Page 2 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
I was so happy to see them, I cried, my tears wetting their wings.
They now come only when Father isn’t watching.
The smaller of the two birds hops onto the bench beside me, its wings tucked in so tight it looks like one of the charred loaves from the kitchen. It peers up at me, unblinking, and I wonder—not for the first time—if it’s possible for a bird to be curious. Or if it’s just hungry.
I stroke the back of my hand over its head. The feathers are warm, smoother than any velvet in the castle.
The ravens tolerate my touch, but just barely. A single wrong move and they’ll be off, their wings shattering the quiet, leaving me with nothing but my own company again.
I make a point not to move wrong.
I bend forward, my elbows on my knees, and lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You want to hear a secret?” I ask, knowing they won’t answer, but hoping anyway.
One of the ravens shuffles closer, claws flexing. Both birds are so still I can see the pulse in their throats, fluttering as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.
“I want to leave,” I breathe. “I want to go past the walls. I want to know what’s out there, even if it’s ugly or dangerous or–” My voice catches, so I try again. “Even if I’m not supposed to. Don’t you ever want to see something besides this garden?”
Both birds cock their heads in perfect, eerie symmetry.
I huff out a laugh. “What am I thinking? Of course you don’t. You can fly wherever you want. You don’t have a king for a father.”
The word “king” makes my tongue throb in a familiar, uncomfortable way. I practically feel the weight of the crown already bruising my temples.
I’d melt it down and sell off the remnants if I could. I don’t want to rule. I just want…freedom.
I press a rose petal between my palms, rolling it until it’s a tiny, damp pellet, and then flick it at the nearest raven. The bird catches the pellet on its beak and swallows it whole.
“I wish you could talk back,” I say, smiling down at the bird. “Or better yet—“ I pause, the thought blooming in my mind, potent and forbidden, ”—I wish you were human.”
It’s been a long time since I whispered that wish out loud.
The ravens seem to freeze for a moment, as if they understand me. The one on the bench takes a deliberate step toward me, its gaze sharp enough to draw blood.
I hold out my hand, palm up, and wait.
The bird hops onto my fingers, its claws pressing little half-moons into my skin, and stares up at me with eyes that glimmer in the purple dusk. For a heartbeat, I think it might actually say something. But the moment passes, and the bird simply clicks its beak three times in rapid succession, then hops back to the sundial, as if to say no thanks.
I don’t blame the animal.
I’d opt out of humanity, too, if I could.
I let out a sigh so deep it feels like it empties my lungs for good. “That’s what I thought,” I mutter. “Father keeps me locked away like I’m made of glass, and you just use me for snacks and entertainment.” I smooth my skirt again, even though it isn’t wrinkled. A princess can never be wrinkled. She can never run, speak too loudly, or laugh freely, either. “If I could, I’d trade places with you. Even if it meant eating worms for the rest of my life.”
As the last words leave my mouth, the ravens respond in a way that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The one on the sundial spreads its wings wide, almost touching the stone seat on either side of me. The other raises its beak and opens its mouth, but no sound escapes.
Instead, both birds hold the pose—frozen, wings and beak stretched to their limits—until I’m certain they’re waiting for something.
“What?” I ask, half amused, half unnerved. “Are you mocking me?”
The birds don’t move.
A third raven, larger than the first two, glides in from the direction of the orchard, its flight as silent as smoke. It lands on the arm of the bench, so close I see the scars around its eye, a patchwork of white against the glossy black.
It stares at me, unblinking, and for a second, I wonder if it’s blind. But I know it isn’t. This isn’t the first time the bird has visited me here. Like these two, he’s been coming for as long as I remember.
“Do you even understand me?” I ask, my voice reed thin in the growing dark.
The large raven fluffs its wings, shaking loose a soft black feather that lands in my lap. It cocks its head, then doessomething I’ve never seen before. It bows. The gesture is unmistakable—wings flared, head low, chest out. A perfect, courtly bow.
