Wry Derby sat across from me in the dingy office where we worked. While he checked the receipts from last week's auction, I contemplated another cup of mud flavored coffee before tackling the receivables. It was another humdrum Wednesday, and only the anticipation of the weekend allowed us to tolerate the tedium of the paperwork.
Then the boss bellowed for us, delaying the drudgery.
“Derby! Stone! Get in here, pronto.”
Wry glanced up. “Did we forget something, Dusty?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Rapid Fire loved ordering us about at random, so I had no idea what he wanted that morning. I hauled myself up and we headed off to the boss's office.
Our office was in the back of the building and Rapid Fire's was up front. Our's had greasy windows facing an alley, while his had a view of the street and windows that opened to let in the fresh air. Between us was the floor of the warehouse where we stored the items to be auctioned. Last week's auction had been a modest success. Only a few items remained unsold. Some furniture and china lay scattered about, but not a lot. We'd bundle them into lots and try unloading them again in a few weeks. But if they didn't sell on the second try, and the owners didn't claim them, it was off to the dump.
The moment we walked into his office, we knew something was up. A smug grin spread across his face as we stood on the other side of his battered wood desk. I'll never forget that toothy grin. He leaned back with his belly sticking out like he'd swallowed a beach ball for breakfast.
“I've got exciting news, boys,” Rapid Fire said. “It's what we've been waiting for.”
Wry pushed back his eponymous hat. I knew what was coming next.
“So you're finally going to make her an honest mare. Congratulations.” That ripped the smile from the boss's face.
“Shaddup you. If I'd wanted a wiseass, I'd have hired a donkey.” Rapid Fire paused and added, “And I just might if you don't watch it.”
“Sorry, chief, but ya gotta stop making it so easy.”
Wry loved joking even more than he loved his hats. And that's a lot. Rapid Fire's romantic life was Wry's favorite target. While the boss wasn't pleased, he wasn't about to fire him. He knew it would be a long time before he'd find somepony as efficient and accurate as Wry. The jibe rolled off the big fellow anyway. He was too damn happy.
“Now, enough of your mouth, 'cause this is serious business.”
“Yeah?” I asked. “How serious?” The boss's excitement ran high when he plunged into new projects, but only occasionally did we share his eagerness.
“Serious business, Mr. Stone.” He peered over the top of his square glasses. “Serious bit business.”
Of all things, Wry and I appreciated money, so we gave him all the attention we could muster so early in the morning.
“You see,” he continued, “I was out drinking last night and I ran into an old chum of mine. Hadn't seen him in years. But I turn around and there he is, sitting right next to me at the bar.”
Wry glanced at me. Half of the boss's schemes involved meeting somepony in a bar, and I could tell he'd love to stick it to the old hay bag. I fended him off with a quick shake of my head.
“And you'd never guess where this chum of mine works nowadays.” He paused dramatically. “Well—go ahead and guess.”
I shot Wry a quick look and he shrugged back.
The boss sighed. “What a pair of lunkheads. The castle. He works at the castle.” His smile threatened to split his head in two.
“The castle castle?” Wry asked.
“Yeah, the castle.”
“Not a restaurant called The Castle?” I asked
“Or a laundromat called The Castle?” Wry added.
“No.” Rapid Fire's hoof slammed into his desk. “The real honest to goodness castle. Canterlot Castle.”
Well, I still couldn't understand his exuberance over his friend's workplace. “Okay, so he works at the castle. Lots of ponies work there. What makes him special?”
“I'd tell ya if you two would stop asking stupid questions.” Rapid Fire tugged on his vest and leaned back. “Now, he's not a big cheese or anything, but he's some undersecretary's assistant of something or other. I forget of what. We were catching up and I told him about our little auction business, and the two of us formulated a plan.”
Our wasn't technically correct. Rapid Fire owned the business, while Wry and myself comprised the entirety of the staff. But whatever was going on inside that thick skull of his had roused the generous use of the word our, and generosity wasn't in his nature.
“Turns out his boss is a climber, always trying to over-secretary the other undersecretaries and impress the Princess. Of course, that's darn difficult. The undersecretary's latest idea is to donate a bunch of money to some cause in the Princess's name. He can't afford it personally, and he certainly can't dip into public funds. Well, not if he wants to keep his head. So, here's where my friend and you two come in.”
“How's that?” Wry asked.
“Part of my chum's assisting job is to find where to store all their paperwork.” He paused and smiled. “And it's like I always tell you two—”
“The job's not finished until the paperwork's been filed,” we chanted in unison. Despite our total lack of enthusiasm for his maxim, Rapid Fire's face glowed.
“And if there's one thing they've got up there, it's paperwork. So much of it that they've run out of room to store it all. My chum's been doing some research, and he's found some storage rooms in a basement that could be cleared out.”
