Amanderella and the Mystery of the Crystal Aviary. Chapter 4

Chapter 4.

 

The Crystal Aviary.

 

Amanderella wheeled the motorbike round the fountain, started the engine with a polite cough of smoke, and headed back down the long gravel drive. Pebbles scattered like startled beetles.

At the bottom of the hill, the village was already reacting.

Mr Pargetter, the cobbler, was sitting outside his shop mending a boot. At the first growl of the engine, he dropped his awl straight into the toe. “Saints preserve us,” he muttered. “The mechanical thunderbolt returns.”

Mrs Biddlecombe, who was hanging washing on the green, clutched a sheet to her chest as though shielding it from scandal. “Speed,” she declared to her laundry basket, “is all very well for pigeons, but not for young ladies.”

Old Captain Wren, retired from the navy but still wearing his hat, snapped to attention. “Ship ahoy!” he bellowed, saluting the motorbike as it passed. “Fine vessel. Unorthodox rigging.”

Miss Plover, the village librarian, stepped out of the doorway with a stack of books. The sight of Amanderella streaking past made her gasp so sharply she dropped the entire pile. “Good heavens,” she whispered, “she travels at the velocity of a misplaced bookmark.”

Meanwhile, Mr Tudge, the beekeeper, stood in the lane with a crate of honey jars. The motorbike’s breeze ruffled his veil. “Mind the bees!” he cried, though the bees seemed far more interested in watching Amanderella than in stinging anyone.

Little Elsie Pottle, clutching a wooden hoop, stared wide eyed. “Mama,” she said, “that looks like a pencil on wheels.”

Her mother, Mrs Pottle, pursed her lips. “That,” she said, “is what happens when a young lady is allowed too much independence.”

Amanderella, entirely unaware of the chaos in her wake, turned onto the main road with perfect composure, her scarf streaming behind her like a banner.

The Royal Zoological Quarter lay on the northern edge of the capital, a sprawling district of glasshouses, iron framed pavilions, and faded educational banners that fluttered in the wind like forgotten proclamations. Once, it had been the pride of the nation—a place where schoolchildren pressed their noses to glass, where naturalists lectured on the wonders of plumage, and where newspapers printed breathless accounts of “Scientific Progress in Our Time”.

Now it was… quieter.

The pathways were no longer swept. The ticket booths stood empty, their shutters down, their paint peeling in long, sorrowful curls. A few faded posters clung to the walls, advertising exhibitions that had closed years ago: The Marvels of Marsh Birds, The Parrot Parade, A Night with Nocturnal Wonders. A disused penguin pool sloped elegantly into cracked concrete, its sign reading TEMPORARILY CLOSED FOR RENOVATION. Someone had added, in pencil, “Since 1897.”

Amanderella guided her motorbike between the shuttered enclosures. Rust crept up the bars like ivy. Glasshouses were glass only in name—the panes had long since been liberated to replace broken ones in nearby houses. The air smelled faintly of damp straw, leaf mould, stagnant water, and the metallic tang of ivy choked rust.

And at the centre of it all, rising like a glass leviathan, stood the Crystal Aviary.

It loomed out of the mist, a colossal, glass ribbed beast stretching the length of three railway carriages and twice the height of Gottsnobbler Hall. Iron struts arched overhead in a dizzying lattice of rust and ambition.

Steam hissed from copper pipes that wound around the structure like over excited serpents, each one clanking, wheezing, or dripping in a manner that suggested urgent repairs had been postponed indefinitely.

Panels of thick, fogged glass caught the weak afternoon light, turning the whole building into a shimmering, slightly menacing greenhouse. Inside, shadows flitted and swooped, the restless silhouettes of five thousand birds, each one contributing to the muffled, discordant chorus that pulsed through the walls like the heartbeat of a very nervous monster.

Amanderella parked beside a sign that read:

VISITORS ARE REMINDED NOT TO PANIC. Someone had crossed out Not.

A warm gust of air escaped from a vent near her elbow, smelling faintly of hot metal and bleach. The entire building creaked, sighed, and rattled as though trying to decide whether to welcome her or collapse politely in her direction.

Amanderella adjusted her gloves.

She had seen worse, but not much.

She parked her motorcycle next to a fountain shaped like a walrus, which leaked a dismal, rusty trickle of water from one tusk as if the poor beast were suffering from a permanent toothache. Someone had added a pair of wire rimmed spectacles (lenses long gone) perched precariously on its snout, held in place by a dollop of hardened chewing gum.

Amanderella stepped through the great iron doors and into a wall of humid air that wrapped itself around her like a damp towel. The interior of the Crystal Aviary was a labyrinth of wrought iron walkways, rusted pulley elevators, and suspended platforms that swayed gently, as though reconsidering their commitment to staying attached.

Steam hissed from overhead pipes in unpredictable bursts, creating pockets of fog that drifted across the catwalks like confused ghosts. Somewhere above, a valve clanged open with a noise that suggested it had been trying to retire for years.

A large, peeling sign greeted her:

WELCOME TO THE CONTROLLED CLIMATIC ENVIRONMENTS (All climates currently experiencing technical difficulties.)

Beneath it, someone had added in chalk: Especially the cold ones.

Amanderella consulted the map bolted to the wall. It was a masterpiece of wishful thinking, showing neat zones arranged in tidy circles. The reality was less orderly. The map promised:

The Steaming Tropics

The Arid Scrub

The Temperate Walkway

The Nocturnal Gloom

The Waterfowl Marsh

The Corvid Enclosure

The Hatchling Nursery

Each was illustrated with cheerful sketches of birds looking delighted with their surroundings.

A smaller notice hung crookedly beneath it, the ink blurred by years of steam:

TEA ROOM WINDOW: STILL NOT FIXED SINCE THE SAMOVAR INCIDENT. PLEASE EXPECT OCCASIONAL AVIAN VISITORS.

The corridor in front of her, however, looked as though the climates had staged a coup.

A warm, wet gust rolled in from the left, smelling of ferns and something rather unpleasant. A dry, rasping wind blew from the right, carrying grit that pinged off the iron railings. Somewhere overhead, a cold draught spiralled down a stairwell with the mournful sigh of a ghost who had given up haunting and taken up complaining instead.

Amanderella tapped the map lightly. “Of course,” she murmured. “Why would anything be simple.”

A pipe above her head rattled in agreement, then released a small, apologetic puff of steam.

A side door burst open with the force of a startled boiler.

A man stumbled out in a cloud of soot, coughing, flapping his coat, and shedding ash in soft, despairing puffs. His badge, Acting Deputy Interim Assistant to the Keeper of Exotic Specimens, was hanging on by a single bent pin.

He froze when he saw her.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “Not another one.”

Amanderella blinked. “Another what.”

“Another intruder!” he cried, wringing his hands. “Another curious civilian wandering in where no civilian should wander. Do you have any idea how dangerous this place is? The climates alone have claimed three umbrellas this week.”

He peered at her suspiciously through soot fogged spectacles. “Are you here to complain? Inspect? Rescue someone? Deliver a parcel? People keep delivering parcels. The birds keep stealing them.”

He stared at her, wild eyed, as though waiting for her to explode, faint, or be carried off by something with talons.

Amanderella did none of those things.

She simply adjusted her gloves and cleared her throat politely.

“I’m here on behalf of a certain Royal personage,” she said, “who visited recently. With a… friend. A snuffbox went missing.”

Mr Piffleton froze.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Oh. You’re here about that.”

Amanderella inclined her head.

Somewhere deep in the Aviary, a metallic clang echoed, followed by a shriek that did not sound entirely avian.

Mr Piffleton whimpered.