Our flock was in urgent need of a new meeting place. Now that Starbucks had bought Hulda’s store and was “opening soon,” our usual gathering spot — Hulda’s dungeon — was about to get more foot traffic than was good for an ages-old clandestine organization. We’d already discussed the issue at three meetings with the unanimous-but-one consensus that — drumroll — the topic should be discussed further — cymbals crash. I was, for the record, the but-one. If you asked me, we should assign a couple of location scouts: they’d go out with maps and cameras, return with suggestions, and the group would put it to a vote. Problem was, no one asked me. Hulda had tabled the discussion with her customary, “We wait for a sign.”

I swore, one of these days, I was going to walk in with a big picket sign that said: DECIDE SOMETHING.

I tugged the knit cap with braided ear tails over my scabied scalp that, thankfully, looked worse than it felt. Though construction crews had been transforming Hulda’s old Fabric and Notions Shop for weeks, my key still mystically fit in the lock, even though it was an entirely different door. I walked through the dark shop, a jumble of carpenters’ tools and painters’ equipment, all neatly stored for the night. The door that had once been marked OFFICE, though I had only once ever seen it in that incarnation, was now a coed restroom. I super-hated coed bathrooms. For starters, I had a fear of being walked in on, and secondly, I had an even stronger fear that men didn’t wash, construction crews in particular.

I turned the handle to the door with my shirtsleeve and found, naturally, the same dark hallway, naked bulb, and winding stairs. OK. Things like this about the Storks still made my spine curl.

I settled into my Robin’s seat, the much-coveted second chair, an honor I’d never asked for and over which Grimilla, aka Grim, still bore one big galumph of a grudge. Well, that and the fact that Penny — Grim’s granddaughter and sole heir — had become a little more rebellious since meeting me. I looked across to Grim as she heaved herself into her Peacock’s chair. Her gray-blue eyes chopped me with one quick, dismissive glance. Nice to see you, too.

Hulda walked into the room, followed by Dorit, or a shell of the Stork once known as Dorit, anyway. Dorit had been conspicuously absent from recent meetings. Her hair hung lank, her normally pudgy face appeared lined, and she had the slow, heavy-footed shamble of a convict. I even looked at her feet for shackles, but her hobble was self-imposed. I’d never seen anyone so beat-down. Granted, she had to be one steaming kettle of regret. She’d foolishly, over the course of many years, confided top-secret information to her grandson Wade. Enough, even, for him to murder out of jealousy his own sister, a future Stork; to fall in with soul-snatching Ravens; and to summon the centuries-closed Bifrost Bridge — his fatal mistake.

Hulda motioned for us all to stand. Dorit took her place behind her chair, but I noticed she did not pull it away from the table, as most of us had.

“Before roll is called,” Hulda said, “our first order of business will be to read the verdict of the World Tribunal as pertains to our suspended Stork, Dorit.”

You’d think, as second chair, I’d have known that Dorit’s case was being reviewed by the World Tribunal, or that we even had a World Tribunal. Once again, communication was not the group’s strongest suit. I also noted the omission of the word sister before “Stork” or Fru (the Icelandic for Mrs.) before “Dorit.”

Hulda unfurled a scroll of brown paper that looked old enough to be the Cro-Magnon Carta, or whatever form of law prehistoric man governed with. I looked over her shoulder, half expecting it to be written in hieroglyphs. “Dorit Giselda Arnulfsdottir.”

The room went quiet as a Verizon dead zone.

“You have been accused”— continued Hulda —“of disclosing Stork secrets to a Raven, an act which resulted in the death of Hannah Ivarsson.”

Dorit sniffled at the mention of her granddaughter and removed a cloth hankie from her sleeve.

“As well as injury to Jack Snjosson and to Katla Gudrun Leblanc, a sister Stork.”

Note to self: Keep mouth shut, even to Jack. Gossip can go bad — very, very bad.

Hulda rolled to a new section of paper. Dorit’s sniffles became sobs. “The tribunal’s decision is an . . .”

A collective intake of air sounded like the start-up of a small engine.

“Immediate and lifelong termination of Stork affiliation and privileges.”

Dorit crumpled to her knees. We all gasped. I, too, was caught up in the emotion of the moment. Though it wasn’t a death sentence, her reaction and the responding clucks and squawks were funereal. The Storks whose chairs were on either side of Dorit helped her to her feet, or attempted to, anyway. Once composed, she resisted any offer of assistance with angry flaps of her arms. She gathered a ragbag purse from her feet, yanked the cloche hat from her head, and slapped it on the table.

