Amanderella and the Mystery of the Crystal Aviary. Chapter 6

Chapter 6.

 

The Walkway and Miss Flutewhistle.

 

The iron staircase clung to the wall like a nervous spider. It creaked when Amanderella set her foot on the first step, then creaked again as if reconsidering its life choices.

Mr Piffleton stayed at the bottom, wringing his hands. “I’ll… wait here,” he whispered. “In case the staircase collapses. Or the walkway. Or both.”

Amanderella nodded politely and began to climb.

The air grew warmer as she rose. A pipe hissed beside her ear. A cloud of steam drifted past, smelling faintly of boiled cabbage and something that might once have been tropical fruit.

At the top, the walkway stretched ahead: a narrow iron path suspended above the Tea Room. It swayed gently, as though trying to lull itself to sleep.

Amanderella stepped onto it.

The feathers she had seen from below were clearer now, small, bright, scattered in a trail that led along the walkway and into a patch of drifting steam.

She followed them.

The walkway groaned. A valve clanged somewhere overhead. A warm gust puffed up from a vent below, lifting the feathers in a tiny, swirling dance.

Amanderella paused.

Something was moving in the steam.

A shape.

A person‑shaped shape.

Then a sound cut through the haze.

A sharp, piercing toot.

Amanderella blinked. “Miss Flutewhistle, I presume.”

The steam parted like a curtain.

Miss Petrel Flutewhistle stood in the middle of the walkway, feet planted wide, flute raised like a weapon. Her hair was hauled back into a knot so punishingly tight it seemed to pull the corners of her eyes toward her ears. Her coat was covered in tiny embroidered songbirds, each one stitched with alarming precision.

She lifted the flute and unleashed a rapid, furious flurry of notes.

Toot toot toot TOOT tootle toot TOOT.

Amanderella waited politely.

Miss Flutewhistle narrowed her eyes and played another burst, sharper this time, as though accusing Amanderella of something unspeakable.

Amanderella inclined her head. “I see. You are asking why I am on your walkway.”

Miss Flutewhistle gave a triumphant toot.

“I am investigating a missing snuffbox,” Amanderella said. “It was taken from the Tea Room yesterday.”

Miss Flutewhistle inhaled sharply and played a long, descending trill that sounded like a gasp in musical form.

Amanderella followed the trail of feathers with her eyes. “I believe a large bird may have carried it this way. Did you see anything unusual?”

Miss Flutewhistle straightened, lifted her flute, and played a complicated series of notes that swooped, dipped, and ended in a sharp, accusing squeak.

Amanderella considered. “A shadow passed overhead.”

Miss Flutewhistle nodded vigorously and added a short, indignant pip.

“A large shadow,” Amanderella said.

Another pip.

“With a beak.”

A triumphant TOOT.

“And it was carrying something shiny.”

Miss Flutewhistle played a tiny, mournful trill.

Amanderella nodded. “Yes. That would be the snuffbox.”

Miss Flutewhistle pointed her flute down the walkway, then stamped her foot for emphasis. The walkway swayed in alarm.

Amanderella steadied herself. “You are telling me the bird flew that way.”

Miss Flutewhistle played a single, clear note of approval.

Amanderella looked ahead. The walkway led into a darker section of the Aviary, where the warm air gave way to a cooler draught and the shadows thickened.

“Thank you,” Amanderella said. “You have been most helpful.”

Miss Flutewhistle gave a proud, modest trill, then marched past with the brisk authority of someone who had just delivered a full conversation and expected it to be understood perfectly. Her flute gave one final toot as she vanished into the steam.

Amanderella looked ahead.

The feathers continued into the gloom.

The snuffbox thief had gone deeper.

And now, so would she.

The walkway narrowed as Amanderella followed the trail of bright feathers. The warm air thinned. A cooler draught curled around her ankles, carrying the faint smell of damp leaves and something that might once have been peppermint.

Ahead, a gate loomed out of the mist.

Tall, iron, decorated with swirling patterns of musical notes. A faded sign hung crookedly from one hinge:

SONGBIRD ACCESS ONLY

(No Whistling. No Running. No Predators.)

Amanderella tried the handle.

Locked.

She took out Grimblehawk’s key and tested it. Halfway into the lock, the key stopped dead with a heavy click. Amanderella withdrew it and stepped back. “I see.”

Behind her, a sharp toot split the air.

Miss Petrel Flutewhistle marched out of the steam, flute raised like a baton of judgement. She planted herself in front of the gate, blocking it with the authority of someone who had never once allowed a rule to be bent.

She played a brisk, scolding trill.

Amanderella inclined her head. “Yes, I understand. This is your gate.”

Miss Flutewhistle played a short, triumphant pip.

“I require your key to continue,” Amanderella said. “The bird I am following passed this way.”

Miss Flutewhistle’s eyes widened. She launched into a flurry of notes, fast, fluttering, full of outrage.

Amanderella listened. “You are saying the bird was rude.”

Miss Flutewhistle nodded so vigorously her bun wobbled.

“And loud.”

Another emphatic pip.

“And it flew through your gate without permission.”

Miss Flutewhistle played a long, descending trill that sounded like a sigh of deep musical despair.

Amanderella folded her hands. “I assure you, I will not be loud. Or rude. Or feathered. Or proceed without permission.”

Miss Flutewhistle eyed her suspiciously, then played a questioning tootle.

Amanderella considered. “You wish to know whether I can follow instructions.”

Miss Flutewhistle raised her flute in approval.

Amanderella nodded. “Very well. Please give your instructions.”

Miss Flutewhistle straightened, lifted her flute, and played a short, simple pattern of notes.

Amanderella listened.

Then she repeated the pattern, not with a flute, but by tapping the rhythm lightly on the iron railing with one gloved finger.

Miss Flutewhistle froze. Her eyes widened. She played the pattern again, slightly faster.

Amanderella tapped it back, perfectly steady.

Miss Flutewhistle gasped, a sound that emerged as a high, astonished peep, and clutched her flute to her chest as though witnessing a miracle.

Then, with great ceremony, she reached into her coat pocket and produced a key.

It was smaller than Grimblehawk’s, shaped like a musical note, decorated with tiny metal feathers.

She gave it to Amanderella as solemnly as if it were a royal gift.

Amanderella bowed. “Thank you. I shall use it with care.”

Miss Flutewhistle gave a proud, approving trill, then stepped aside.

Amanderella fitted the key into the lock.

It turned with a soft, musical click.

The gate swung open, releasing a cool breath of air that smelled of moss, shadows, and distant hooting.

Amanderella stepped through.

The feathers continued into the gloom.

The snuffbox thief had gone deeper still.

And now, thanks to Miss Flutewhistle, so could she.