Amanderella and the Mystery of the Crystal Aviary. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 .

 

The Nocturnal Gloom.

 

The moment Amanderella stepped beneath the archway, the Marsh’s damp warmth vanished. The air grew cool and still, as though the entire Aviary were holding its breath. The light dimmed to a soft bluish haze. Shadows stretched long and thin across the floor, shifting gently as if they had somewhere to be.

The lanterns glowed faintly overhead. Amanderella wondered who paid for all this.

Dr Gloomridge answered without being asked. “Lady Featherwick,” he whispered. “Her endowment built the Aviary. We merely maintain it.”

He melted back into the shadows. “Do not wake them.”

Amanderella moved forward. The ground beneath her boots changed again, from warped planks to a soft, springy layer of moss. It muffled her footsteps so completely she felt as though she were walking on the inside of a whisper.

Owls blinked at her from the rafters, their eyes glowing like tiny lanterns. One hooted softly, a sound so polite it was almost an apology.

The feather trail continued ahead, faint now, as though the bird had flown rather than walked.

Amanderella paused. Something rustled in the darkness. A flutter. A scrape. A low, throaty honk. She turned slowly.

A shape detached itself from the shadows.

Large. Feathered. Tufted.

It was bigger than she expected, almost up to her shoulder, with glossy plumage, a magnificent crest, and a beak that looked capable of removing buttons, earrings, and possibly small sections of wall. Its eyes gleamed with the cunning of a creature who had never once regretted a bad decision.

In its beak, clamped proudly like a trophy, was a small, ornate snuffbox.

Amanderella drew a slow breath. “There you are.”

The snuffbox thief tilted its head, regarding her with the calm confidence of a bird who believed everything in the world belonged to it unless proven otherwise.

It gave a soft, warning squelch.

Amanderella inclined her head. “I believe that item belongs to someone else.”

The bird took a step back. Its crest fluffed. Its eyes narrowed. It gave a louder SQUELCH honk, which echoed through the Gloom and caused three owls to shuffle nervously along their branch.

Amanderella reached slowly into her coat. The bird’s eyes tracked the movement, sharp and suspicious. She drew out one of her emergency biscuits and held it on her open palm.

The Squelch Beak hesitated for a single, calculating heartbeat, then lunged with surprising delicacy and swallowed the biscuit in one greedy gulp. It blinked, swayed, and let out a small, overstuffed grunt, as though instantly regretting its enthusiasm.

Amanderella kept her voice low. “I do not wish to alarm you. I only need the snuffbox.”

The bird opened its beak slightly, as though considering her request.

Then it snapped the snuffbox shut with a decisive clack and turned to flee.

Amanderella lunged forward, not to grab the bird, but to block its path.

The bird froze.

For a moment, they stared at one another.

Amanderella studied it carefully: the crest, the glossy plumage, the heavy curved beak, the proud, possessive way it clamped the snuffbox.

Then a memory surfaced, a framed poster she had noticed in the Tea Room, even as Mr Piffleton was attempting to panic with dignity. A colourful illustration titled:

“Birds of the Royal Aviary: A Visitor’s Guide.”

One creature had stood out:

GRAND TUFTED SQUELCH BEAK

(Prone to Acquiring Shiny Objects)

Amanderella drew a slow breath. “You,” she said softly, “match the description exactly.”

The Squelch Beak froze.

Then it fluffed its magnificent crest, as though pleased to have been correctly identified.

A faint rustle drifted from the darkness beyond the mossy path, the soft, clever shifting of many small bodies.

“The Corvid Domain is that way,” she murmured.

Another rustle answered her. Then a soft, collective click of beaks.

Amanderella drew a steady breath. “If you fly in there with that snuffbox, Mr Crowther will have you. And everything you’re carrying.”

The Squelch Beak froze, crest half raised, as though it understood perfectly well what “Mr Crowther” meant.

“So,” she said gently, “let’s keep you on this side of the path.”

The bird shifted its weight, torn between pride and panic. Its eyes darted to the shadows behind her, the escape route.

Amanderella reached into her coat, slow and deliberate.

The bird’s eyes snapped to the movement.

She produced a second emergency biscuit and held it between two fingers.

The Squelch Beak made a tiny, involuntary hrrnk, the sound of a creature whose greed had just overruled its caution. It edged closer, crest flattening in concentration.

A soft, uncertain squelch escaped its throat.

For the first time, the bird seemed to realise it had been caught, properly caught, and named.

Amanderella kept her voice low. “I am not here to harm you. But I must return what you have taken.”

The bird stared at the biscuit. Then at her. Then at the snuffbox.

