A Secret of Birds & Bone

by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

  Mamma laughed, and it was her old laugh.

  She made such beautiful things. For Sofia’s tenth birthday, a calendar candle that burned down into a miniature bone box in which Sofia kept small treasures like shells. For Ermin’s eighth, a clockwork squirrel skeleton that chattered and peeled shavings of candied fruit with its teeth.

  Last year, on her eleventh birthday, Sofia had received her greatest treasure: the canopy of gilded toe bones that hung like a glittering chain over her bed. She did not see how Mamma could outdo herself this year.

  Sofia held out her hands, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Into them Mamma placed something so light, it felt like a feather.

  ‘Happy birthday, piccolina.’

  Sofia looked down at a chain of interlinked coils of bone, finely wrought to the point Sofia barely felt it though she could see it rested in her hands. On the end was a bone locket, fashioned into the shape of the cathedral tower. Though Sofia had not been to the cathedral for years, she saw this tower every day from the hill. It was so high it seemed to stand almost level with their hilltop, even at a distance. She recognized it instantly, with its stripes and crenellated edges. This version was half the size of her palm and looked delicate as a wafer.

  When Sofia took it, she felt something wash through her – a calm like when she stroked Corvith, or hugged Mamma, or sat on their well watching over the world. A feeling like coming home.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Mamma closed Sofia’s hand about it. ‘And it matters, Sofia. Keep it safe, always.’

  ‘I promise.’ She hugged Mamma, breathing her in. Mamma made her own lavender oil from the purple bushes that grew large and fragrant outside their house, and would rub it into her dark skin until it shone. She also washed her thick black curls with lavender water, so she always smelt beautiful. In summer, the bone walls of their house hummed with bees, as though their ribcage struts still held breath. ‘Thank you.’

  To think of her mother, so sad and sunk inside herself lately, still finding time to make something so lovely – it made her chest hurt.

  Mamma caught the tears in her voice and held Sofia more tightly to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled into the top of her head. ‘I’ve not been myself. I’ve had to . . . But that’s over now. Today, it ends.’

  There was an enquiring chitter and a moment later Corvith wiggled his way into the middle of the hug, burrowing into Sofia’s hair and then Mamma’s.

  ‘So-So!’ he said, in his croaky crow voice. Mamma drew back and smiled down at them.

  ‘Morning, Corvith. Come, piccolina. We’ll wake your brother and then we can have milk and honey for breakfast. Then,’ a shadow crossed her face, ‘I’ll go to Siena. And then your birthday can begin. I’ll have another gift for you when I return. A more precious gift.’

  ‘But this is enough,’ protested Sofia, unable to think of what could be better than the locket. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The truth,’ said Mamma in a soft voice.

  Sofia felt a fizz of excitement. ‘What truth?’

  ‘Later,’ said Mamma. ‘First, I must go to the city.’

  ‘Can I come?’ said Sofia, hoping against hope that today was the day Mamma’s ban would lift. ‘It’s the Palio, for the first time in years, and I’ve never seen it—’

  ‘No.’ Mamma was already distracted, moving past her to the sleeping shape of Ermin. She rested a hand to his forehead, as she did each morning, as though some sickness might still linger in his blood. ‘It’s best to stay here.’

  They woke a grumbling Ermin and had a breakfast of lavender honey in milk, and black bread with more honey. Ermin gave her his usual gift, a small square of stitched cloth embroidered with something that made him think of her. It was a strawberry this time.

  ‘Because you ate them all this year,’ he said accusingly. He’d been making these patchwork squares since he could hold a needle and thread, and one day Sofia would have enough to make a quilt. ‘Just like the year before, and the one before that.’

  Sofia stuck out her tongue to mask her discomfort at the memory of the white horse standing before their house, stripping the fruit from the bushes.

  ‘It’s lovely, Ermin,’ said Mamma, gesturing for Sofia to thank him. She did so, and hugged him briefly. His body was thin beneath his clothes. Since the smallpox, he had never recovered his plump glow.

  ‘Thanks, Ermin,’ she said, meaning it a lot more than she seemed to. It didn’t do to show little brothers how much their gifts meant.

