19. Chapter 19
19
BEATRICE
Two breaths later, I sensed the Gamekeeper’s presence in the hallway. Before he could speak or knock, I hurried to open the door and stuck my head out. He was pretty much invisible—I caught only glimpses of his large form. “Thank you for coming. It’s Win’s egg that’s hatching. She said it looks as if it’ll take a while, and I think she’s taking a bath now.”
“May I check on her egg?”
“If we hurry, I guess we can try.”
As I passed him to lead the way, I inhaled his familiar scent, fresh like a forest in winter. I was certain Win would have locked the door to her room, yet it opened at his touch. Her window curtains were still closed, and the egg on her unmade bed glowed iridescent blue amid the gloom.
That didn’t look right. I rushed over to carefully turn the egg. Silver swirls followed my touch, but the shell around the crack, which stretched longer than my thumb, looked dark. “Is he all right? What if Win dropped him and lied about it?”
As the Gamekeeper approached, I realized: “Oh, wait . . . the bits of shell are pushed out from the crack, not in. And he’s fast asleep.” My face burned. “I’m sorry. Jumping to conclusions is my best competitive sport.”
He stood beside the bed, bending to examine the egg.
His voice was so low, I nearly missed it: “A hatching griflet will stop to rest periodically. The next time he wakes up, he’ll be serious about hatching. He may become frustrated and even angry, but he must accomplish hatching on his own. Any attempt to physically help him would be harmful.”
“Okay . . . Uh. What did you just call him?”
“A griflet? It’s the term for a young griffin.”
“Wow. Interesting.” But my mind was running ahead. “I hope I can convince Win to heed your instructions. She considers herself the expert on griffins.”
“Winifred claims expertise in many fields, I believe.”
I snorted, then blushed at my own immaturity. “She gets under my skin too easily.”
I felt his smile, and I was close enough to hear him draw a long breath before he spoke: “I suggest you kill her with kindness, metaphorically speaking.”
“It’s worth a try. I think I have, once or twice, glimpsed an actual person beneath all that armor plating.” Without thinking, I stepped forward, grasped his upper arm, and rested my forehead on it. “Thank you for the sage advice.”
I quickly stepped away, breathless and pretty sure I’d stolen his breath too. What was I thinking?
When he did speak, his voice was quiet. “The staff is even now setting up a hatching area in the music room at the end of this corridor.”
“I hate to demand so much extra work from your servants.” Even as I spoke the words, I couldn’t help wondering how much work there was for the staff of a nearly deserted palace to do.
“Believe me, it is their intense pleasure—and mine—to serve you. They will provide food in the hatching room for us as well as the griflets.”
I followed him into the hallway. “Is it safe to move Win’s egg while it’s hatching?”
“Yes. He will rest between bursts of pecking at the shell with his egg tooth. Chicky is building up energy for her own hatching, which will begin soon.”
I considered this information, then pushed for more. “So, do you know what’s going on at Faraway Castle right now?”
“I am confident our allies will prevail.”
“I can’t help feeling guilty about being here in comfort while my aunt, my friends, and many other good people of all kinds are possibly in danger. I know there’s nothing I can do about it except pray, and I’ve been doing plenty of that.” I gave an embarrassed little shrug.
“The best thing you can do.”
The depth of gratitude in his voice startled me so much that I tried to cover the reaction by blurting, “Uh, where is this music room?”
“Ahead.” His shadowy arm indicated. Where the hall ended in a T, I glimpsed a set of double doors with a fresco of dancing sprites, musical notes, and instruments across their panels. “How beautiful!”
“You’ve frequently mentioned your love of music.”
We were virtual strangers, yet he knew me so well. In a burst of affection, I gripped his arm again. Forgetting all else, including hatching griffins, I approached those doors beside him, aware of his surprise and pleasure.
When the music room’s doors swung open for us, my eyes immediately went to the grand piano on a small stage against the far wall. Occupying much of the wall to my right was a magnificent pipe organ with many stops, three rows of keys, and several octaves of foot pedals. Other instruments abounded on every side: string, woodwind, percussion, and brass. They were all beautiful, but it was the piano that drew me. Its huge lid was propped up, and the keylid was open. Even better, a nearby table supported a hefty stack of sheet music.
“It’s so beautiful!” The words left my lips on a sigh. I was no great pianist or singer, but I enjoyed music . . . and the Gamekeeper remembered my obsession. “I haven’t played much since my last visit to Faraway Castle . . . but this isn’t the time, I know.”
