Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
On the morning of the inspection, dawn drowned beneath a blanket of fog.
Aila—or rather, the bundle of raw nerves formerly known as Aila, now masquerading as a human in work boots and an animal-patch backpack—arrived at a dark zoo. The mist frizzed her hair into a rat nest bun. The peacock griffin statue in the entry plaza swam through the sea of gray, condensation clinging to bronze wing tips.
Aila flipped on the light in the coordinator’s office. She started Tom’s coffee, signed in at the computer, clipped a radio to her belt, then leaned over the desk with a deep, hitching breath. She’d tried burning calming cinnamon bird incense the night before. Tried doing her mindfulness exercises. Tried burying her face in her periwinkle prairie goose pillow until lavender drowsiness took over.
Her morning chores offered little sanctuary. She sprayed down the World of Birds aviary. Set out food she’d chopped the day before. Sat Archie down for a firm talking-to about being on his best damn behavior because mom couldn’t handle any distractions today.
She moved the kelpie onto exhibit.
How did time slip by so fast?
Aila slept little the night before. Why bother with an alarm? She’d set her phone to wake her, yet still she’d woken up an hour before the chime to stare at her ceiling and catalog everything that could go wrong. What if she missed something on the IMWS checklist? Froze up during the inspector’s questions? What if a meteor crashed out of the sky, releasing the animals and turning the zoo into a frenzy?
She flipped on the lights in the phoenix center. Despite her nerves, Aila had to admit one thing.
The place was beautiful.
New linoleum squeaked beneath her boots, an easy-to-clean surface patterned after Silimalo tile. Orange paint brightened the walls. Multicolored protocol binders lined the shelves. The incubators sparkled on the counter, all polished and functioning. A week of back-breaking work, but they’d pulled it off.
Aila dropped her backpack at her desk and stepped up to the aviary. Rubra roosted on a perch wrapped in fresh sisal, her abode decorated in fans of olive leaves like some ancient queen of the Silimalo coast, a heater casting her puffed feathers in a rosy glow. She greeted Aila with a half-open eye and a muffled chirp.
“Today’s the day, Rubra. The inspector will love you, of course. I’ll do my best to follow your lead.”
Tanya finished her rounds a half-hour later. They sat in their clean new chairs at the clean new desks they’d bartered from facilities, staring at a clean new clock on the wall. The hands were little phoenix feathers. When Tanya brought it in as a surprise, Aila squealed with delight. Now, her stomach felt sick.
“You’ll do your best, Ailes,” Tanya said. “Whatever happens today, we’ll be fine.”
Aila nodded, half-hearted. An old poster hung above her desk, an abstract phoenix with a tail of fire, the paper yellowed and crinkling at the edges. WORLD FAMOUS SAN TAMCULO ZOO , the script read, HELP SAVE THE SILIMALO PHOENIX . This wasn’t just an inspection. This was Aila’s lifelong dream. If she earned bad marks with the inspector today, she risked more than losing Rubra. She could set the San Tamculo Zoo back on the transfer list for years.
She didn’t expect any other visitors that morning. When Connor poked his head through the door, a smile broke through Aila’s nerves. Wider, when he held up a brown paper bag, grease stains an obvious show of quality. And the smell .
Aila might have forgotten to eat that morning. Oops .
“Morning, ladies. Time for breakfast?”
Two months ago, Connor and Aila hardly spoke. Over the past week, he’d become a fixture at the phoenix center, donating his precious time to help them roll out flooring and shove a behemoth refrigerator into place. How did this happen? Sleep-deprived Aila hadn’t dissected that mystery. Non-sleep-deprived Aila would have managed little better.
He dropped the bag on the counter and pulled out three breakfast burritos.
“What’s the occasion?” Aila asked. A dumb joke. She knew the occasion. It was a heart-throttling, terrifying occasion.
“Celebration, of course.” Connor dropped into a chair. “For how much you’re going to amaze the inspector today.”
