Amanderella and the Mystery of the Crystal Aviary. Chapter 5

Chapter 5.

 

Keepers Galore.

 

Amanderella nodded. “Yes, that is why I am here. Since I cannot ask the Royal personage or the friend, I need you to tell me exactly what happened and where, if you can manage it.”

Mr Piffleton dabbed at his forehead, leaving a streak of soot. “You want me to explain,” he said, though he clearly didn’t want to. “About… the visit.”

Amanderella waited.

“They arrived,” he began, “in an ordinary car. Just the two of them. No escort. No herald. No warning. I thought they were lost. People get lost here. The roadside signs are… not clear.”

He swallowed. “So, I showed them to what used to be the Tea Room. It hasn’t served tea since the samovar exploded, but it has chairs, and chairs are something.”

He wrung his hands.

“And then, well, the Royal personage told me to go away. In no uncertain terms. Very clear. Very firm. So, I did. Immediately. I hid behind the fern boiler until they left.”

He shuddered. “I didn’t see anything. I value my eyebrows too much. But I heard everything. The flapping, the shouting, the honking… and someone said ‘snuffbox’. I put the pieces together.”

“After they left, all the keepers descended on me at once. They shouted. They tooted. They dripped. They whispered. They accused. I didn’t understand half of it, but I gathered enough to know something shiny had been stolen.”

Amanderella nodded politely. “Did the Royal party make any attempt to find the stolen article?”

“Oh, they meant to, miss, they really did. But the companion was in such a state—flapping worse than the birds—that they insisted on leaving at once. The Royal personage looked torn, but when someone is shrieking about feathers and fainting spells, one does tend to follow them out.”

Mr Piffleton leaned closer, whispering, “And now you’ll have to deal with… the keepers.”

Amanderella raised an eyebrow. “The keepers?”

“All of them,” he breathed, as though naming a curse.

“Who exactly are these ‘keepers’?” she asked.

Mr Piffleton blinked, startled she didn’t already know. “You mean no one told you? No one warned you? They sent you in here blind?”

Amanderella waited, politely.

He swallowed. “Right. Yes. Of course. The keepers. Well. They’re the ones who run the place. Or used to. Before the climates went wrong. Before the feuds. Before the… incidents.”

He shuddered.

“They each control a section. They each have a key. And they are all a bit odd.”

Amanderella nodded. “I see. Then perhaps you’d better explain.”

Mr Piffleton inhaled sharply, as though preparing to dive into icy water.

“Oh dear,” he murmured. “Where to begin.”

“Begin at the beginning,” said Amanderella gently. “It is a very good place to start.”

Mr Piffleton swallowed.

“Well… Mr Wilfer Grimblehawk,” he began, already nervous. “He’s—well—he’s tall. Very tall. And rigid. Permanently rigid. Honestly, he looks as though someone carved him out of a single piece of mahogany.”

He flapped his hands helplessly.

“People often mistook him for a taxidermy exhibit. Truly. Visitors walked past him and said things like ‘Oh, how lifelike,’ and then he moved and they fainted. He doesn’t blink, you see. Not ever. I’m not convinced he remembers how.”

He leaned closer.

“If you meet him, don’t assume he’s furniture. And don’t assume he’s asleep. He’s never asleep. He just… stands.”

He shuddered. “Watching.”

He took a shaky breath. “After Mr Grimblehawk, there’s Miss Petrel Flutewhistle.”

He winced. “Keeper of the Songbirds. Communicates entirely through flute. No words. Just toots. Sharp ones. Loud ones. Sometimes she plays a whole sentence at you and expects you to understand. I never do. I just nod until she stops.”

He dabbed at his forehead, leaving another soot smear.

“And then there’s Mrs Honkle Puddlebream. Waterfowl. Always damp. Always. Even in the Arid Scrub. I don’t know how she does it. She leaves little puddles wherever she goes. Don’t step in them. They’re… warm.”

He shuddered again.

“Dr Sylvator Gloomridge. Keeper of the Nocturnals. Only whispers. Even when he’s furious. Especially when he’s furious. You’ll know he’s angry because the owls start backing away.”

He leaned closer.

“Ground‑Dwelling Birds: Troffer Dumbleside,” he muttered, flicking mud off the page where Troffer had signed his name. “Always knee‑deep in quails. Claims they panic if he leaves them for more than five minutes.”

“And Mr Erastic Crowther. Corvids. He steals anything shiny. Keys. Buttons. Spectacles. Once he took the entire lid off the biscuit tin. If you value an object, hide it. If you don’t value it, hide it anyway.”

He swallowed.

“And finally… Miss Tully Featherwick. Hatchlings. Lovely girl. Very kind. Very gentle. But if anyone mentions budgets, deadlines, or responsibility, she cries. Loudly. The chicks join in. It becomes a whole… chorus.”

He sagged, exhausted.

“They haven’t spoken to each other in decades. Not properly. They communicate through glares and door‑slamming.”

Mr Piffleton cleared his throat. “Each of the keepers has a key.”

He handed Amanderella a small brass token shaped like a feather. “This is your trainee pass. It opens the Keeper doors, the human routes.”

He lowered his voice. “The birds have their own routes. Narrow ones. Twisting ones. Some of them we cannot follow. The keys are for us, not for them.”

He straightened his waistcoat. “Do try not to mix the two up. It causes… complications.”

“Your trainee pass opens the Keeper routes,” he added. “Domain gates require the Keeper’s own key. And some areas—the high walkways, the deep roosts—have their own locks entirely.”

