Sir Corvus Riddlemire's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Corvus had lost his surprise, and one cat's loose tongue was to blame. Whiskers still trotted the cottage roof, chirping his secrets to every sparrow that landed. Each word climbed toward the iron perch. He watched her from the chimney and knew the truth. He could never take the weathervane while she narrated his every move. First, he had to shut her mouth. The bell gave him his answer. It rang each time she stepped, tiny and sharp. Beasts heard it and gathered to listen. Kill the bell, and her gossip lost its bugle. But Corvus could not slip a collar off a wary cat. He needed hands. He needed someone who owed the cat nothing. He dropped into the farmer's yard. Gustonia McGee stood by his door, scowling at a lively brown dog that would not stop barking. The dachshund yipped at the cottage roof, tail wagging, delighted by the noisy cat above. Gustonia raised his rake. "Two of you now," he grumbled at Corvus. "A crow and a sausage with legs." "Your dog hates that cat," Corvus said. "So do I. She rings that bell and every mouse in Hollow Bend knows my plans." He tilted his head. "I trade in favors, old man. Loose the bell from her collar, and I'll keep the crows off your corn a month." Gustonia squinted. He had no love for the rooftop cat either. She stole from his milk pail. "A month," he said. "And you keep your beak off my seed." He whistled the dog close and bent to its ear. The plan was simple. The dog chased. The cat fled down the drainpipe, low and fast, straight past the old man. Gustonia's hand shot out. He was slow, but the cat was cornered. His thick fingers caught the collar and gave one hard twist. The little bell popped free and rolled into the mud. Whiskers hissed and shot back up the pipe. She reached the roof and opened her mouth to warn the sparrows. But her step made no sound now. The birds did not turn. Without the bell, no beast marked her coming or trusted her chatter. She yowled at empty air. Her audience had scattered. Corvus watched from the fence post. The cat glared down at him, silent and furious. She had lost her voice in the only way that mattered. "A crier with no bell," he said, "is only a cat talking to herself." But he had made an enemy, not a friend. Whiskers would not answer his riddles again. She knew the roof better than any creature alive, and now she wanted him gone. From the tall perch, the living hawk still watched. She had heard the last warning before the bell fell. Corvus had silenced the gossip too late. The hawk already knew he was coming, and now he had no one left who would tell him what she planned.