Page 8 of Son of a Witch (The Wicked Years 2)

A crimson pfenix! Male, to judge by the plumage. The species was rumored to have been nearly hunted to extinction. The last known colonies of pfenix lived in the very south of Oz, where the watery acres of marsh began at last to dry out, and a strip of jungle thought to be seven miles wide still defeated travelers to this day. This fellow—blown off course, perhaps, or deranged by disease?

The pfenix landed on the center of the musical instrument that the third girl was playing. She looked up in some alarm; she hadn’t been attending anything but her music. The pfenix craned his head and fixed first one, then another golden eye on the Superior Maunt.

“If you’re looking for the talented one,” said the pfenix—well, the Pfenix, if he spoke—“this is the one for you. I’ve been watching for an hour, and she takes little notice of anything but her music.”

The women said nothing. Talking Birds were not uncommon, but they rarely bothered to speak to human beings. What a specimen this Pfenix was! His rack of tail feathers fanned out laterally, like a turkey’s, but a Pfenix just as easily could unfurl his close-coiled camouflage feathers, which spiked globally all about him, affording a sort of private chamber of airy, concealing, fernlike fronds. A mature male Pfenix aloft in full display could look like a shimmering globe in the air.

“Do you know the boy who has been brought here?” asked the Superior Maunt, beginning to govern her own awe.

“I don’t know any boys. I don’t consort with your kind at all. I am a Red Pfenix,” he added, as if they might not have taken it in.

The Superior Maunt disapproved of vainglory in all its forms. She turned to the musician. “What’s your name?”

The girl looked up but didn’t answer. Her face was not as ruddy as some Quadlings—less red, more umber. Its shape was pleasing, proportioned al

ong the lines of an oakhair nut: broad brow, high cheekbones, sweet swollen cheeks like a toddler’s, a small but firm chin. The Superior Maunt, who did not pay much attention to the looks of her novices, was surprised.

She was too beautiful to be a natural maunt, so she must be a moron.

“She doesn’t speak much,” said one of the novices.

“She’s been here three weeks,” added the other. “Her whispered prayers are in a dialect we can’t decipher. We think she cannot raise her voice.”

“The Unnamed God hears anyway. Where do you come from, child?”

“Sister Cook will know,” said the first novice.

“Up, girl, up,” said the Superior Maunt. “You have been chosen by a Red Pfenix. You don’t talk much, but you understand our tongue? Just the one I need.” She offered her hand to the musician, who rose, reluctantly. The Red Pfenix nestled in the grass and set to ridding himself of lice.

“Can I send for a bowl of scented water, something? Is there a way we can offer charity to you?” said the Superior Maunt. “We don’t have visits from the likes of you often. In fact, I think never.”

“I’m only passing through,” said the Red Pfenix. “There’s a Conference farther west. But the music drew me down.”

“You love music?”

“If I loved music I wouldn’t have stopped. She doesn’t play very well, does she? No, I don’t love music; it interferes with my homing devices. I was merely curious to see an instrument like this again. The sound of her playing reminded me of a time I had seen one long ago; I’d quite forgotten. But thank you for your charity. I require nothing but a little rest.”

The Red Pfenix looked at the musician, who stood shyly in her pale grey novice’s skirts. “She’s a puzzle, that one is,” said the Red Pfenix.

“Got him!” shouted Sister Cook, coming up from behind with a snare, and indeed she had. The Red Pfenix squawked and thrashed; all the eyes in his plumage contorted. The scream was horrible. “Pfenix steaks!” said Sister Cook. “I have just the recipe!”

“Let him go,” said Mother Yackle.

It was not her place to speak next, and the Superior Maunt was irritated. She knew Sister Cook was thinking: Pfenix steaks! With knobs of butter, and tarragon mustard, and small new potatoes roasted in the same pan…

“Let him go,” said the Superior Maunt, more sternly than Mother Yackle.

“Shoot,” said Sister Cook. “I spend fifteen minutes creeping up on this bird, and with my lumbago I actually manage to catch it, and you say ‘Let him go’?”

“Do not question my authority.”

“I merely question your sense,” said Sister Cook heavily. She turned the snare over, and the Red Pfenix exploded away from the orchard, cursing.

“He was on his way to a Conference,” said Mother Yackle.

“Enough,” said the Superior Maunt. “Enough of this. Sister Cook, who is this novice? Where did she come from?”

Sister Cook was grinding her teeth in annoyance at the missed opportunity. “Candle,” she muttered. “Left here by a gypsy cousin for safekeeping, said he’d be back in a year. Either she’d be mauntified by then or he’d reclaim her, but I said I’d take her on. She causes no trouble because she can’t gossip with the other girls, and she knows how to make a mean marrow gravy. I’ve had her working with Sister Sauce on the feast day roast.”

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