He looked at Amanderella with the expression of a man delivering terrible news.

“You’ll have to talk to them. All of them.”

Amanderella did not speak for a moment, which caused Mr Piffleton to stuff his fist into his mouth and begin chewing on it.

Taking pity, she asked, “Do you know if any one of those keepers saw the snuffbox disappear?”

Mr Piffleton removed his fist and stared at it as though surprised to find it attached.

“They might have done,” he said faintly. “They’re always about.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “One of them could be watching us now,” he whispered.

Amanderella looked down the corridor. “Perhaps,” she said, “we should begin where the Royal personage and friend were last seen.”

Mr Piffleton gave a tiny squeak. “The Tea Room,” he breathed. “Or… what used to be the Tea Room.”

He wrung his hands. “It hasn’t served tea in years. But it still has chairs. And crumbs. And a faint smell of burnt scones that never quite goes away.”

He peered into the dim passageway. “If anything happened to the snuffbox, it would have been there. They were alone. Completely alone. Well, except for the birds. And the shadows. And the… noises.”

Amanderella began walking.

Mr Piffleton hurried after her. “It’s this way. Mind the pipe. And the puddle. And whatever that is on the ceiling. Don’t look at it.”

They turned a corner.

A sign hung crookedly from a single nail:

TEA ROOM

(Closed Until Further Notice)

(And Possibly Forever)

Mr Piffleton swallowed. “Here we are.”

The Tea Room had once been cheerful. Amanderella could see the ghosts of its former self in the faded wallpaper, the crooked bunting, and the row of teapots arranged along a high shelf like elderly soldiers long retired from active duty.

Now it was a room in retreat.

The tables were dusty. The chairs mismatched. A large scorch mark spread across one wall like a shadow trying to escape. The air smelled faintly of burnt scones, old steam, and something that might once have been jam.

Amanderella stepped inside.

Mr Piffleton hovered in the doorway. “This is where they sat,” he whispered. “The Royal personage and the friend. Table Three. The one with the wobble.”

Amanderella approached the table. It wobbled. She steadied it and examined the surface.

Crumbs. A few feathers. A faint circular mark from a cup. And, most interestingly, a small scratch in the wood, as though something with a beak had dragged something shiny across it.

She leaned closer.

The scratch curved slightly. A drag mark. A pull. A direction.

“Something took the snuffbox from here,” she murmured. “And carried it… that way.”

Mr Piffleton squeaked. “Please don’t say that out loud. The birds might hear you.”

Amanderella straightened. “Mr Piffleton, the birds already know far more than we do.”

He whimpered.

A shadow fell across the room.

Not a fluttering shadow.

Not a swooping one.

A still one.

A very tall, very still one.

Amanderella turned.

Mr Wilfer Grimblehawk was standing in the doorway.

He was, as warned, tall enough to be mistaken for a wardrobe and rigid enough to be mistaken for a wardrobe that disapproved of your lifestyle choices. His coat was dark. His posture perfect. His expression carved from the same material as his cheekbones.

He did not blink.

He did not move.

He simply existed, like a statue that might topple onto you if you said the wrong thing.

Mr Piffleton made a noise like a deflating accordion.

Amanderella inclined her head. “Mr Grimblehawk, I presume.”

Nothing happened.

Then, very slowly, Mr Grimblehawk’s head tilted by one degree. It was the sort of movement that suggested he had considered two degrees but decided that would be frivolous.

Amanderella continued, calm and courteous. “I am investigating an incident that occurred here earlier today. I understand you are the Keeper of the Temperate Walkway.”

Another one‑degree tilt.

Mr Piffleton whispered, “That means yes.”

Amanderella gestured to the table. “A valuable snuffbox was taken from this spot. I believe a large bird may have been involved. I am hoping you might have seen something.”

Mr Grimblehawk did not speak.

Instead, he raised one long, mahogany‑stiff arm and pointed.

Not at the table.

Not at the door.

At the ceiling.

Amanderella followed the line of his finger.

Above the rafters was a narrow iron walkway. Rusted. Shadowed. Dusted with a trail of small, bright feathers.

Amanderella nodded. “Thank you.”

Mr Grimblehawk lowered his arm with the slow inevitability of a drawbridge.

Then, without warning, he stepped fully into the room.

Mr Piffleton squeaked and leapt behind a chair.

Mr Grimblehawk ignored him. He walked—silently, impossibly silently—to the far wall, reached into his coat, and produced a long iron key.

He held it out to Amanderella.

She accepted it with a small bow. “May I ask what this unlocks?”

Mr Grimblehawk blinked.

Once.

The effect was startling. It was like watching a glacier wink.

Then he spoke.

His voice was deep, smooth, and so quiet it seemed to come from the floorboards.

“Up.”

Amanderella looked at the ceiling walkway again.

“I see,” she said.

Mr Grimblehawk inclined his head by one degree, turned, and left the room with the solemnity of a man escorting his own shadow.

Mr Piffleton emerged from behind the chair, shaking. “You spoke to him,” he whispered. “You actually spoke to him. And he didn’t… stare you into dust.”

Amanderella tucked the key safely into her pocket. “He was perfectly polite.”

Mr Piffleton stared at her as though she had sprouted feathers.

Amanderella looked up at the walkway once more.

The feathers shifted slightly in the draught.

The bird had gone that way.

And now, thanks to Mr Grimblehawk, so could she.