Page 4 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
The raven doesn’t take my hand. Instead, it does something so deliberate and eerie that it takes my breath away. It bows again, but this time with a little flourish; wings lifted, breast puffed, head dropping so low it almost touches my outstretched fingers. Then, as if it’s satisfied some ancient etiquette, it straightens and hops onto my palm, talons digging into my skin with surprising gentleness.
I stare at it, my heart hammering.
“You’re not really a raven, are you?” I whisper. It’s not the first time I’ve thought the same. Even here, there are whispers of such magic beyond the castle gates, of strange creatures who aren’t quite animal or man. I’ve always told myself they’re just that: whispers. Rumors. But it’s harder to ignore the wayintuition whispers now, though, like it knows something I don’t—something ancient and powerful.
The bird blinks, slow and unhurried. Then it taps its beak against my thumb, not hard enough to hurt but insistent, like a parent scolding a child. I have no idea what it wants, so I hold still and wait.
Behind me, the rest of the flock descends to the ground, landing on the grass, the stone walk, and the low stone benches that circle the orchard. They move with purpose, never colliding, never hesitating. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were arranging themselves.
They are.
One of the smaller ravens breaks from the flock and begins collecting twigs from the ground, snapping off the little dead shoots from the rosebushes that line the path. It hops back and forth across the stones, laying the sticks in a careful, geometric pattern, with the lines all running parallel, then perpendicular, like the bars of a cage.
The others watch in silence, not even preening. It feels like a performance, and I’m the only one in the audience.
I glance back at the raven on my hand. It meets my gaze, then nods once—an unmistakable gesture. I follow its eyes to the pattern on the ground, then back up to the walls, and the windows, and the guards.
“You’re trying to tell me something,” I say, awe warring with suspicion. “You want me to escape. Or you want me to—what, join you?” My voice trails off, the idea so ridiculous I can barely finish following it through.
The raven clicks its beak once, sharp and emphatic.
I swallow, my throat dry. “If I could, I’d–” I stop, remembering the words I used before. They seem stupid now, childish. But the raven looks at me as if it’s waiting for me to finish the thought.
I draw a shaky breath. “I’d never come back,” I whisper. “I don’t belong here.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, the entire garden goes still.
The ravens all freeze, every last one of them. The air feels electrified, as if a storm is about to break right over the castle. Even the wind dies down, the leaves stilling in the branches.
The largest raven, the one on my palm, tilts its head at an angle so acute it’s almost obscene. The gesture feels both challenging and hungry, like it wants to crawl inside my skull and see what’s there. Its eyes glitter, impossibly black, and I wonder again—reallywonder—if there’s a person looking back at me through that animal’s face.
I want to lean closer, press my forehead to the raven’s beak, and whisper something private and wild to see what it does, but before I can move, a voice shatters the silence.
“Raisa! Inside, now.”
Father’s voice.
It cracks through the hush with the force of a whip. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. The raven leaps from my palm, its wings gusting the air so hard it stings my cheek. The rest of the flock erupts at once, launching skyward in a frenzy of black feathers.
I spin around, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Father stands at the far edge of the garden, just where the orchard gives way to the rose arbors. He’s in his evening suit, all crisp gray lines and silver buttons, his hair combed back from his face in a way that makes him look both regal and wolfish. His eyes, icy and unyielding, lock with mine.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to.
“Now, Raisa,” he says again, his voice softer but somehow even more dangerous. The word “now” carries all the weight of law.
I step forward, not trusting myself to speak, praying he didn’t see the ravens with me. I try to keep my expression neutral, but I feel the flush on my cheeks and the wildness in my eyes.
He watches me approach with a patience that borders on menace.
When I’m close enough to touch him, he leans down and brushes a stray leaf from my hair. His hand lingers a moment too long, cold and heavy against my scalp.
“I’ve told you about wandering the gardens after dark,” he says, his voice pitched so low only I hear it. “There are things out here that would love nothing more than to taste your blood.”
I force a smile. “I’m not afraid. I like listening to the wind.”
He arches an eyebrow. “No,” he agrees, “you never are afraid. That’s the problem.”