  Mamma sighed and hauled herself to her feet, as though she were a hundred years old and ached all over. She went into her workshop and emerged with a bundle small enough to slip into a pocket. But she held it instead, carefully, as though what was inside was either very delicate or very dangerous.

  ‘What’s that, Mamma?’ asked Ermin and, to Sofia’s surprise, she answered.

  ‘A reliquary,’ she said, flipping back the cloth to show them. It was beautiful; a tiny box built of toe and finger bones cross-hatched and shot through with silver. ‘The last one.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Sofia. Many years ago, Mamma had told her one of her life’s ambitions was to create such a box for each of the eighty-seven saint’s relics in the cathedral. Was this what she had been working on? But Mamma didn’t explain, only sighed and rewrapped the box.

  ‘I’ll only be a couple of hours,’ she said. ‘As quick as I can. Send Corvith to check outside if anyone knocks.’

  Ermin went to lock the door when Mamma left, but Sofia put her hand on his. ‘Leave it.’

  ‘But Mamma said—’

  ‘That she’ll be a couple of hours. And it’s nearly eight o’clock.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The Palio starts at nine.’

  Ermin bit his lip worriedly. ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing,’ said Sofia, throwing on her cape – the one with a hood, so she could hide her face if necessary. ‘You coming, or not?’

  The Palio was the most ancient and challenging horse race in all of Italy, and maybe in all the world.

  There were ten horses with ten riders, all representing a different district. They would each begin at their own corner of the city and charge through the streets before convening in the main square, the Piazza del Campo. The first to complete three laps won.

  Sofia could only imagine it, because she had never been allowed to attend.

  ‘When you’re old enough, you can go,’ Mamma had said, but refused to tell her what age this might be. ‘I’ll know,’ she said vaguely. And no matter how old and wise and tall Sofia tried to appear, so far, she had no luck.

  All she’d ever seen of the Palio was the view from their hill. She remembered watching the bandiere delle contrade – the banners of each district – flying from the palazzo a week before: the blue and white of the Onda, the wave, representing the carpenters; the white circle and red stitches of the Nicchio, the seashell, that flew over the potters; the shoemakers chanting beneath the red-and-black Civetta, the owl. Even these she knew only as a distant memory, from before the pox. But last week they had appeared again, signalling the Duchessa of Siena was ready to let life return to normal. Sofia only wished Mamma agreed with their leader.

  There was no sign of Mamma on the path to town, though they had not left so far behind her. Butterflies with steel wings flung themselves around Sofia’s stomach, her heart pounding like horses’ hooves with nerves and excitement at her own daring. Ermin was still protesting, his brown curls stuck to the side of his face where they had pressed against his pillow.

  ‘We really shouldn’t,’ he muttered breathlessly, as Corvith circled lazily above them on hot air currents. ‘We’ll be in such trouble. What about the smallpox?’

  ‘It was years ago,’ said Sofia, wishing he’d stayed behind if all he was going to do was complain. When he’d been sick he hadn’t spoken at all, his mouth so dry Sofia had to use a sponge to drip water between his lips. She shuddered, pushing away the memory and feeling her irrita
tion return. He was so slow and, though she knew it was because his illness had weakened him, she couldn’t help but feel annoyed.

  ‘So why doesn’t Mamma let us visit?’

  Sofia, having no answer, snapped instead. ‘Go back then.’

  He settled into a sulk as they approached the boundary of the city. Unwilling to hesitate and give Ermin an opportunity to suggest going home Sofia plunged blindly onwards, trusting that soon enough they would encounter the crowds flocking to the Palio.

  Their route took them first through the narrow alleys of the shoemaker district, the smell of tanning leather coming bitter as old lemons on her tongue. The steaming pits where the leather was soaked were as full as ever though their usual attendants were absent, as they would have been during the time of smallpox.

  Mamma, Sofia and Ermin had been mostly protected from the darkness of those days, their charnel house a refuge from the graveyard their city became. Ermin was sick for a few nights, but Sofia had never truly imagined he was in danger. Mamma had nursed him well, and he had no scars. Only the tiredness, and the thinness of his face and body.