“We will make time soon,” that deep voice promised, and my heart felt lighter than air.
A trio of lamps focused like spotlights on two large crates surrounded by armchairs and a settee. Curious, I peered into one crate to find a bed of sweet-smelling hay lined with blankets.
“Will this do?” asked the Gamekeeper.
“It’s perfect! I’d better bring Chicky right away so she can get used to her hatching box.”
“Good,” he approved.
As I approached the door to my room, I heard Win stirring next door. I was tempted to ignore her, grab Chicky, and hurry back, but responsibility called.
“Come in,” she answered my knock at her door. When I stepped inside, she was hovering over her egg, The window curtains were open, and her loose damp hair gleamed like silver in the morning light, wavy and utterly beautiful.
Without turning, she said, “I don’t need you here.”
I approached anyway. “How’s he doing?”
“Still asleep.”
“Listen! The palace staff has set up a birthing station for us in the music room down the hall. You’re welcome to join—”
She huffed a mocking laugh. “Dodger doesn’t need music. Just bring me some food and go away.”
“Win, we should do this together. There’s a lot we don’t know about griffins. The Gamekeeper says we must not try to help them hatch.”
“Duh. Anyone who’s raised chickens knows that much.”
She was probably right, but her attitude . . .
“The staff has set up two warm hatching boxes.”
“Oh, goody.”
I drew on another of my old methods for dealing with obnoxious people: sounding cheery while burning up inside. “Good luck to you too!” As I stepped into the hall, I sensed the Gamekeeper’s amusement and realized he was waiting for me.
Bolstered by his presence, I added a parting line over my shoulder, “When you get hungry, you know where we’ll be—us and your breakfast—right at the end of the hall.”
I heard an angry protest but didn’t turn around.
“She’ll come when she’s ready,” the Gamekeeper predicted. “The staff has orders to leave her undisturbed.” We shared a conspiratorial smile . . . at least, I assumed he was smiling. I still had trouble seeing him . . . or maybe I was afraid to really look.
Chicky didn’t fully wake when I slipped into my room and extricated her from the feather boa, but I sensed her deep contentment.
My mouth watered as we entered the music room; something smelled amazing! First, I lowered my egg into her hatching box. Leaving her there, I hurried over to the Gamekeeper.
But just as I opened my mouth to address him, the door flew open. Win stared around the room at the instruments and hatching boxes, her gaze skimming past the Gamekeeper—she still couldn’t see him—before it landed on me. “Dodger’s tapping at his shell again, but he wants Chi—the gold egg back. He’s unhappy because you took her too far away. Where is she?” Then she noticed the buffet. “Why didn’t you bring food to me?”
“I told you where to find breakfast, and here you are. The nestboxes are nice and warm under the lights. Chicky is happy and relaxed.”
“She is not! She can’t be. Dodger’s upset, so she’s coming back with me.” Spotting the nestboxes, she charged forward but seemed to hit an invisible wall. Frustrated, she looked at me, then around. “Who did that? Blocking my way!”
I glanced toward the Gamekeeper; his shadowy form shrugged.
“Chicky?” I approached her box to see brassy waves rippling across the gold of her shell.
Dodger want Chicky and Beeetrice, so I tell Dodger come here, she said.
I turned to Win, but she guessed what I was about to say and adamantly shook her head. “You’ve got to give them back to me! They’re my responsibility! They don’t know what’s good for them—they’re just babies!
“Win, the best thing for Dodger is to hatch here in this bright, warm room with his sister and you and me and the Gamekeeper. And the palace staff will be providing all his food.”
Her eyes flashed, and her posture went rigid, but when I stood firm, she muttered, “Fine, Miss Evil Dictator. But you’re not to touch him!” Making an about-face, she marched down the hall.
I blew out a sigh and dropped into a chair. “That went surprisingly well.”
“Hardly the last of many skirmishes, I suspect.”
The Gamekeeper’s dry tone made me chuckle. “Sad but true.”
As soon as Win returned with the silver egg cradled in her arms, I heard Dodger’s plaintive voice. Beeetrice? Chicky?
We here, Dodger , Chicky responded, allowing me to listen in . Gamekeeper here too.
Beeetrice too? He sounded happier.
I wished I knew how to speak to him mentally. “I’m here.”
Win’s attention snapped to me. “Stop it! Stop talking to them!”
