The Aviary

by Emily Shore

  I take a drink of water to keep my voice from cracking before asking, “How old is she?”

  “I’m seven and a half!” the girl surprises me by exclaiming loudly.

  Luc wipes his mouth with a napkin, eyes on the child. “Inside voice, Finch.”

  “Will…will she…?” When I can’t finish my sentence, many of the other girls regard me with curiosity, others with disbelief.

  Luc’s hand quivers, and I almost wonder if he will strike me. Before he can answer, Nightingale does. “If you knew anything about this place, you’d never ask that. Exhibits are only constructed for Birds who are sixteen or older, Swan.” Her eyes are two sharp beaks jabbing into mine.

  Many museums break the rules. Just like clubs have done for decades.

  What will happen to Finch during the eight-and-a-half years she has left? More grooming, I’d suspect.

  Mockingbird, who is seated opposite me, rises to my defense. “Give her a break, Gale. Anyone can see ’that Swan is as fresh as they come. She doesn’t know any better.”

  Turning to Luc, she plumps up her lips like I saw her do the first day. “Owl, I know it’s customary for you to lead the tours, but can I give her one? Pleeeeeeease?” She expertly bats her eyelashes—a feat I’ve never managed to master.

  Luc hesitates, but Mockingbird continues. “I could show her the way of things around here, introduce her to some of the others.”

  At the last suggestion, all the girls crane their heads toward Luc in anticipation. I can’t help but wonder if Mockingbird is eager to know more about me… or if she wishes me harm.

  Luc dabs at his mouth once again, finally replying while lifting his water glass. “Yes, I’ll give my permission—”

  Delighted, Mockingbird squeals, and the other girls chime in, thereby exhibiting her popularity and influence.

  Luc raises a finger while spreading his dangerous brows lower in warning. Everyone quiets. “I give my permission, but Vulture shall escort you. And of course, you must ask Swan herself if she wishes to accompany you.”

  Mockingbird turns toward me, cupping her hands together beneath her chin in a begging fashion. In her simplistic gray dress with capped short sleeves, she would look vulnerable if not for her chipper blue eyes and round, rosy cheeks.

  If I say no, I can imagine my popularity will severely decrease.

  As I survey Mockingbird again, I discover I don’t want to say no. Especially if it means Sky will be close. So, I purse my lips together and nod.

  Numerous girls express their glee, including Mockingbird; she claps her hands together like the quick beat of tiny wings. Nightingale takes a sip of her water, then puckers her lips to eye her reflection in the glass.

  Finch dips her tiny hand into mine, smiles in gratification, and points to her plate. It is wiped clean.

  After dinner, an eager Mockingbird flutters out of the dining room with her hand anchored around mine.

  “Let’s go explore,” she singsongs.

  In no time, I’ve already lost track of where we are in this gigantic place. Our first stop is the library where, I learn, there are more than just physical books. Here, books will fly into your hands at the mention of their title, pages digitally enhanced to display the scenes inside. Sky follows in our wake as Mockingbird shows me the attached VirtuRoom. The virtual environment is fairly popular with the other girls, especially since they can tap into their FaceSpaces, check out the latest feeds, Temple and Hollywood gossip, and show off their last exhibit photos. Any other pictures are banned for museum girls. We are commodities first and foremost.

  The girl with the pink hair—Flamingo—enhances her holographic FaceSpace screen before sending a message to someone. She has multiple other correspondences, some she speaks to.

  “Prospective clients,” Mockingbird explains, gesturing to Flamingo. “Many Birds have to work during their free time to attract more clients. Still gotta fill our quotas if we want to keep living here. This place doesn’t come cheap. And none of us want to end up in the District.”

  Swallowing back the urge to vomit, I hurry to follow Mockingbird out of the library. She doesn’t spend much time there. None of the girls do. Books aren’t popular, not even the flying, animated ones, as they are rather antiquated, but apparently, Luc is an amateur historian.

  His mystery grows and grows.

  We have to step onto one of the many moving glass walkways in order to reach our next stop. Mockingbird informs me that the kitchens alone take up one whole wing of the house as we travel what feels like an obscene amount of time on the contraption.

