Sarah emerged onto the back lawn. There was the cherry tree she had gazed at from the window of the attic room, and hanging from one of its lower branches the crow’s cage, its door propped open. When the echo of the front door closing had roused the crow to say horrifyingly, “Hi, Milo,” Bess’s rigid poise had cracked apart; she had said in a trembling voice, “Hunter, will you please— I can’t, I cannot stand . . .”
And now the crow was trying to make up its mind. It tipped its head in a dreadful mimicry, half arched its black wings, stooped to peer incredulously at the open door. Inside were food and water and security. Outside . . .
Footsteps came quietly across the cold gray grass. Sarah turned her head and said to Harry in a whisper, “Look,” and they stood without speaking while the crow hopped off its perch, sidled to the door, and rolled a bright wary eye at these people who obviously didn’t know what he was about to do. Sarah was prepared to clap her hands to her ears, but the crow only ruffled itself briefly and took off in a beating of wings, soaring over the far fields, disappearing in the woods.
“That’s a smart crow,” said Harry, his voice not quite his own. He stood scrupulously apart from her, because it was one thing to know each other instantly over a barrier, and a very different thing when the barrier was gone. His face was sober and thoughtful, thinner and older than when Sarah had first seen it, and infinitely dearer. “The car is ready. . . . Coming?”
Sarah had an advantage over the crow; she knew perfectly well, she had always known, what lay outside. “Coming,” she said.