Aila crinkled open her wrapper and poked at the eggs and cheese. “Well, I don’t know about that.”
“Are you kidding? This place looks fantastic!”
“Couldn’t have done it without your help.”
Or Luciana’s help, but Aila would sooner bury herself in bird droppings than say that out loud. Everyone had worked their asses off this week. And for what? To help her ?
No, that didn’t make any sense. To help the phoenixes.
Yet when Aila dared look up from her food, Connor’s eyes had her pinned. Skies and seas, her stomach couldn’t afford any more somersaults.
Sure, he’d started visiting more. Sure, Aila no longer went full puddle mode the instant she had to share a room with him. That didn’t mean they’d talked much. Where could she have found the time? Their interactions were confined to awkward elbow bumps while laying down the linoleum, Aila’s nervous laugh when Connor made a joke about her hair matching Rubra’s feathers (which was, consequently, one of the most flattering things she’d ever been told).
Friendly? Sure. Romantic? Aila hadn’t a clue. More and more, she commiserated with the zoo’s Vjari auks, bumbling around on stubby legs and useless flippers, big dumb eyes unable to tell a rock from a human hunter.
“Aila,” he said. “You’ve memorized those protocol binders front to back. You’re brilliant . That phoenix is as good as yours.”
No, no, no, not romantic at all. It couldn’t be.
Aila buried her face in her burrito and pretended it was the hot sauce turning her cheeks red. Beside her, Tanya conceded a nod. Dragon boy had a steep climb to earn best friend approval, but compliments and food offerings were strong marks in his favor.
As they ate, the clock kept ticking.
Then it was time.
“Get these wrappers out of sight,” Aila said. “Everything has to be perfect.”
“Aye aye, ma’am,” Tanya replied.
Connor saw her off with a grin. Remember how to breathe, Aila. And for the love of the endless skies and seas, stop shaking. She stepped out into fog.
The paths were empty. Quiet. Normally, her favorite time at the zoo, that blissful calm before the gates opened. Aila wound through mock jungles and replica lagoons, off to face her own beast.
Ahead of her, a figure emerged from the gloom.
A drift of mango teased Aila’s nose.
Luciana halted in the path, condensation kissing her hair like strings of diamonds, dark lashes drawn into a squint. Aila stared her down, the world silent around them.
“Now or never,” Luciana said, then kept walking.
“Now or never,” Aila whispered once she’d gone. She headed for the zoo gates.
“I always love this time of year,” Director Hawthorn said, and for the life of her, Aila couldn’t fathom how he sounded so calm. Maybe it was an old person thing.
They stood in the fog-soaked entry plaza, drum music playing from speakers above the turnstiles. The first patrons trickled in, noses buried in crinkled maps or phone apps, parents shouting at children not to run for the peacock griffin statue, a din of haggling over stroller rentals and memberships at the guest relations counter. The director split his time between greeting guests and attempting small talk with Aila as she stared at the bricks beneath her boots, trying not to hurl her breakfast burrito.
“The change of the seasons,” he said. “Invigorating.”
“Sure is.”
“Not as stark here in Movas as some other parts of the world, such mild winters, but you come to appreciate the subtlety.”
“Right. Subtlety.”
“Crocus crocodiles love the fog. Floating in their ponds without a care in the world.”
“Sounds wonderful.” Maybe Aila would make a better crocodile than a human. Of course they could keep calm, no inspectors to impress.
“Ah! Here’s Director Garumano now!”
Aila’s head snapped up so fast, she felt a couple of vertebrae crack.
For two months, she’d snooped and begged, trying to discover who the inspector would be so she could add their information to her flash cards. Upon being told for the dozenth time that such information was “a surprise” or something equally atrocious, Aila gave up and researched all of them, every inspector and coordinator in the IMWS phoenix program. But Garumano? The Giuseppe Garumano, director of the core breeding program in Silimalo? Co-author on every significant study of phoenix habitat in the past decade?
A distressed squeak escaped Aila’s throat.