“Okay…” Wry scratched his head. “But this sounds like any old regular spring cleaning project. How's this gonna be a big bits deal?”
The boss leaned over his desk and we did the same. “Think about it.” His tone was insistent. “This is a no lose proposition. We find out what old junk they've got buried down there and organize an auction sponsored by the undersecretary, all in the name of the Princess, with proceeds going to some highfalutin' charity she likes. They get space to stuff away paper nopony will ever read, we get our commission, plus the most amazing free publicity.”
He threw his forelegs out wide and both of us jumped.
“Imagine the banner: The Princess Charity Auction by Rapid Fire Auctions. Glorious.”
Well, glorious for him, because he's the auctioneer everypony sees. We'd be stuck digging around dank rooms, working up inventories, and performing appraisals. And more often than not, we lugged the junk around too. Rapid Fire only lugged himself about.
But I couldn't complain too much. The pay was decent—salary plus a smidgen of commission—and plenty other jobs were dirtier or harder.
I mimicked his enthusiasm. “Gee, sounds great, sir. When's all this going to start?”
“Right now.” He reached into his vest and pulled out a card. “Here”—he tossed it across the desk—“use this to get into the castle. He'll handle all the details from there.”
Wry picked up the card and read it. His raised eyebrow revealed his impression.
“Trot over there right away.” Rapid Fire dismissed us with a wave. “I can't have you two lollygagging around here when I've deadlines to meet.”
The only deadline I could imagine him having at that time of day was lunch.
—❦—
So we found ourselves on a brisk walk to Canterlot Castle that morning. For almost three years, we'd been all over the city doing Rapid Fire's dirty work, so even if the castle was our destination, neither of us were excited.
This was going to end up being another spring cleaning job, just like Wry said. All of Rapid Fire's schemes turned out that way: big promises, little results. We'd come to expected it. Wry and myself would make out okay, but we'd never get rich. This big deal would end up like all the others, a bust, nothing more than a way for us to make a few bits to blow on the weekend, so we could forget we even had this miserable job.
Soon enough we stood at the entrance gate, and Wry handed over the card to have the boss's old chum summoned. The remaining guard stood at attention in front of one of those impractically small guard houses. I've never seen them stand inside one, but I guess they only use it when the weather's lousy. He was a brawny fellow, but after studying his face, it was apparent he was astoundingly bored.
Years ago I'd considered joining the military: good pay, steady job, serve the empire and all that nonsense. They've got a good retirement plan too, but I didn't have the physique. Carrying books at university almost killed me, so a military career was out of the question. While I gawked, Wry strolled around, scoping out the castle. Before ten minutes passed, the guard returned with our host, one Wade DeCamp.
DeCamp was trim and well groomed but altogether plain. In a city like Canterlot, you'd pass twenty ponies a day who you'd mistake for his twin. The only way to describe his undistinguished appearance was that he was a born bureaucrat.
“Ah, good morning, gentlecolts,” he said. “You must be Mr. Rapid Fire's associates. So nice to meet you.” He sniffed, but he didn't appear to have a cold.
“Morning, sir,” I said. “I'm Dusty Stone and this is Wry Derby.” Wry tipped his hat.
DeCamp nodded. “Pleased to meet you both.” An awkward silence followed, and then he cleared his throat. “Well, with pleasantries aside, shall we proceed?” He led us across a courtyard towards a nondescript building that looked like an ancient bureaucratic chicken coop. Wry decided to engage in small talk.
“So, Mr. Rapid Fire tells us you two met at school.”
“Yes, many years ago.” DeCamp chuckled at some private joke. “I was in quite a few classes with Speedy.”
Wry's face lit up. “Ah yes—with Speedy,” he repeated. He whispered to me, “That alone made the trip worth it.” I could hear his brain churning out innuendoes for our beloved boss.
“What type of classes, Mr. DeCamp?” I asked.
He turned his head to the side and said, “Oh, this and that. That was a long time ago, Mr. Stone, and I don't recall.” He smiled.
There was something about the way he looked at me that made me shiver. DeCamp's tight smile was designed to say that we were utterly beneath him. I'd been politely told to shut up, so I did. Neither of us said a word to DeCamp on the remainder of the walk.
The sign about the building's entrance read B-315N, a name only the government could invent. DeCamp escorted us in. “This way, please.” He gestured down a flight of wide stairs. The first time I went down those stairs I thought I'd die of a heart attack. Unless they had feathers stored down there, it would be a pain to haul it up.
We kept going deeper and deeper. DeCamp was quite spry for an older pony, but when we reached bottom, he let out a whew and grinned. I think he meant to taunt us. We stopped in front of a door with a white letter G painted on it.
“Welcome to subbasement G, gentlecolts, your base of operations for this project.” He produced a large metal ring packed with keys and unlocked the thick iron door. It groaned open and magical torches crackled and illuminated the room.