  “Owl employs several full-time chefs and servers to cook for us,” Mockingbird says as we step into the food prep area. “He’s also got growers for the gardens and fields. A lot of our vegetables and fruits are grown on Aviary property. We’re lucky. Most museums do this synthetic 3D-printed tasteless crap that have a ton of supplements and vitamins. But Luc likes to keep things organic and healthy, says fresh is better for us. And also something about helping the economy by employing more people.”

  “Do you ever go into the city?” I ask as she closes one of the swinging doors after she finishes showing me around, leading me back down the moving walkway.

  Behind me, Sky is alert, attentive. He must be listening to everything we say, gaining as much information as he can.

  “All the time, with a security guard,” Mockingbird says. “Why? Need me to get something for you? Some Bliss maybe? Oh, never mind, you can only have those on town visits.” And I haven’t earned mine yet.

  “I don’t take Bliss or narcotics.” I change the subject. “Are you happy here?”

  Mockingbird flashes a quick grin, twists her lean body around, and presses her back against the walkway railing. “Sure. They got lassos here.”

  She didn’t really answer my question. Denial, maybe?

  I’d heard of lassos. Lasers that could target temporary contact lenses and project films or any imagery onto them. Sky and I have never had anything quite that high-tech.

  “Sprite-light shows are pretty fun, too. The theater is next to the library,” she says.

  “You mean voxel-shows?” I ask, wondering why she hadn’t shown me the room when we were over by it.

  Mockingbird cackles. “Hardly anyone calls them voxels anymore except for media outlets. It’s all sprite lights now. Some people still call them volus. Only old farts call them voxels or volumetric stuff.”

  I was never allowed a FaceSpace account. “I guess most of my terms are more formal.”

  Mockingbird shrugs. “I sort of hatched here. It’s my home.”

  “What do you mean by hatched?”

  “Owl found me when I was a baby. He was only ten at the time, but anyone could see he was born to take over this place. Not like that evil brother of his, or his sisters.”

  “Wow,” I say. “You sure do know a lot about Luc. And what do you mean—found you?”

  “Owl?” She seems confused by my using his first name. “Pretty much everything about him. I grew up here.”

  Mockingbird speaks so fast it’s hard to keep up with her, and though she is shorter, she moves with such a flighty alacrity I must lengthen my stride to keep up with her.

  “My mom, whoever she was, left me on the doorstep here, which is where Owl discovered me. I don’t remember anything about her. Probably messed up or something, but obviously, I turned out fine.” Twirling around, she stretches out her arms. I grin. “You turned out even better,” she says. “What’s your mom like?”

  My words catch in my throat. I hadn’t expected questions about my parents. Not that I would dare to mimic the timeless tale of my mother’s escape from the Temple. And stories of my past are precious to me. Instead, I’ll spin something on the spot like my mother’s done in the past with all her fairy tales.

  Fortunately, Mockingbird waves a hand and bites her lip, embarrassed. “Sorry, probably shouldn’t have asked. I talk a lot. If you get tired of it, you can just ignore me.”


  I shrug my shoulders. “Sometimes, I talk too much, too.”

  Mockingbird’s lips curve up into a beam before she faces forward, hand trained on the banister as she leads me to the second floor. “Trust me, I’m an expert in talking. You don’t do enough of it.”

  “Luc will probably tell you differently.”

  Mockingbird pauses to look back at me. “Is that so? Hmm…I’ll have to ask Owl sometime.”

  “My mother’s special,” I finally say to Mockingbird, who stops at the top of the stairs to listen as I continue, “You know how some mothers will buy pancakes and others will make them?”

  Mockingbird raises one eyebrow. “Sort of. One of the cooks here is like a mother to me, and she makes me pancakes from time to time.”

  I reminisce on the special times of my childhood. “Well, my mother wouldn’t just make pancakes. She’d make chocolate-chip pancakes, then she’d make sculptures out of them every time. Whenever she’s home, I beg her to make them for me.”