The stocky man maneuvering himself through the entry gate wore a snug navy suit, a clipboard clutched to his chest to protect it from the mist. He was around the director’s age, wrinkles creasing bronzed skin, bald, with a bushy gray mustache curled on the sides. On his lapel, a phoenix pin glinted in red and gold.
“Welcome back to the San Tamculo Zoo, Director Garumano.” Hawthorn met him with a firm handshake, the kind Aila’s dad was always harping on her to practice. “We’re delighted to have you. I hope your flight went smoothly?”
“My pleasure as always, Clement.” Garumano’s mustache wriggled like a furry animal as he spoke. Aila couldn’t look away. “Always a long flight to your side of the world.” He chuckled. “I am eager to stretch my legs.”
Hawthorn chuckled back. “I’m sure we can help with that. This is our head phoenix keeper, Aila Macbhairan.”
Garumano extended his hand. Aila snapped her eyes off the whiskery beast on his face long enough to return the gesture. Her shake felt like a clammy fish.
“Good to meet you, Aila,” he said in a thick Silimalo accent. “Whenever you are ready, we may begin.”
Aila shot a panicked look to Director Hawthorn. So soon? Surely, they could waste more time with pleasantries? Breakfast? A comprehensive zoo tour?
“I’m sure Aila is eager to show you the results of her hard work,” Hawthorn said with a magnanimous smile. “Once your inspection is complete, please find me in my office. I have lunch blocked off before our meeting with Director Rivera.”
He headed for the administration building, leaving Aila and Garumano alone. Another distressed sound fluttered in her throat, higher pitched than before.
Beside her, the inspector clicked his pen and scribbled a note.
When they reached the phoenix complex, Tanya and Connor had made themselves scarce. Any evidence of their morning stress meal had vanished. Tanya even stowed Aila’s patch-plastered backpack out of sight. Bless her.
Aila stood near her desk, trying to remember how to hold her arms at her sides, silent to the point of physical pain. Director Garumano stood in the center of the room. Not a word. Not a sound except the scratch scratch scratch click of his pen scribbling notes on his clipboard. He flipped to the next page. Continued scribbling.
The fuck was he writing? He’d hardly looked up from his notes since arriving.
Aila scanned the room, searching for what could have inspired the essay. A rogue woodroach beneath the cabinets? Impossible. They’d sprayed a dozen times. Incorrect ratio of flame retardant in the paint? How would he even notice such a thing? She eyed the clock, watching the seconds tick by.
“These incubators. Model 5s?”
Aila jumped at the break in the silence. The inspector didn’t appear to notice, too busy studying the incubators.
“Um… Yes. Model 5s… er… Inspector… Sir.”
He scribbled approximately fifty new words on his clipboard. Aila craned her neck to see, but his handwriting was dragon scratch.
“Very well, then.” Garumano flipped to a new sheet of paper. “Let’s have a look at your bird.”
Aila had kept Rubra off exhibit that morning. She slipped shaking fingers into her flame-resistant glove (rush ordered to arrive just in time). With every move, the pen continued to scribble. Garumano trailed her to the aviary, where Rubra eyed him with cocked head and flattened feathers. Aila typed a code into the lock to open the gate. More scribbling.
“Morning, Rubra.” Aila whistled. Rubra hopped onto her glove. What a good bird. A beautiful, sweet bird.
That scribbling pen was going to be in Aila’s nightmares.
She held Rubra on her fist as Garumano eyed the bird from every angle, compared a color scale against her neck feathers, pulled a tape measure from his pocket to hold against her flaming tail. Aila was back in presentation class all over again. Her legs wobbled.
“What is her typical diet?” Garumano asked.
“Um…” Aila cleared her throat. The inspector lifted a wispy eyebrow. Rubra cocked her head. Not her, too. “One cup of phoenix nutritional pellets per day. Supplemented with fresh vegetables and fruits.”
“Such as?”
“Kale. Seasonal squash. Grapes. Mango.”
“Mango?”
“I… Yes?”