  Others were not so lucky. The Duke of Siena, Duc Machelli, had declared quarantine in the city before he himself died of the sickness, and his wife, Duchessa Serafina Machelli, a famous beauty, had carried on his good works by building a new convent to care for sick or orphaned children. She must have loved him very much, as she was still in mourning and no longer seen outside the palazzo. Since she still made ample provision for the hospital and orphanage, there was little fuss that their leader had turned invisible.

  Sofia and Ermin broke out of the warren that edged the city and into the wider, cleaner streets of the dressmakers’ district. Everything smelt of the rosemary and lavender the clothes were packed in to keep the moths at bay. Here the houses were wider and shorter and had real glass in the windows. Sofia glanced up at them as they passed; no one waved when she did. The faces in the windows were drawn and pale.

  ‘Mamma didn’t lie about no children allowed,’ murmured Ermin, as they were squashed against a narrow alley wall by the crushing crowd. ‘There aren’t any.’

  Sofia looked around. He was right – clearly the citizens of Siena agreed that only adults should attend the Palio. A few people stared openly at them and whispered to each other. Sofia pulled up her cloak’s hood and drew Ermin into her side as they pushed further into Siena’s heart, willing no one to send them away.

  Wells were set in the middle of each square they passed, like beads on a necklace. At each one the crush deepened, with people standing in long lines around them.

  ‘Is there no water?’ whispered Ermin, as they watched a woman draw up her bucket only half full of murky liquid.

  ‘Shhh,’ said Sofia, like she always did when she just didn’t know the answer to Ermin’s questions. It certainly seemed like water was scarce here, though at their well at home it came up pure and sweet each morning.

  By the time they wove their way into the city centre, dirt hardened beneath their feet, the sun was strong and the air still – full of the smells and shouts of people as they listened for the trumpet that signalled the start of the race. Sofia had heard it even from her hilltop in long-past years, and couldn’t wait to be there in person to hear the sound.

  Corvith settled in his skull sling as the crowds swelled, snapping his beak bad-temperedly if anyone brushed against him. As they squeezed down a final narrow and stepped alley, leading to the Piazza del Campo where the riders would converge for the final laps, Ermin was also not happy.

  ‘We shouldn’t be here,’ he said for the tenth time, and Sofia rolled her eyes at her little brother. ‘It’s too hot.’

  Sofia looked around, searching for somewhere to buy him something to drink. But all she could see were taverns – water seemed to be in very short supply. ‘Not long now. We can have a lemon ice when we get home.’

  ‘I feel funny.’ He did look flushed. ‘And people keep looking at us.’

  Sophia could not disagree with him there. She’d been forced by the heat to take off her cloak, and the sun and stares were burning the back of her neck. Had her locket been made of metal it would have scalded her skin, and her sandals chafed from the walk into town. They were surrounded by jostling people who, despite the early hour, smelt of sharp wine. Sofia wondered if this was because of the queue for the wells, or because today was a celebration.

  She wished Mamma were with them, and that she could ask her all these questions. Sofia stood on tiptoe. The black-and-white blocks of the cathedral loomed in the near-distance, its spires the closest thing to heaven in the whole city. Magpies spiralled around its stone.

  Sofia felt for her locket, an echo of the cathedral tower, and held it up before her. They were a perfect match, aside from a little notch in one side of the locket. Sofia had not noticed this detail before and she eyed it, frowning.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Ermin.

  ‘Looks like a keyhole.’ Sofia squinted in the bright sunlight and noticed the tiny seam where the locket could open. Mamma must have forgotten to give her the key. It was so perfect that, were she able to open it, she wouldn’t be surprised if miniature magpies the size of mosquitoes flew out.

  The second-highest tower in the city stood across from them. It was part of the palazzo, and comets of wheeling magpies spun around it. The many contrade, flags of the citizens, hung limp from its shining honey-gold stone. Atop the magpie tower was rumoured to be a prison cell where the worst criminals of the city were kept.

  ‘Welcome, my dear citizens!’ A voice, low and musical, seemed to boom out of the air itself. ‘Soon the Palio shall begin!’

