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“Shh,”she silenced him, and then whispered, “I’m listening out for her wings.” She opened and closed every door as they passed through them, eventually pulling him into the utility room. “Oh, I bet it was that wretched old dog again. Nasty Captain, naughty boy.”
It was a large though narrow room behind the length of the kitchen. The washing machine was spinning with a hum, and the birdcage sat empty atop the tumble dryer. The cage’s hatch door was swung right open, and he instinctively looked to the ceiling for any sign of the bird, a perch of feet. Along the wall ran a line of bells on a plaque, each labeled with room names that no longer existed within the house: the billiard room, south-facing hall, pink dressing room. He itched to find the disused cord connecting to these, to pull and activate the bells to ring—how awesome would that be? But he’d never seen such a cord through his time here, and noticed that the plaque was disconnected from the wire. It was only left here for show, as rusty as a disused railway sign, an emblem of bygone years. Something an estate agent might describe as quirky and characterful.
“What are you looking at?” said Ada.
“I was just searching the ceilings. But don’t worry—she couldn’t have gone far.”
“Will you help me look for her?”
They engineered a plan. Ada would check all the rooms on the upstairs floor, and he would continue the search downstairs. Then, they would reconvene and assess the situation based on their findings or non-findings. If they still hadn’t found Birdie, they would swap floors and start the search all over again.
“Actually, I thinkyoushould continue your search down here, and I will go upstairs,” he said. “You’ve already covered so much ground, we don’t want to double up until we’ve searched everywhere at least once.”
“Hmm, I suppose that does make sense.”
When they parted ways, he marched up the stairs to his bedroom, first because it was an easy room to tick off the list as“searched,” but also because he needed a moment to catch his breath. He sat on his bed for a minute, opened the drawer, and then pocketed the locket before rising again to properly begin his search. Yes, he’d keep to his word, would help find the little bird, but he was looking for something more, still.
He searched the hallway, the spare bedrooms, and the games room in quick succession, opened the door to the library and peeked his head in. The shell-like walls were still in ruin, seemed almost glossy in their limestone sheen now that the soot and char had been scrubbed away; the floor was still being replaced, and the exposed beams stuck out like piano keys through the floor. Beyond, the windows were still empty, toothless gums. A room exposed to the elements save for a sheet of plastic used as a barrier. The wind outside was light, but he felt the breeze on his face; it sounded like the ancient walls were wheezing. If the bird had flown in here at all, well, he reckoned she was long gone. Free.
It was hard to imagine the room now as it had been in its once so opulent way. The fire had eaten away at everything. But not the photo album. That had been safely carried away. Ada had seen Darcy carry it out of the room. He wasn’t sure why, but Bron was almost certain he’d find a clue as to the locket’s importance inside the album itself. If only he could get his hands on it again.
Along the hall once more he swooped into Ada’s bedroom, where everything was still and as it always was: her toys neatly put away, her books lining the shelves. In the built-in wardrobe he found the little matted sock puppet that Ada had pulled from beneath his bed when he’d first moved in. He searched the remaining spare bedrooms, giving them a quick once-over, all the while guessing where the photo album would be. In Darcy’s bedroom.
He had yet to venture this far down the hall. Had never had a reason to. Now he was drawn not only to the prospect of finding further clues within the album, but by the curiosity of surrounding himself with a treasure trove of Darcy’s things: his clothes, his aftershave, his everyday utilities. To inhale the air in which Darcy slept, existed, and festered. The intimacy of standing among hispossessions. But it was still daylight, and the undertaking was risky. He couldn’t possibly go in alone. If anyone were to catch him, what would he say? That he was looking for a bird? He couldalmostget away with it.
He turned away, disappointed, and found Ada in the kitchen downstairs, lifting the lid to a pot and making a clatter of everything she touched. He explained to her that he’d searched all the other rooms, top to bottom, but that he needed her to go with him if he were to step into Darcy’s bedroom, or even her father’s.
“Oh, Papa won’t mind.”
“I actually think he would, Ada. Why don’t we look together?”
“Okay then, I’ll do it myself. And you can keep looking down here.” She handed him the pot.
“But I’d like to come with you.”
“Hmm,” she said. “It would be more fun searching together.”
“Exactly.”
“But like you said, we’d cover more ground if we do it separately. Search down here first, why don’t you? We’ve more chance of finding Birdie quickly then,” she said before trotting away.
Dammit. What now?
He scanned the kitchen’s surfaces, checked the store cupboard, thinking how best he could get into Darcy’s room to find the album without it seeming suspicious. He could just walk up in search of Ada. But was that too clumsy? With a sigh, and growing bored of the search, he went back into the hall, where a whine and little scratchings at a door alerted him to Captain’s being locked inside the broom cupboard—Ada. He let him out, led him instead into the more spacious kitchen, and closed the door behind him.
In the living room he searched everything again—the ceilings, the curtain poles and their finials, and even behind the curtains. Shut the latch to the window that was still slightly ajar. Lowering to his knees, he stuck his head beneath the drinks cabinet, the armchair, the two sofas … nothing.
“Bron, what on earth are you doing?” It was Darcy’s voice, making him bang his head.
The first thing he thought was,My ass is in the air. He’s looking at my ass.He threw himself back, used the sofa’s wooden arm to hoist himself up, and dusted off his knees. Darcy stood at the door, a cup of tea held from the saucer, and a newspaper tucked into his armpit.
“I’m just—I’m just looking for something.”
“Oh?” he said, coming into the room and setting his tea down. “Don’t tell me Ada’s got you looking for that bloody bird?”
“Ah, well …” He shrugged, gave a defeated look.
“She’s up there tearing through my things like a bulldozer. Kicked me out of my own room. Sometimes I think she lets the thing free just so she can have a good snoop.”
