Slowly he turned toward the speaker.
“A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood.”
A gray bird regarded him from its perch upon a wooden stand, head cocked. A fine bracelet was cuffed around its ankle, connected to the dowel by a long chain knitted from tiny links. “These six things doth the Lord hate,” it said, and slowly it closed the lid over its shiny black eye in a wink.
“Ha, ha,” said the proprietor, coming over to the stand. He stuck out two fingers and the bird obediently stepped onto them. “Merlin says such witty things, don’t you boy?” He held the bird toward Lyman for closer perusal. “A grey parrot from the jungles of Africa, sir. One of the few of God’s creations capable of human speech.”
“Better than most,” said Merlin.
“Remarkable,” said Lyman, still shaken. “I thought only we humans possessed the faculty to form our thoughts into words.”
“Strictly speaking, that’s true, sir. Birds like Merlin can only mimic words and phrases they’ve heard before. They don’t voice original ideas. His original owner, for example, was fond of the Book of Proverbs, and therefore so is Merlin. Still, I have always been impressed by how well he knows when to repeat certain words. He is an uncanny judge of character and timing. Aren’t you, Merlin?”
“Better than most.”
Minerva had come up behind Lyman and stood on tiptoe in open-mouthed wonder at the bird. Lyman’s blood beat harder, very aware of her hands wrapped around his waist and her breasts pressed against his back. “My goodness,” she said, “your pet Merlin is a better conversationalist than most Methodists.”
“Ha, ha. No doubt, miss. Though I’m afraid were you to have tea with Merlin, the discourse would grow cold sooner than your cup. His vocabulary is very limited.”
“How many words does he know?” asked Lyman.
“Oh —” The proprietor thought. “I would say no more than a hundred words. Again, they are only words he has heard spoken before.” The proprietor dropped his voice. “I always insist that no blasphemies be declared near him. I have heard other parrots say the most shocking things.”
“Doth the Lord hate,” said Merlin.
“Such beautiful tail feathers. Bright red,” said Minerva. “And just look at his wicked talons.” She stroked his foot with a forefinger. Though the curve of his beak remained unchanged, Merlin seemed to smile. “The scales of his legs are almost reptilian.”
“Indeed, miss. I have often thought likewise. Frequently has it made me wonder about the true nature of the relationship between the lowest serpents in their holes and the birds in the branches overhead. The Maker’s design is truly mysterious.”
Merlin cocked his head at Lyman. “A lying tongue,” he said, “better than most.”
•••
There is never a lack of chores to perform on a farm, and more than one plowman will opinionate that tasks multiply rather than lessen once the crops have been collected and the calendar descends into its penultimate month. With the harvest complete, the hogs sold, and the corn shucked, Bonaventure turned its focus toward winter.
Repairs number among such tasks, and a particular antemeridian found Minerva and her father along a back acre mending a fence broken by time and weather. These were the chores Minerva liked best, the ones that took her outside the Consulate and, more specifically, outside its kitchen. Shelling peas and kneading dough were necessities she understood well, but they were jobs best left to rainy days. When the sun shone and one’s spine and arms were strong, what finer way could there be than to spend the hours out-of-doors, notching posts, and fitting rails? Not to mention more satisfying. Peas and bread rarely last until the morrow but a solid fence will sustain years.
As they worked, Minerva scanned the tree line and was reminded of John Tyler the hog, who she imagined somewhere beyond—either wild in the woods, or more likely, butchered on the plate by some thief. This thread of thought led her to other disappearances as well.
“I cannot help but take Mr. Sutton’s departure personally,” she said as they dug to extricate a broken post from its hole. “He isn’t the first to leave without an auf wiedersehen.”
Her father stepped upon his shovel, driving it deeper into the soil at the base of the post. “I think his note explains all. He was driven by humiliation and leaving so quickly saved him embarrassment.”
“Still, the hurt remains.”
“For you, perhaps, and the rest. I believe too often it’s ourselves we wish to save from hurt, and in so doing, we cause incidental hurt to others.”
“Do you remember John Bradway?”
“I do.” Some emotion clouded her father’s face.
“He likewise left without a farewell.”
“The circumstances of his departure were much different.”
Minerva ceased at the digging. “Why? Did you see him leave?”
“Indeed. I was the last to see him go because I was the one to dismiss him.”
“Father,” she said, “you didn’t.”
His daughter regarded him with such intensity that Grosvenor was forced to stop and lean on his shovel. “I’m sorry, Minerva. I know you had tender feelings for each other. But I learned things about his past, things you don’t know, and I felt he did not have your best interests in mind.”
“What sorts of things?”
“Things I will not repeat. Things that don’t matter now. Regardless, when I confronted him and asked if they were true, he admitted they were. I therefore asked him to pack and depart the farm immediately.”
“And that is why he never said good-bye to me,” said Minerva. “Did anyone else see him go?”
Grosvenor shrugged. “I don’t recall. He left within the hour of our conversation.”
They worked for another few moments in silence.
“I know you remember Clemmie Russell,” said Minerva.
“Of course.” Grosvenor smiled. “She was a sweet girl.”
Minerva eyed him carefully. “And presumably still