“Not native to the Silimalo region.”
“Well, no.” Mangos came from… Renkaila? Aila wasn’t an expert on produce origins. “But she likes the taste. And they’re high in carotenoids, which is good for feather health, so…”
More scribbling. Aila could have screamed, if her legs didn’t give out first. What was she doing? Two months preparing, and she hadn’t envisioned anything like this. On her glove, Rubra trilled in concern.
Aila took a deep breath. She focused on the scratch of the glove fabric against her arm, the warmth off Rubra’s tail. Do it for her. Do it for her. Do it for —
“Standard daily schedule?” Garumano asked.
“Minimum eight hours outdoor aviary time.”
“Natural climate, or artificial?”
“Both.”
He paused, waiting.
“Natural climate summer through fall. Supplemental heaters in winter and spring to account for slightly cooler coastal temperatures than Silimalo, with regular venting of the aviary panels through the mechanical system.”
He nodded. Scribbled. A good thing, or bad? The man’s face was granite .
“You may return the bird.”
Thank the endless skies and seas. Rubra weighed under five pounds, yet Aila’s arm felt ready to collapse beneath the strain. She returned Rubra to the aviary. Slipped off the glove. Underneath, her palm was slick with sweat.
Garumano flipped to a new page. “Assuming you were approved for transfer of the male phoenix, please walk me through your introduction protocol.”
Aila closed her eyes. Visualized her flashcards.
“Miss Macbhairan?” he pressed.
“We’d begin with scent introduction, the protocol developed by the Silimalo National Zoo. We’ve outfitted the back aviaries to allow vision exclusion. The birds can be placed side by side to get used to one another’s presence without physical contact, in case of territoriality.”
Garumano scribbled as fast as she spoke. Aila hoped she got the details right. He’d written the research paper, after all.
“From there,” she continued, fighting the tightness in her throat, “we introduce the male in a carrier within the exhibit. Once the female appears receptive, we can allow short periods of monitored interaction.”
“And how will you address any territoriality by the female?”
“Rubra has an excellent temperament. I’m sure we won’t—”
“Female phoenixes are far more territorial than males,” Garumano chided. “And yours has had a territory to herself all her life. How will you intervene if she fails to accept introduction of the male?”
Aila’s tongue froze. She hadn’t thought of that. How had she not thought of that?
“W-well,” she stuttered. “In that case. I suppose we’d have to—”
The radio at her belt crackled. From the speaker, a honeyed voice struck her heart like an arrow.
“Griffin show, calling aviaries.”
Aila stared at the radio in disbelief. In horror. That heartless, undermining witch.
“As I was saying,” Aila pressed on, “we’d have to separate the male and female and start the reintroduction process over again—”
“Aila,” Luciana called over the radio. “Pick up.”
She and Garumano stared at the radio, his look confused, hers akin to a plucked phoenix being throttled by a narcissistic woman who didn’t understand the importance of personal boundaries.
“If you’ll excuse me for just a moment,” Aila said in her sweetest, quivering voice. She unclipped her radio and replied in terse words. “ Luciana . I’m a little busy right now.”
“I’m aware,” Luciana returned. “You need to come to the World of Birds aviary. Now.”
“She most certainly does not!” Connor clicked in from his radio.
Aila’s mouth opened. Closed. At the sight of Garumano’s twitchy mustache, she gave a nervous chuckle and held up a finger.
“Connor,” she said into the radio. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Focus on your inspection. Tanya has things under control.”
“I most certainly do not!” came Tanya’s muffled reply. In the background, other voices were shouting, followed by a whooping bird call.
Aila’s heart fell clear out of her chest. Archie.
It took her all of three seconds to weigh the inspector’s annoyed expression against the panic in Tanya’s voice, the agitated note in Archie’s call. Before her eyes, she watched two months of work crumbling to pieces. Rubra being whisked away.
But something was wrong with one of her birds.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I am so sorry. I’ll be right back.”
Aila was out the door before he could argue.