  A mighty cheer flew up from the crowd like a flock of birds, and a woman beside them did a little jig in excitement. Sofia squinted, but couldn’t see anyone on the palazzo steps.

  ‘Was that the Duchessa?’ Ermin asked, craning his neck. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’d stay out of sight if I were you,’ said the jigging woman. She had stopped dancing and was staring at Ermin and Sofia. ‘Where’s your mother?’

  ‘There,’ said Sofia, gesturing vaguely. ‘But where’s the Duchessa?’

  The woman was still peering at them closely. ‘It’s the pipes.’

  ‘Pipes?’ repeated Sofia.

  ‘The pipes.’ The woman pointed at the palazzo. Sofia followed her finger and saw an array of pale tubes running around the walls of the palace, like fine vines. ‘Pipes from the palace. The latest style apparently. The King of Copenhagen has some for music, so he can hear it in rooms where he isn’t. Our duchessa went one better. Got them so she can speak to us without breaking her mourning confinement by leaving the palace.’

  ‘Pipes,’ murmured Sofia, this time to herself. She had never heard of such a thing.

  ‘Move up!’

  Sofia felt a push, and they were shunted further towards the piazza. She tightened her grip on Ermin, and Corvith’s sling, and hoped they’d picked a safe place to stand.

  ‘There’s no room!’ came a returning cry from ahead, but the people behind, emptying out of a nearby tavern, were stronger. As she kept a firm hold of her brother’s hand, slippery with sweat, they were forced out of the alley and into the piazza itself.

  ‘Back!’ shouted a guard, his magpie’s beak glinting cruelly on his shoulder. ‘The Palio is about to begin!’

  But Sofia and Ermin were no match for the people trying to shove their way to the front. Ermin lost his footing, and spilt past the barrier and on to the race track.

  ‘Back I say!’ The guard aimed a kick at the dirt beside Ermin’s head.

  ‘Ermin!’ Sofia tried to yank him to safety but couldn’t reach. She tried to slip under the barrier, but many hands held her still.

  ‘You mustn’t,’ said the woman. ‘If you’re orphans, they’ll take you away.’

  ‘We’re not! That’s my brother,’ she said, shrugging loose. Corvith took flight and swooped towards Ermin, trying to help. The guard’s magpie sn
ipped the air with its beak, chattering aggressively, but it was held in place by a silver lead about its ankle.

  As the birds sniped at each other, Sofia was able to grasp hold of Ermin’s arm and pull him roughly back to the relative safety of the crowd.

  ‘You must be more careful,’ she hissed, dusting her brother down and soothing Corvith who had returned to his skull nest. ‘You could have been hurt.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Ermin whined, as the palazzo doors opened with a mighty bang.

  Everyone turned towards the sound, cheering. Sofia imagined the duchessa might be about to arrive, to start the race, or perhaps a trumpeter in her stead. But from the mighty door came not the elusive duchessa, nor a trumpeter but . . .

  ‘Mamma!’

  Sofia’s cry was lost to the stifling air. But it was their mother, unmistakeable with her wild black hair and wilder eyes, running as fast as she could, sunlight glinting off her hairpin. The crowd jeered as she tripped down the steps. Two guards emerged from inside the palazzo, magpies released from their leads and wheeling after her.

  ‘Why are they chasing her?’ said Ermin, his dusty face horror-struck.

  ‘I don’t know!’

  Sofia tried to force her way past the guard again but he held her back, his magpie snapping.

  Mamma briefly disappeared, swallowed by the crowd, but then she broke loose, ducking beneath the barriers, and began to run right across the tilted piazza. Ermin gasped.

  ‘What is she doing?’

  The crowd began to boo, and the woman beside them shuddered.

  ‘She’s mad! What if she’s sick?’

  Her companion shifted, his scarf covering his mouth. ‘Could be. Come away.’

  ‘She isn’t sick,’ hissed Ermin, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet. ‘What’s happening?’

  Before she could answer, the trumpeter appeared at the palazzo doors. He raised his instrument and tooted three short, deafening blasts.

  ‘Sofia,’ said Ermin, his voice shaky with fear. ‘What does that mean?’