Eight

The Raven

The ravens woke to the creaking of a gate.

One of them, a young female, lifted her head from beneath her wing. She cocked her head, listening. The ravens were always listening; it was their nature. They knew when Mrs. Liu burned a slice of toast and tossed it into her yard; they knew when the young man at the inn took his lunch into the courtyard; they knew when the cat at the grocery store sat beneath a picnic table and watched for whintossers.

Ravens listened; ravens remembered. It was their way.

This night, the ravens heard the rasp of metal against rusted metal. A gate swung open with a grumble of hinges, and under the waning light of a half-moon, a thief stepped over a low fence and into the backyard of the Madeira residence.

Half of Aldermere didn’t lock their doors at night. Some of the younger ravens tried to sneak into the houses, to seize bags of bread or indulge in the shiny trinkets the humans adorned themselves with. But the elders warned them off—territory was to be respected. It was natural to defend nests, and the ravens knew this. They would not enter the homes, and so long as weekly tribute was given, they wouldn’t touch the plastic bins, either.

It was a peaceful life—most of the time.

But not all creatures understood the nature of territory.

A dark form crept into the backyard. The raven heard the crunch of dirt and grass beneath feet, and then the whisper of the doorknob. Someone was walking toward the house, someone who should not be there.

The door opened silently.

And a shadow crept inside.

The raven let out a shrill sound, but her mother hushed her. She ran her beak down her daughter’s neck, tugging gently on the half-formed adult feathers. It was a command for silence and a caress all in one.

The raven glanced at the human territory again, the strange contraption of metal and glass and stone. Their nests always seemed so impenetrable, but now there was something inside. Something unwanted.

The raven flapped her wings. It was dark, too dark for comfort, but she launched herself unsteadily into the air.

She liked these humans. Mr. Madeira fed her crumbs, and his mate wore rings that glittered. They should know their nest had an intruder.

The raven alighted on the windowsill. She could not see much—only a dim form moving inside.

She let out another shrill caw and began rapping her beak against the glass.

The creature within the nest went still—then its head turned to look out the window.

A prickle of fear ran down the raven’s neck and wings. She had never met the hawks and owls that her parents warned her of—but every raven could recognize a predator. Unease tingled beneath her skin, a thrill of glorious adrenaline. Some ravens chased this sensation; she had heard tales of her cousins teasing hawks by tugging at their tails or taunting the chained-up dogs that a few humans left in their yards. But she could not understand why anyone would choose this; panic flared beneath her ribs, and the raven flapped her wings, trying to make noise, to make herself bigger.

A light came on inside.

The raven blinked, startled by the sudden illumination. She did not see where the creature fled to, but one moment it was there—and the next it was gone. The humans within were awake, moving about the place where they made food. Mr. Madeira glanced from side to side, frowning.

They were safe.

The raven ruffled her feathers, satisfied. The intruder was out of the human’s nest. She could return to her tree, she could—

A branch snapped.

The raven’s head jerked up and her small heart throbbed in her chest. Only now did she realize that if the invader was not inside the nest—it was outside.

She flung herself into the air, but hands clamped down across her wings and held her. She bit and scratched, but it was to no avail. The clamor must have alerted the humans, because a porch light came on.

Mr. Madeira strode outside, holding one of the sunlight devices in his hand.

But when he checked beneath the kitchen window, all he found were a few black feathers. He didn’t see the figure in the shadows—the raven held tight and bundled away.