Page 3 of Geoffrey the Very Strange
"Don't let him get under your fur, hoglet. No person is trash," Mrs. Pickle said in her wheezy, soft voice. "Cormac was born bitter and mean."
Aspic had long given up protestinghoglet. He'd insisted to Mrs. Pickle when he'd first moved in that he wasn't a child, but she'd just shrugged and said forty years was terribly young still for a demon.
Beinghalfdemon didn't seem to enter into her calculations. That was all right. The endearment had grown on him.
"Chickweed's getting into the carrots." Mrs. Pickle pointed with her gardening trowel, her elegant little paw-hands encased in yellow ducky gardening gloves that day, and Aspic didn't need further instructions.
He moved down to the carrots and began to weed. Helping Mrs. Pickle struck him as the right thing to do—slug sharing aside—but he also found having his fingers in the warm earth, the rhythm of finding the root and pulling one of those pleasant, repetitive tasks that calmed him. Knitting was another, but he didn't have enough money for yarn yet. Soon.
Mrs. Pickle had just gathered up her tools and the herbs she'd cut in her basket when an odd rustling came from near the garden shed on the side with the water pump. At first, Aspic dismissed it as a swift or a swallow going after bugs on the shed's sun-warmed slats. But when the rustling, theflutteringgained a metallic clang, Mrs. Pickle scampered toward the sound with Aspic hurrying after.
The clanging came from the copper watering can beside the shed, the whole can rocking as something bumped frantically against the insides. Mrs. Pickle leaned over the opening and tutted.
"Poor wee thing."
Slowly, she tipped the can over, and after some more thumping, a bright ball of damp feathers tumbled out. Aspic jumped back at the violent fluttering and tiny, furioustsheercries from the ball. The whirlwind of feathers soon settled to reveal a bird no bigger than Aspic's palm, bright feathers of red, blue and green puffed up in indignation.
"Is it a baby hawk of some kind?" Aspic took a cautious step closer. The ball of feathers struck out at his bare foot. "Ow!"
Mrs. Pickle's spines drew down over her forehead. "No. Fully grown. A miniature jewel kestrel." She huffed and threw her apron over the tiny raptor. It calmed underneath the pink-checked gingham. "Designer pet. Fancy city ladies have them sometimes."
Showpieces. Little mascots to carry in special embroidered bags. Aspic had seen tiny dogs and cats, absurdly tiny horses, and even a miniature dragon, which had to have been incredibly illegal. But never tiny raptors.
"You think someone lost it? I haven't seen any fancy ladies in town."
"Visitors come sometimes. But no. There haven't been any." Mrs. Pickle hunkered down by the misplaced pet. "Poor wee thing. Got caught up in a shipment, no doubt. Grain. Cloth. Can't live out on its own."
"I guess not. So bright and tiny." Even its wings didn't seem a good shape for swift flight. The first owl or hawk that spotted it would probably eat the mini-kestrel in two bites. "Should we put up notices or some such? To find the owner?"
The prickles had drawn down far enough to obscure Mrs. Pickle's eyes, a sure sign of displeasure. "Shame. To give the little one back to someone who only values life as ornament."
The little miscreant peeped under the apron, interrogative and demanding. So tiny and self-assured. Aspic sucked in a breath, knowing he had no right to ask anything. "Would it be all right if I took it? To take care of? So you don't have to take care of all the foundlings?"
Slowly, the prickles receded until her black eyes showed again. "You may, hoglet. Some company for you. Don't let the kestrel fly about your room alone. Good reasons chickens don't live inside." After wrapping the apron more securely, she handed over the kestrel bundle. "Come to the kitchen. Feed the little one crickets."
Without hesitation, Aspic tucked the kestrel close and trotted after her. He perched on the stool in the corner where Mrs. Pickle kept various preserves and staple items, including a bin of small, dried crickets she would grind up for flour. Carefully, Aspic unwrapped the kestrel just far enough so its head poked out of its gingham prison. The fierce little raptortsheeredand bit at his fingers for the first cricket but calmed after the second one, since the crickets kept coming.
By the time Mrs. Pickle was setting dinner on the table, the kestrel had decided Aspic was a tolerable person and left the apron calmly to perch on his shoulder and comb its beak through his hair.It was just hungry and scared. I get it, little hunter.
Aspic let the bird stay on his shoulder and joined his fellow lodgers at the table—Timms, the faun who had apprenticed to the town's stonemason, Ishi, the tengu assistant librarian, who kept his huge wings neatly folded when in the house, and Katya, the smallest dragonborn Aspic had ever met, who needed extra cushions for her chair. She was the shop assistant at Gerton's Chandlery. All good, solid working people whom Aspic liked but didn't know all that well yet.
"Cormac won't be joining us," Mrs. Pickle announced as she took her place at the head of the table.
No audible sighs of relief greeted her announcement, but Timms' ears came up a few degrees, and Ishi put down the book he'd been hiding behind. Soft murmurs accompanied the passing of plates that evening instead of Cormac's cackling and talking about his favorite subject—himself.
"Who've you got there, Aspic?" Katya pointed to the kestrel with her fork, earning a stern glare from Mrs. Pickle.
"It's a mini-jewel kestrel Mrs. Pickle saved from the watering can." Aspic reached up and stroked the bird's head with the tip of his finger. "She said I could take care of it."
"Take care of her," Ishi murmured as he arranged his beans in neat rows on his plate.
"Pardon?"
Ishi glanced up, though not quiteatanyone. "Your kestrel is a she. The female mini-jewels lack the yellow chest and wingtips the males have."
"Oh. Good to know. Thank you. I was starting to feel bad calling herit."
"She needs a name," Timms said, swinging his hooves under the table. "I think you should call her Peppermint."