  “Whenever she is home?” Mockingbird blinks. “Is she some graphicker star or something?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Sky stiffen, and I take it as a signal not to say too much. “Whenever they come home from a trip. They travel a lot. And my dad always brings home pictures, dozens of pictures from wherever they travel.”

  Mockingbird starts walking again. “Where’s home for you, Swan?”

  Right behind me, I want to say, glancing at Sky. “Nowhere, really.” It’s close to the truth. Raised in hotels, on the road all the time, Sky and I became each other’s homes.

  “Oh, how was the Immortal Treatment?” she asks, flitting to the next subject. “Only the higher Birds get it. I’d kill for that! If your skin darkens a little too much in the sun, bam! Your implant lightens your pigmentation. Genius!” Mockingbird gushes. “I have to go to the restoration room once a year to help regenerate my skin. It’s painful as hell. Nothing like the implants.”

  “Mockingbird!” The girl with orange hair I’d observed the first day bounces toward us. I remember her—Hummingbird.

  Behind me, Sky takes a step forward out of caution, no doubt because the newcomer’s fingers are clenched, but she loosens them a little to reveal a pixie stick.

  “Easy there, sexy,” she teases Sky. “It’s just some Bliss. Maybe you should have some, might relax you a little.” Hummingbird trills flirty fingers up his chest. I want to break them knuckle by knuckle. “Okay, well, maybe another Bird will catch your eye sometime.”

  Even though my first instinct is to wince at the thought, I catch the hint of a smile toying with Sky’s mouth. Still, he doesn’t look at Hummingbird any differently than he has any other woman or girl for as long as I’ve known him. It’s one thing I’ve always loved about Sky. Even when we’ve passed animated ads or he’s come across a magazine cover or article for museums or Glass Districts or carousels all featuring risqué girls, he doesn’t stare, ogle, or so much as part his lips. No, he pauses, gazing at a fixed point, just like he is with Hummingbird and Mockingbird now. It’s the first time I finally understand what his sight is rooted on—their eyes.

  My heart ignites both in anger and confusion because Sky’s eyes spend far more time avoiding me. A few years ago, without warning, our old dynamic evaporated like a bubble popping on the surface of a lake. When he stopped wanting to spend time with me, stopped showing affection toward me in any way, I was devastated. I used to know every thought in his head, but I suddenly had no idea what he was thinking. Maybe I should embark on those marked pages of the diary. Maybe they explain why he’s still going out of his way to avoid so much as looking at me, much less touching me. When he does eye me, that subtle upturn of his mouth hints at something else. I know we’re not blood brother and sister, but I tell myself I’ve deciphered his body language wrong.

  “I doubt it.” Mockingbird crosses her arms. “He hasn’t looked at any of us since he got here—except for Swan. You’re lucky. No one wants to mess with him. Not with those muscles or that death glare.” She leans toward me to whisper in my ear, and I’m mad as a wildflower in a storm that they keep talking about him that way. For some reason, I feel more possessive than ever when it comes to Sky.

  “Want a hit, Mock?” Hummingbird holds up the pixie stick.

  “I’m good,” Mockingbird says. “You’ll get punished if Owl catches you with that thing in the Aviary.”

  Hummingbird rolls her eyes before sucking on the stick. “Owl this, Owl that. Everyone knows you’d un-fan that little tail of yours for him if he asked you.”

  I glare at Hummingbird, curling my fingers tightly into one another. After all, my good behavior doesn’t have to extend beyond Luc. I come to Mockingbird’s defense; she’s been nothing but welcoming to me. “How about I un-fan my fist in your pretty little teeth?” I ask.

  Mockingbird seems stunned by my display, but after the encounter above the client rooms, I need this. Last night shrunk me, crumpled me like a wet piece of paper. I need to dry out.

  “Someone’s touchy about her museum director,” Hummingbird singsongs.

  She shrieks when I grab a clump of her hair and jam her face-first against the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the proud glint in Sky’s eye and both corners of his mouth curling.

  “Ack! Let me go, you crazy chick,” Hummingbird protests, struggling hands clawing at mine.

