful to be cloaked by the veil of acrid smoke that enshrouded her and burned her watery eyes.

A chaplain and a medic were called to examine him where he sagged against the post and confirm at least one shot in twelve had found its mark. Then Hawkins toed the grassy meadow, counting shell casings, one two three, to ensure each man had carried out his oath. Ash held her breath and watched him, eight nine ten—if he didn’t spot all twelve there’d be no saving Alex Rook.

Two others stepped forward to untie the body and carry it away, and, satisfied, Hawkins dismissed the Surreys back to their rest. But Rook still stood, shoulders slumped and staring blindly at the saccharine sunrise until he wept.