“They spoke to me first.”
“They did not!” She stamped her foot, clutching the egg close. “Stop pretending you hear things! These eggs are my responsibility, not yours! They only talk to me.”
“How about you stop stamping like a toddler and start coaching Dodger through his hatching?” I did try to keep my voice calm and non-patronizing.
Win rolled her eyes, then dropped to her knees beside the empty nesting box and settled Dodger on the hay. The spotlights reflecting off his shell and her hair were almost blinding.
“C’mon, baby. I know you can do this!” Anticipation brightened her voice until I hardly recognized it. “Oh, good boy! You knocked out a big chip!”
I hurried over to peer into the box and whispered, “Sure enough!” Through the opening he’d made, I saw something move. Even as I watched, the crack widened, revealing a yellowish . . . nostril?
“You can do this, Dodger,” I murmured. Instantly, I sensed his pleasure.
Win growled, “Let me handle this,” then started crooning encouragements. “Pound it out, big guy! Show that stuck-up Chicky who’s the baddest griffin around!”
I could only hope her form of encouragement wouldn’t cause sibling strife in the future. Dodger seemed to appreciate it. His scratching got louder, and the eggshell quivered constantly.
But progress was slow. The minutes turned into an hour of tapping punctuated by Dodger’s brief rest periods, then dragged on into two hours. Win began to prowl the room.
Meanwhile, when I checked on Chicky, her shell had hardened. She purred as I gently stroked its surface.
A low voice spoke near my shoulder, sending a tingle down my spine. “Being magical, griffins usually hatch more quickly than birds do, but they’re unpredictable.”
I puffed a little sigh. “Maybe we both need to find a book to read. Or I could play the piano.”
“Oh, please!” Win groaned. “That is, please don’t! ”
“Music might inspire the griflets to get on with their job.” The gentle humor in the Gamekeeper’s voice warmed me. “Please do play.”
To Win’s disgust, I sat on the piano bench, tried a few chords to get the feel of the keys, and began to play a classical piece I’d memorized as a child. Next came a hymn. Once my fingers warmed up, I attempted a more challenging jazz song. I made a few mistakes, but nothing egregious.
When the last notes faded away, I lifted my hands from the keys. “Thank you. Playing a piano of this quality is a treat.”
Win stretched her back with a groan. “Thanks for nothing! You play boring stuff. If you have to make noise, can’t you at least play something modern?”
“The child evidently lacks musical taste.” The Gamekeeper’s voice sounded simultaneously irritated and admiring. “You play quite well, Beatrice. A woman of many talents.”
Glowing inside, I closed the keylid and returned to Chicky’s box, just a few steps away. Chicky hatch soon , the little creature repeated. Sooner soon. Beeetrice watch?”
“Of course, I will!” I touched her shell.
By the sounds Chicky made and the way her egg wiggled, I guessed she was stretching inside her shell. Dodger hatching now, she said.
“Now?”
Now. He wants Beeetrice.
Breathless with anticipation, I hurried over to hunker down across Dodger’s box from Win and join her in staring at his shell. It was as dark as a starless midnight, and the crack spanned its diameter, glowing a lurid chartreuse. “You can do this, little guy,” Win murmured, her voice the sweetest I’d ever heard it.
Then she glanced at me. “Go. Away.”
“No. Chicky says Dodger wants me.”
She inhaled sharply, preparing to chew me out, just as the top half of his shell snapped off and landed in the hay. We got our first glimpse of a griflet, who was panting open-beaked.
Hearing Win suck in a sharp breath, I looked up and saw horror in her eyes.
“I expect he’ll look better once he dries out, like a baby duck does,” I tried to reassure her.
Dodger was scrawny and scraggly, with blobs of what looked like white goo sticking to his grayish-pink head, neck, chest, and front legs. His wings, partly covered with pinfeathers, were small, and his bulging eyes were closed. His beak and front feet were bright yellow and looked too large for the scrawny rest of him.
Win blinked in disbelief. “I thought he would hatch cute,” she whispered. “Do you think he’s all right?”
“He’s resting after all that work.”
I left her alone with Dodger long enough to check on Chicky, who was beginning to peck at her shell. I sensed rather than heard her working.
By the time I returned to Dodger’s box, his eyes were open, and he was trying to lift his head. Win ran a finger down the back of his head, then gave me a defiant scowl. “I’m not interfering. Just reminding him I’m here.”
