Gerda fusses around the kitchen while we eat quietly, both of us still tired and slightly stunned.
When I push my bowl away, Gerda leans over the table, bracing herself with her knuckles and says, “You’ve eaten. Now, when do we fight?”
“We have been fighting,” I murmur.
“When do we rise?” Gerda asks.
“I’m sorry I slept in,” Kiki says, having missed our previous conversation. “And thank you for the warm breakfast.”
“Well?” Gerda asks, inching closer to me and ignoring Kiki.
I remember the old doctrines of the rebels well enough; those who wanted to overthrow the king became too scared, too old, or too broken to do much good. But not my aunt.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Gerda says to me and then turns to Kiki.
Icy rain stabs the windowpanes and the lantern on the table flickers.
Kiki straightens, as though having fully sloughed off sleep after the long journey.
“How many are there who’d join the cause this time?” I ask, trying to figure out how to explain my way around the situation without exposing myself to more ink.
“Enough,” Gerda says.
“What do you mean this time?” Kiki asks.
“Gerda is the original rebel. Tried to lead an uprising. Failed. And now we all bear the punishment.” I clench my fist and angle my lower arm toward Kiki, arrayed in ink.
“I can’t say that I’m sorry. There is no shame in having words on my skin that show my disloyalty to a terrible king.”
“Wait, do you mean the silver king cursed everyone with ink because of—”
“Because of me. Yes. And I’m not sorry.” Gerda smirks.
“We’re going to break the curse,” Kiki says.
I glance toward the window. “I was supposed to meet Scriv at Trotter’s Tavern at dawn.”
“Already failed have you?” Gerda challenges. She’s as hard on me now as she ever was.
Kiki gets to her feet, her face stony. “We haven’t failed. We won’t fail. We have no choice but to succeed as long as we don’t give up.”
Gerda scans Kiki as though sizing her up in the gloomy light of day. “Maybe you won’t, but Soren?”
“I thought you said you were waiting for him.”
“With something like dread,” Gerda snarls.
“Whatever beef you two have, leave it. We have work to do.” The corners of Kiki’s lips lower into a mean frown.
“I like her,” Gerda says.
“Me too,” I mutter as we all get to our feet.
“But why Scriv? Could you do any worse?” Gerda asks.
“They used to have a thing,” I say, pointing to Gerda and in a vague direction. “Gerda and Scriv that is.”
“We did not. He’s a liar, a thief, and a worthless piece of—”
It’s all true, but I just like to get her riled up. I suppress laughter.
“We need your help,” Kiki says.
“I know,” Gerda answers with her hands on her hips. “I’ll gather everyone I can. We’ll meet at dusk. That will give you more time. I want to know everything.”
“Wait, you were the one who told me that no one person should know everything.”
She snorts. “Then you were listening after all.”
I smirk.
With hats and hoods over our heads to protect ourselves from the driving sheets of icy rain piercing the streets and lanes of Raven’s Landing, we set out: Gerda to spread the word about the gathering and Kiki and me to meet with Scriv at Trotter’s Tavern.
Trotter gives me a bear hug.
“Nice to see you too.”
“Scriv delivered the wood.”
“Ordinarily, I’d assume that’s code, but in this case, I hope it’s good wood. Do you have a place where we can work?”
Trotter rubs his hands together. “Indeed I do.”
The tavern is like a rabbit warren with dim, narrow, winding hallways leading past closed doors and guttering candles. The air cools and the rain continues to pound when we cross through the central courtyard with projects in various stages of completion.
“The weather isn’t cooperating, but we can work in the shed. I’m hoping there’ll be enough room. I had Scriv leave the wood back there. You get started, and I’ll be back to help.” Trotter dashes through the rain, leaving us in the shed.
The stack of wood is a hodgepodge of mismatched pieces, no two the same length, some half rotten and others with large knots and still more grubby from termites. I sigh. “Well, I guess I wasn’t specific about quality.”
Kiki stares at the pile dumbfounded. “We’re building a raven. How do we start? I didn’t exactly learn woodworking in New York City.”
“Luckily, Dad was handy and Trotter, well, the tavern started right here in this shack, when he was my age. Although I don’t think there’s a single straight wall, it’s still standing after all of these years. We’re building a bird. How hard can it be?”
Famous last words. Turns out hard isn’t the sum of it. We barely have a wing constructed when Trotter appears, heaps his arms with wood, and then says, “They’re gathering. We best make swift work of this.”
“Who’s gathering?” Kiki asks, but he doesn’t hear her as he drops the wood at his feet and begins sawing.
By late afternoon, we’ve constructed the skeleton of the bird and Trotter circles the structure, now filling the shed.
“I have some old wheels we can attach, and we’ll need the straw delivered for the feathers.”
“A wood-colored, brown raven won’t do. Ravens are black.”
Trotter strokes his white beard. “We’ll need a lot of paint to coat it.”
“Scriv said he couldn’t help with that.”
“Scriv doesn’t help with much,” Trotter says wryly.
“We’ll find it,” I say, though we both know that years ago the king claimed all the paint, ink, and writing implements, punishing
