Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

The room exploded with more laughter, and Prue could practically feel the crimson redness of poor Jonesy’s cheeks through the hamper walls. “I—I—” he stammered. “Well—you know—” Finally, he gave up. “Oh, STUFF IT! All of you!” More laughter. In the flash of a moment, the hamper lid was thrown open and the newspaper was heaved, powerfully, back onto the stack on Prue’s head. The lid slammed closed. “Back to work!” shouted Jonesy. “Enough of this horseplay.”

The river of laughter eddied down to a trickle as the sound of footsteps and voices spread back out across the room. More doors were slammed, more furniture was disturbed, and more sidelong comments regarding Jonesy were whispered, but Prue scarcely paid attention; she was too busy counting out a thousand thank-yous to the Fates, the Goddess, or whatever pantheon of deities had somehow granted her this reprieve.

Minutes passed. Prue’s left foot was starting to fall asleep, and she began trying to ignore the incessant needling pain by practicing her Pranayama. It was a technique for controlling breathing; she’d learned it in her beginning yoga class. No matter how much control she was gaining over her breathing, however, it didn’t change the fact that her foot felt like it was about to fall off her body. Finally, a voice came from beyond the hamper walls.

“No sign, sir,” said the officer. “We’ve searched the whole building.”

Prue exhaled a sigh of relief out her nose.

“Everywhere?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She must’ve escaped. Someone tipped her off,” said the commanding officer. “Well, no matter. She’ll turn up in the sweep.”

“Yes, sir,” responded the other officer. “And the sparrows? What should we do with them?”

“Arrest them,” was the answer.

Another voice sounded from the far end of the room. “There’s only one, sir.”

“What happened to the other?”

“Must’ve flown away, sir, in the excitement.”

There was a brief silence in the room. “Flown away? Just . . . flown away?”

“That’s my guess,” another officer quietly replied.

“Idiots! Brain-dead idiots!” shouted the commander. “Incompetent brain-dead . . .”

“Idiots, sir?” offered an officer.

“IDIOTS!” The commander regained himself and said in a level voice, “Head office is not going to stand for this. We can lose one collar, but they’ll have our jobs if they see we’ve lost two.” He thought for a moment before instructing, “Write up in the report that there was one, I repeat, one sparrow attending to the incarcerated on arrival.”

“And the girl?” quavered a subordinate officer.

Another pause. “Write that the Outsider girl is suspected to have been tipped off to SWORD’s arrival and was not to be found at the scene.”

“Yes, sir,” replied another officer.

“And y

ou, bird,” spoke the commander, “you’re coming with us. We’ll see how well you’re soaring after a few weeks in the hoosegow.”

There was a pause in the room. An officer chimed in, “The what, sir?”

“Hoosegow. Pokey. Slammer.” No response. “PRISON, idiots! Now let’s hop to it before the place is full. Lord knows the prison warden’s hands’ll be full tonight.” A thunder of boot steps followed this proclamation, and in moments the room was empty of sound. The front door slammed in the distance, and the growl of a car’s engine could be heard, starting up and grinding away down the street. After counting out thirty Mississippis, Prue slid the pile of newspapers from off her head and cautiously opened the lid to the hamper. Peeking over the lip and seeing no one, she stood up straight in a gust of energy, feeling the blood course from her neck down to her toes in an ecstatic rush. She shook her numb foot and carefully stepped out of the hamper.

She was alone in the room. The two high-backed chairs where, only minutes before, she and the owl had been sitting were carelessly toppled on their sides, and the fine tall bookcases that had stood against the wainscot of the walls had been thrown to the ground, their contents strewn about the room in a great scatter of warped spines and splayed pages. A few mottled feathers lay in the center of the room, and Prue’s heart broke at the sight. What had she done? It was all her fault; the police had come for her. And yet he had protected her. Guilt washed over her as she knelt down and picked up one of the feathers. “Oh, Owl,” she gushed. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She was startled by a flustered flap of wings sounding from the hearth. Looking over, she saw one of the sparrow attendants, his light gray belly marred with soot, emerge from the fireplace flue.

The bird clumsily flew over to where Prue was standing and landed on the edge of one of the upended bookcases. He shook a mist of ash from his left wing and looked haplessly at Prue. “He’s gone,” said the sparrow, his voice as ashen as his plumage. “The Crown Prince. Gone.”

Prue could only nod sympathetically. She was still gutted by the events. “How did you escape?” she asked. “I thought for sure you’d all be taken.”

“Likewise. I thought they had you—when they opened the hamper,” he said before motioning his head to the fireplace. “And in the fuss I managed to swoop into the chimney.” He dropped his beak and stared at the ground. “But what’s the use? Our Crown Prince, imprisoned!” He then turned his imploring eyes, all sad and tearful, to meet Prue’s: “Was it cowardly of me? Shouldn’t I have given my life, or at least my freedom, in defense of my Prince?”