With a burst of energy that startled her into snatching her hand away, Dodger flailed his front half until the rest of his soggy body emerged from the shell. His back legs and paws came into view, still kicking, and then a stringy tail.
We both stared in amazement. “I mean, I knew he was a griffin, but . . .” Win’s voice trailed off. “Weird.”
Dodger’s eyes opened wide, and he let out an insulted squawk.
“And . . . and . . .” Win looked to me for help.
“Weird and wonderful, right?” I exclaimed.
“Yes.” She eagerly accepted my cue. “Weird, wonderful, wild . . .” Her inspiration ran dry.
“Wet,” I added, “and weary. Needs to be warm .”
She rolled her eyes. “Wow, you’re a showoff.”
“‘Wow’ counts.”
When her chin snapped up and her eyes narrowed, I gave her a genuine smile. “He is amazing. I expect he’ll get cuter when he dries out, like chicks do.”
Disarmed for the moment, Win relaxed, returning her gaze to her griflet. “He’s purring!”
At first his purr was so quiet I could barely hear it, but when she gently rubbed his back behind his wings where a patch of fur grew, the buzz grew louder. “He’s soft,” she said with a sigh. One mission accomplished: Win was in love with her griffin. I figured it was a good time to let the two bond.
I had just sat down to enjoy a sandwich from the tempting buffet—which must have appeared while I was too distracted to notice—when Dodger sat upright and demanded to be fed, each shriek louder than the last. His birdlike parts bristled with pinfeathers amid the down, and his yellow beak and eyes were almost scary.
“Do something!” Win cried, hands over her ears. “Stop that horrible noise!”
I turned and immediately met the Gamekeeper’s gaze.
“The griflets’ food is here.” He indicated a contraption rather like a drying rack . . . except that it bristled with small creatures impaled on sticks. “To quiet him, cover his head. But first, he needs to eat.”
Since Win freaked out at the idea of feeding her griflet, I fed him, giving her instructions as if I were a seasoned griflet-feeding pro. Each time Dodger’s mouth opened wide, I stuffed a disgusting morsel down his throat with a pair of chopsticks.
Eventually, his screeches faded into purrs of contentment, and his eyes closed.
“Within a few days, he’ll be finding his own food and begin to practice flying.” The low rumble of the Gamekeeper’s voice soothed me.
“Flying?” I stared at the pathetic plucked-turkey wings folded along Dodger’s cat-like body.
“Prepare to be amazed. Griflets are precocious.”
I struggled to take all this in. The blend of natural and magical in these creatures was difficult to comprehend.
“What’s that about flying?” Win demanded.
I’d nearly forgotten she was there and hearing only my half of the conversation. “What? Oh! Yes, flying. Dodger and Chicky will be flying before we know it.”
Her lip curled. “You’re so weird. Go away. I’ll take him now.”
Relieved of duty, I got myself a drink and stretched my aching muscles before checking on my gold egg. As I approached her nesting box, the griflet spoke into my head: Chicky hatch.
Already? Inwardly, I panicked a little.
Beeetrice speak in my head!
Awww, she sounded so pleased.
Oh. Wait. I did it! For the first time, I’d spoken to her in my thoughts!
At that moment, Dodger let out the most horrific screeches I’d ever heard. Ear-splitting. Heart-rending.
“Help!” Win let out a screech of her own. “Beatrice, get back over here! He won’t stop screaming.”
Remembering the Gamekeeper’s advice, I grabbed a soft blanket from a conveniently placed stack of bedclothes, flung it to her, and plugged my ears. “Cover his head!” I shouted between screeches. As soon as she threw the cloth over Dodger’s head and wrapped him up, the noise stopped. Like magic.
“See? It works.” Yes, I sounded smug and didn’t care. “Now, wrap this blanket around your arm. No, no, like this.”
Win was unusually quiet while I arranged the second blanket to protect her from the griflet’s claws and then gently lifted him, cocooned in his blanket, to rest on her forearm. He snuggled in against her.
“Okay now?” I asked, eager to check on my own griflet.
Win looked up at me. “Isn’t he just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen? This is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me!”
I did a double-take. Her face was transformed with delight. I scarcely recognized the girl! “Cute” was hardly the first adjective to enter my mind when I looked at Dodger, but I couldn’t help smiling in response.
Before I could think what to say, Chicky demanded, Beeetrice, I hatch now! Hold me.