It wobbled slightly, overstuffed from the first biscuit and tempted by the second.

A soft rustle drifted from the darkness behind them.

Not panic. Not claws.

The quiet, deliberate shifting of someone who had been listening for quite some time.

A voice spoke from the shadows. Calm. Precise. Mildly offended.

“Really,” it said, “one might think you were warning it about monsters.”

Amanderella turned.

Mr Crowther stepped into the bluish light, tall and neat, his coat tails hanging with immaculate precision. His eyes were sharp, bright, and entirely unamused.

“We are not monsters,” he said. “We are organised.”

The Squelch Beak gave a guilty squelch.

Mr Crowther folded his hands behind his back. “And we do not tolerate theft. Or mess. Or birds who wander into our territory carrying contraband.”

He fixed the Squelch Beak with a stare so piercing that the bird stepped backwards.

Amanderella inclined her head politely. “Mr Crowther, I presume.”

He bowed. “At your service. And at the service of order.”

Mr Crowther stepped further into the bluish light. “The Corvids are timid creatures,” he said. “Easily startled. Painfully tidy. They do not enjoy… disruption.”

The Squelch Beak gave a guilty squelch.

Amanderella glanced between them. “Has it been in your Domain before?”

Mr Crowther’s coat tails stiffened. “Once,” he said. “Briefly.”

Dr Gloomridge murmured from the shadows, “It reorganised his entire collection.”

“It disorganised it,” Mr Crowther corrected sharply. “By shininess. And then it attempted to collect a rook.”

The Squelch Beak puffed its chest, delighted with the memory.

“It is not welcome in the Corvid Domain,” Crowther said. “Not after that incident.”

He stepped forward and pushed open the tall, narrow door that led into the Corvid Domain. A faint, cool draught drifted out, carrying the soft rustle of feathers and the quiet, collective hush of many small, watchful creatures.

“Miss Amanderella,” he said, inclining his head, “if you would care to step inside.”

The Squelch Beak made a strangled squelch.

Then, before anyone could blink, it lunged for the open doorway.

A flurry of wings erupted inside the Domain.

A rook dropped a quill.

A magpie vanished behind a shelf.

Several jackdaws emitted tiny, horrified squeaks.

The Squelch Beak skidded to a halt in the centre of the room, suddenly surrounded by a semicircle of timid, wide‑eyed corvids who stared at it as though it were a thunderstorm wearing feathers.

Amanderella stepped in after it, calm and steady.

Behind her, Mr Crowther closed the door with a soft click.

“Do forgive the commotion,” he said. “My corvids are easily startled. And that creature”, he nodded at the Squelch Beak, “has a history, as I told you.”

The Squelch Beak wilted under the weight of a hundred bright, nervous eyes.

Amanderella took in the room, the neat shelves, the carefully arranged trinkets, the rows of perches where corvids sat as still as carved ebony. Every bird was watching her. Or rather, watching the Squelch Beak, as though waiting for it to explode into feathers and poor decisions.

Mr Crowther stepped past her, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “You see,” he said, “my corvids value order. Quiet. Predictability.”

The Squelch Beak gave a tiny, defensive hrrnk.

“And that creature,” Crowther continued, “values none of those things.”

A rook dropped a pebble in agreement.

Amanderella crouched slightly, bringing herself level with the Squelch Beak’s wary gaze. “I know you’re frightened,” she said softly. “But I only want the snuffbox.”

The bird clamped its beak tighter around it, nervous and fidgeting.

Behind her, Crowther inhaled sharply, the kind of sharp, appreciative breath a collector makes when he spots something interesting.

Amanderella felt the shift immediately.

Crowther had noticed the snuffbox.

And the Squelch Beak had noticed that Crowther had noticed.

Its crest twitched. Its wings trembled. It was about to bolt again, deeper into the Domain.

The Squelch Beak shifted its grip on the snuffbox, ready to flee.

Amanderella acted before panic could take hold.

The lid wobbled.

A sliver of mirror inside caught the bluish light and sent a quick, darting flicker across the nearest shelf.

Every corvid flinched.

Two tiny tablets tumbled out and skittered across the floor in opposite directions.

The Squelch Beak’s head snapped from one to the other, eyes wide, following the rolling movement with hungry precision.

Mr Crowther inhaled sharply. “What,” he said, stepping forward with sudden intensity, “are those?”

He crouched with surprising speed, peering at the tablets as they rolled to a stop. “Uncatalogued items. In my Domain.”

A rook leaned over his perch to look.

A jackdaw squeaked.

Amanderella watched the Squelch Beak’s gaze flick from the tablets to a trembling feather, then to a swaying tassel on a perch.

Movement. Always movement.