“You have made a mistake you will come to regret, Hulda,” Dorit said with an accusatory wag of her thick index finger. She clutched the bag to her chest and stormed out of the room, causing the candles to flicker and all the Storks to chatter like loose dentures. I heard words like “insolent” and “an insult to Fru Hulda” volleyed back and forth. Not only had Dorit threatened our esteemed leader, she had, perhaps even more shockingly, addressed her as simply Hulda.

Upon Dorit’s dramatic exit, Hulda braced the table as if exhausted. She turned to one of the quietest of members. “Fru Svana, if you would be so kind as to see to Dorit’s chair.”

Svana, our Swan, pulled the chair away from the table and then turned it backward, facing out. I remembered that this was the way my chair had been the first night I stumbled into a meeting.

“Fru Hulda,” I said, “may I ask a question?”

“Yes, child. Ask.”

I noticed I was “child,” whereas the omission of a tiny article in front of Fru Hulda’s name had set the room atwitter. Whatever.

“How will we replace Fru Dorit?”

“This discussion is not on the agenda,” Grim interrupted.

Hulda sighed and then turned to me. “Katla, you remain after meeting. Yes?”

“Yes. Of course.” Lucky for Jack, I wasn’t able to discuss Stork business, otherwise he’d have earned an IOU for an ItoldU.

“Fru Hulda,” Grim said. “Perhaps after the meeting you will remind our fledgling member of protocol.”

Dang, Grim was harsh. I shot her a look. And though I suspected Penny would bear the consequence of my glare, and was sure my messages to her would never again be delivered, I couldn’t help it. And besides, I was second chair. And it wasn’t like there was a manual to follow. If there was, it was probably carved into some ancient stone in the north of Iceland. Furthermore, I’d been demoted from child to fledgling.

The rest of the meeting was a snore. We accomplished nothing. Not one thing. The agenda, besides giving Dorit the boot, called for the discussion of a new meeting place. We discussed it all right, but decided — as usual — nada.

After the Storks had filed out, all — except Grim — wishing one another “Happy New Year,” I remained in my chair next to Hulda.

She tapped my wrist. “So, you wish to know how new Storks come to be.”

“Yes.”

“But do you not remember your own arrival?”

“Of course I do, but it had seemed unusual.” Unusual was an understatement. That night while working at Afi’s store, my scalp had felt like it was going to crawl off my head. I’d looked across the street to see Hulda’s shop open for the first time in months. To hide my head pox, I’d borrowed my poor dead amma’s beret and hustled over for bargains on velvets and satins. When the beret accidentally fell off, Hulda took one look at my blistered scalp and spooked me into following her down to a dungeon full of old soul-delivering birds, literally, where I was pronounced a member — the youngest ever, at that. So what, I asked myself, were the chances of this being standard recruitment practice?

“You found us,” Hulda said. “This was a sign. Now, as we did then, we wait for a sign.”

Holy cow. If I remember correctly, it had been a three-year wait to find me. It just seemed there had to be a better way. “I wonder”— I said, thinking out loud —“if it wouldn’t do our group good to be a little more proactive in certain things.”

Hulda gave me a wide-eyed look. In a grave tone, she said, “We have, for centuries, followed a strict protocol. We rely on signs and dreams and omens to guide us in the selection of new Storks, just as we rely on signs and dreams to identify souls and vessels. These ways are not for us to change.”

Wasn’t it Hulda who once said “The bamboo that bends in the wind is stronger than the oak that resists”? I could tell, though, that I was already skating on thin ice. And as someone who once fell through a not-so-frozen lake and nearly died, I preferred terra firma.

“And Fru Hulda, are you worried about the way Dorit left us? She threatened you.”

“It is not Dorit I fear. Though she has disappointed and endangered us all, she has a good heart. She is shocked and her pride is wounded, but she has learned her lesson. Our secrets are safe with her.”

It wasn’t a bank I’d be depositing in, but I hoped Hulda was right.

“It was, rather, Wade’s actions that night,” Hulda said, “that most frightened me. The portals — the Álaga Blettur — the power places, if the seals were weakened when recently opened, if a wedge . . .” Hulda waved hands in front of her face, as if parting a curtain. “Listen to me. Such an old worrywart. Go. Be young. Enjoy this night.”

I wasn’t in the mood to contemplate wedges unless they were of the heeled variety. I wished her a Happy New Year and hightailed my feathers out of there. It was close to nine-thirty. Plenty of party time remained.