Seat belt, please, the Duchess says beside him. It would be a shame to get this far and then crack your skull open.
Bird opens his mouth and the Duchess shuts it with a glance.
I’m not here to answer questions, she says. That’s your mother’s job, not mine.
After that she says nothing at all, as they weave along the river and down into a long tunnel and then back out again into twilight, the moon just beginning to emerge. Time moves in fits and starts, starting and stopping like the traffic around them, and sometimes Bird dozes and wakes to find they haven’t moved at all, and sometimes he is sure he hasn’t closed his eyes but they seem to have teleported a great distance, nothing outside familiar, and then around them the traffic congeals and clots once more, slowing them to a crawl, and finally—he doesn’t know how much time has passed—the sun has gone down and the streets around them are calm and nearly deserted, lined with brownstones, and the car pulls to the side of the road and stops at last.
Listen carefully, the Duchess says, with new urgency in her voice. As if this is the last time she’ll speak to him, as if the real test is about to begin. Follow these instructions precisely, she tells him. I can’t be responsible for what happens if you don’t.
To Bird, bleary-eyed, half-dizzy with excitement and fatigue, this does not seem strange. In fact, he expects no less: in stories, there are always inscrutable rules to obey. Ignore the golden sword; use the old and rusty one instead. No matter how thirsty you are, do not drink the wine. Do not speak a word, even if you are pinched and beaten, even if they cut off your head. After the car drives away, leaving him standing on the sidewalk, he does exactly what the Duchess has commanded. He walks two blocks over and three blocks up, crosses the street, and there it is, just as she’d said: a big brownstone with a red door, every window covered. It will look deserted, but appearances can be deceiving. As instructed, he ignores the wide front stoop and skirts around to the side of the house. No one must see you enter the gate. Twice a car passes while he’s hunting for the latch, the rough wood of the gate snagging at his fingertips, and then he has it, the metal cool and solid and smooth. He glances over his shoulder at the lighted windows in the houses all around him, and when he’s sure there’s no one watching, he turns the catch and the gate swings open.
At the back of the house is a door. You must be absolutely silent as you approach. With tentative feet, Bird picks his way through the tangle of weeds and grass. This must have been the back garden once, untouched for ages; here and there he stumbles across a sapling, scrappy and saucy, whipping its branches in his face. But in the moonlight he sees the faint glitter of a path, shiny grit embedded in the cement to point the way, and he follows it toward the dark hulk of the house. Enter these five numbers—eight, nine, six, zero, four—and it will open for you. He feels his way along the wall of the house, as if stroking a sleeping dragon with his fingers, looking for the soft spot: brick, brick, brick, and then there is the door, a keypad. Too dark to see, but he counts the buttons, presses the passcode. A faint beep. He turns the knob.
Inside: a narrow hallway leading into a darker gloom. You must shut the door behind you, even though it will be completely dark. You won’t be able to see her until you do.
Slowly he closes it, and the outside world narrows to a wedge, then a sliver, then disappears. The latch clicks, sealing him into darkness.
And then he hears footsteps, hurrying toward him. A small light clicks on, scattering golden sparks across his sight.
His mother, astonished. Holding out her arms. Throwing them around him. Her warmth. Her scent. The shock and wonder and delight on her face.
Bird, she cries. Oh Bird. You found me.
II
So here he is: Bird. Her Bird.
Taller than she’d expected; thinner. The last scrapings of baby fat nearly gone from his face. A lean, cool face, a skeptical face, a hard set to his mouth, a squaring of the jaw she can’t quite place. Not Ethan’s; certainly not hers.
Bird, she says. You’ve gotten so tall.
Well, he says, suddenly reserved. It’s been kind of a long time.
He doesn’t trust her, she can see that already: the way he lingers by the door, not meeting her eyes. Yet, she thinks. He doesn’t trust her yet. She flicks off the light.
We have to avoid attention, she says.
She can see him thinking, already: What is this place?
The hallway is narrow and behind her Bird’s footsteps slow as he picks his way between unfamiliar walls. A stutter-step, a pause. The soles of his sneakers scuffing the floor as he drags his feet.