The sun was shining and last night’s rain glimmered in shallow puddles when Tobias drove away from River Down. He carried Iris’s and Attie’s articles for Helena, as well as post from the town to be delivered in Oath.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he had said at the yard gate, his roadster shined and ready for the haul. “We’ll leave for Bitteryne first thing tomorrow.”
Iris nodded.
Attie only said, “The muddy roads won’t slow you down? It poured yesterday, in case you forgot.”
“I don’t forget anything,” he replied, opening the driver’s door. “And no, the roads won’t slow me down.”
The girls watched him depart, the familiar sound of the motor fading in the morning haze.
Iris glanced sidelong at Attie. “You’re worried he’ll get stranded?”
“No. I’m worried we’ll be stranded if he doesn’t make it back.” But Attie continued to stare down the street, her fingers gripping the iron scrollwork of the gate. “I’m going for a walk.”
Iris stood in the yard, until Attie was out of sight. Only then did she turn to the house, seeking Marisol. She found her in the backyard, kneeling in the garden with a pocket-sized book open on her lap.
“This is a lovely garden,” Iris said.
Marisol glanced up with a smile. But her eyes were bloodshot, as if she hadn’t slept the night before. Her dark hair was caught in a braided crown, and she was wearing a pair of work coveralls, stained with dirt.
“Yes, Lucy is an avid gardener. She inherited our aunt’s green thumb.” Marisol returned her attention to the book, her fingertips tracing the illustration of a bird on the page. “But I’m trying to identify this singer in the bushes. Do you hear him?”
Iris lowered herself down to her knees, listening. Over the clatter of a wagon on the neighboring street, and children calling to one another, she could hear a bird’s song. It was rich and melodic, full of trills and gurgles.
“He’s just there, in the thicket,” said Marisol.
Iris found him a moment later. A small bird with soft brown feathers was perched in the shrubbery at the back of the garden.
“I’ve never heard a bird sing like that.” Iris was spellbound, watching him warble again. “What is he?”
“A nightingale,” Marisol replied. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen or heard one, but when I was younger, I remember they would appear every spring in Avalon Bluff. I would often sleep with the windows open at night so I could hear their songs. I fell asleep to their tunes, dreamt of them sometimes.” She gently closed the book, as if lost in memory. But then she added, “Years ago, a study was done on nightingales, and quite a number were caught and put into captivity.”
“Why?” Iris asked.
“They wanted to trade the birds, as well as study their songs. Most of the nightingales died, but the ones who lived until autumn … they eventually killed themselves trying to escape, bashing their wings and their bodies against the cages that held them. They felt the need to migrate, and they couldn’t.”
Iris studied the nightingale in the bush. The bird had fallen silent, cocking his head to the side, as if he were also listening to Marisol’s doomed story. But then he gathered his wings and flew away; the garden felt quiet and wistful without his song.
“I’m sorry,” Marisol said, to Iris’s surprise. “About how I acted last night. We only have such a brief amount of time together and I feel like I ruined it.”
“Marisol,” Iris whispered, her throat narrow. She reached out to gently touch her arm.
“But then I woke up this morning and heard that nightingale sing in the garden, and it reminded me of my aunt’s story of the captive birds,” Marisol continued. “It reminded me that I cannot hold those I love in a cage, even if it feels like protecting them.”
She exhaled, as if a weight had fallen from her shoulders. And then she extended the book to Iris. It was small, the pages tinged caramel with age. A bird was embossed on the green cover.
“I’d like to give this to you, Iris.”
“I can’t take this,” Iris began to protest, but Marisol set it firmly in her hands.
“I want you to have it,” she insisted. “As you travel west once more and encounter new towns and stories, perhaps you will still have moments of rest when you can sit and watch the birds. When you do, think of me, and know that I will be praying for you and Attie and Tobias and Roman every morning and every evening.”