  I lick the back of her neck to well and truly show her what crazy looks like. I’m disappointed she doesn’t taste as orangey as her hair. Outraged, she squeaks, sounding like a hungry baby bird.

  “Oh, trust me,” Mockingbird defends. “She’s definitely not a chick.”

  “No…” I hum in Hummingbird’s ear, drawing it out. She shivers, trying to twist away. “I’m much younger.”

  “Mock!” she screams.

  “Don’t look at me.” Shrugging, Mockingbird casually leans back, seeming to enjoy the display. “You’re the one who decided to get your cloaca in a twist.”

  “Better than keeping yours open all the time,” Hummingbird accuses. I nip her earlobe, reveling in her flinch and the sound of her squeals. Laughing, I give her a little push to release her. She whirls toward us, wiping the back of her neck and warily watching me as she exclaims, “Fine, whatever. I’m going!” She backs away a few feet, arms practically flapping as she hurries off in the other direction.

  Mockingbird rolls her eyes, tossing her hair back. “Fledglings. That’s what we call girls like her. Transfers from other museums. So puffed up. Think they’re so smart, but I’ve been in this business all my life. Thanks, by the way. That was awesome.”

  Just as we round another corner, I bump into Finch. Nothing about the child is shy when she grabs me by the arms, yanks me down to her level, and licks the side of my neck before scampering away with a wave. I chuckle a little at the little mimic of a girl. She doesn’t speak much, but her actions could stock a library.

  I grin as I walk with Mockingbird again. “When did you start training?”

  “I learned a lot of things when I was younger. It’s easier to train girls when they’re little. I’m a higher level here because I can do a lot of things. I have a lot of talents: dancing, singing, playing music…can’t say swimming’s among them, though. That was pretty impressive, what you did last night. Where did you learn to swim like that? Your eyes were open underwater and everything!”

  We’ve arrived at a dormitory hallway. Girls’ faces appear in the upper glass circles of the doors every now and then, curious to catch glimpses of us.

  “My mother was born with water in her veins. And my father’s part fish. I visited his parents once. Scaly folk, they are.”

  Mockingbird erupts into giggles. “You’re funny. I wasn’t expecting that. Anyone could see you were a hellion from the first day, but funny, too? You’re the whole package, aren’t you? No wonder so many girls hate you so much.”

  “And you?”

  Mockingbird grins, fluttering a hand.
“Oh, I’m like the mascot. People like me way too much. Clients and girls. Middle status is good for that. I don’t get anywhere near Nightingale or Peacock’s territory.”

  Pausing, she inspects her clear nails before tapping them in a sequence that turns them to an ash gray and then closer to a metallic pewter gray with an imprint of a tiny bird—a mockingbird, of course. From what I’ve seen, Mockingbird enjoys changing her makeup and nails every day but keeps her gray dresses simple.

  “It’s funny. I wouldn’t have expected you to be able to pull off that wildcat move you just did. Sure, you got the ice eyes, but you’re so tiny…except for your rack, of course. That’s why it’s probably going to be trickier for you.”

  “Because of my rack?” I raise an eyebrow.

  Mockingbird giggles. “No, I mean girls here will underestimate you. You’ll have to be on guard all the time. I might be able to spread the word for you though, tell everyone what you did to Hummingbird.”

  I remember Luc’s words to Mockingbird the first day. Hush little bird, don’t say a word. She seems to be the Aviary mouthpiece.

  I pinch my lips together and nod, accepting the offer. “One thing people should never do is underestimate me.”

  “In the meantime, watch out for Nightingale, Blackbird—if she wakes up—Peacock, and Raven. You don’t want those girls as enemies.”

  I make a mental note of the Birds, but I hardly feel threatened. After all, what’s in a name? Like the Swan… “People don’t want me as an enemy, either.”

  After Mockingbird departs, I decide to return to the infirmary for what’s left of the evening. Once there, I recognize Peacock. At my entrance, she rises from her seat, spanning a height far surpassing mine. Without a doubt, she is one of the tallest girls in the Aviary, though not as tall as Sky, who keeps his shoulders braced as she approaches me.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing here?” Her sultry green and blue irises glower as she tries to pen me in.