The Aviary by Kathleen O'Dell

you could fly? Freely, I mean.”
    The bird hopped to the edge of the cage. “Tsip-tsip!”
    “I think it’s time we remove the bandage and see what you can do.”
    Clara unhinged the top of the cage and lifted Citrine onto her bed. She unwrapped her gauze and cupped her hands around the bird’s body.
    “Careful now,” she said. “Let’s see if you can move the wing first.”
    Citrine seemed cautious and shrugged unevenly. When she attempted to flutter, one wing moved more fluidly than the other.
    “At least there’s some movement,” said Clara. “That’s a good sign. Mustn’t try too hard, though.” When she reached for the bird to return her to the cage, however, Citrine quickly hopped out of reach.
    Clara understood. Without speaking, she watched as Citrine shook herself all over like a wet puppy, trying to get the injured wing to move. Her feathers fanned and ruffled as she hopped to the edge of the bed and back.
    She wants to be healed so badly
, thought Clara. But it seemed obvious that the bird was not ready to fly. After what must have been an exhausting effort, Citrine stopped and tucked her head beneath her wing. Clara imagined that this was Citrine’s equivalent of a good cry.
    “Citrine, sweet, would it help to tell you that I sympathize?”
    Still, the bird would not look up.
    “What if I brought you some biscuit?”
    “Tsip-tsip!” was her muffled reply.
    “Stay, then, and I’ll fetch it for you.” Clara lifted the bird back into the cage but did not attach the top. She was halfway down the hall when she heard something like the soft clapping of chalkboard erasers.
    “Tsip-tsip! Tsip-tsip!”
    Streaking past in a flurry of foam green was a most ecstatic honeycreeper.
    “Tsip-tsip!”
    Clara clapped her hands as Citrine zipped up and down the hall, then lighted on the lip of a hanging lamp.
    “Citrine! You excellent bird!”
    Citrine cocked a shining eye at Clara and—“Tsip-tsip!”—ahead she flew to the kitchen.
    Now Clara began to feel uneasy. How was she ever to lure Citrine back to her cage? And if her mother should find the bird flying free, what would she have to say?
    “Citrine? Citrine?” Clara tried to sound as sweet andreasonable as she could. Luckily, neither her mother nor Ruby was in the kitchen. “Where are you, please?”
    Clara investigated the ceiling, the curtain rods, anywhere a bird might perch. Was the door to the backyard firmly shut? She ran to rattle the knob but was distracted by a distinct, yet feeble, hammering sound.
    T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t! T-t-t-t-t-t!
    There, on the white biscuit tin, perched Citrine. She was knocking the lid with her beak like a woodpecker.
    Clara had to laugh. “What? That didn’t take you long to find.”
    The bird persisted until Clara lifted the lid and put half a biscuit out on the counter. There, Citrine proceeded to peck voraciously at the edge of it.
    “I’ll have one too,” Clara said. “We’ll celebrate together.”
    In the meantime, Clara’s mother entered the kitchen bearing a wicker basket full of laundry.
    “Uh-oh,” Clara said.
    “Uh-oh, indeed. What is the bird doing out of the cage?”
    “She can fly, Mama.”
    “That’s good news. But I don’t think it’s wise to have her flitting about. What if she were to find an open window?”
    “Truthfully? I think that if she found an open window, I could easily lure her back with the sweet shortbread. She’s mad for it. Look.”
    Her mother drew closer and watched as Citrine finished up the last crumbs. Clara held out her hand, and the bird hopped on.
    “We have an understanding,” said Clara. “Isn’t it remarkable?”
    Her mother chuckled. “You do have a way with her.”
    “I’ll put her back now, so you won’t be nervous.”
    “Thank you for that. But before you go, I’d like to ask you something.” She dug into the laundry basket and produced a small ivory silk stocking. “Where did you get this? I found it in your pocket.”
    Clara stammered and