The darkness gave way and we faced a long corridor lined with doors. Each door had a number: odds on the left, evens on the right. The air smelled stale, but it wasn't foul. At least I didn't hear dripping water like the swamp of a basement we'd cleaned out last year. Even when the lights reached their maximum brightness, it still seemed dark and a little claustrophobic. The stone walls were crude and blackened with age, a place definitely old and forgotten.
“I have not been able to find any records on G in the archives,” DeCamp said. “The level contains thirty-six rooms, and their contents are unknown.”
“Thirty-six,” Wry blurted. “This is gonna take forever.”
“Your employer assured me you two were the best in the business.” He sniffed again. “He was adamant you'd present me with a full appraisal in less than two weeks.”
Wry's eyes bulged. “Yeah, well you can tell Speedy he can sh—” I jammed my hoof in his mouth.
“We'll be sure to thank him for the compliment.” I smiled at DeCamp, and then turned to stare down the corridor. I sighed. “Well, we best get started.”
“Excellent.” DeCamp tossed the keys at us and Wry caught them. “You'll be needing these.”
I studied the ring of unlabeled keys Wry held. “Excuse me, Mr. DeCamp, but how do we know which key goes to which door?”
“The large one gives you access to this level, of course. As for the others, I suspect those will be your first items to inventory, won't they?” Wearing a smug look, he turned and climbed the stairs. He must have been at level E before he remembered to yell down, “I'll be back with your contractor badges before the end of the day. Good luck.”
Wry hurled the keys against the wall and a metallic clatter reverberated through the corridor. I expected a stream of profanity to come pouring forth, but instead he stood frozen, his lips crushed together. The obscenities must have formed a logjam and never reached his tongue. From his look, I feared his head might explode.
“Well,” I told him, “what did you expect from of an old chum of Speedy's?” To my relief, Wry let out an exasperated sigh.
“About what we saw.” Wry picked up the keys and we got to work.
Tossing my bags aside, I got out a pack of paper tags on strings. Wry pried the keys off the ring and I tagged them. Next, it was time to open some doors.
Wry thrust a set of keys at me. “Odds or evens?”
“Evens. After all, you're the odd one here.”
“Keep telling yourself that, brother mine.” Wry stood by his first door and froze. His eyes darted about, searching the walls. “Hmm… Dusty, did you see a place where—”
“No, I didn't.” I put my hoof to the side of my head and closed my eyes. “Just put your damn hat on the floor.”
“This baby?” He held his hat in place as if the nonexistent wind would snatch it. “I couldn't do that. She's a classic.”
I rolled my eyes as he rummaged through his bag, producing a wooden ball fixed to the end of a metal spike, which he worked into the wall's crumbling mortar.
“And he wonders why he's single,” I grumbled.
“Single, but with good looking hats.” He twirled the derby on his hoof and deftly placed it on the improvised hook. “And it's not like you're doing any better.” He strode back to his door.
“No,” I admitted and went back to trying keys. As I fiddled with my fourth or fifth key, a loud clack came from behind me.
“And we have a winner.” Wry penciled a number one on the key's tag.
“So what did you win?” I asked while I tried another key.
The door creaked open and Wry sighed. “Looks like I won granny's attic.” He entered the room. “Battered case goods and moldy upholstery, maybe more than a hundred, but less than two hundred old by the styles.” The legs of a table complained as Wry slid it across the floor, making his way deeper into the room. “Hey, artwork.” I heard the zip of a tarp coming off a picture, followed by coughing.
“Don't die in there,” I said. “I'm not about to do this job by myself.” He stopped coughing and sneezed. “And I refuse to haul your corpse up all those stairs.” There was a brief pause before he spoke.
“I can see why they left this one down here.” Wry grunted. “Not much hope of discovering old masters in this room.”
“Yeah, but the provenance will jack up the price even if you wouldn't hang it in a hotel room.” No sooner than I'd finished speaking, I found the key that opened door number two.
“Bingo,” I hollered. “Now let's see what I've won.”
After labeling the key, I pushed the door open and breathed in decades worth of musty air. As the lights went up, I faced a room filled with wooden cases covered in a thin layer of archival dust. The cases lined the perimeter of the room and another two rows stood back to back down its center. Each case held full-width drawers of identical heights, giving everything a flat, featureless front. Only a pair of tarnished brass pulls and a matching label holder on the drawers broke the regularity.
Wry stuck his head into the corridor. “So, whatcha got?”
I opened a drawer at random. “Spiders—hundreds of them.”
“Yeah, me too,” he replied before ducking back into room one. “Their webs are all over the place.”
“No, spiders.” The drawer held glass covered boxes containing row after row of spiders impaled upon pins. The two drawers beneath the first held more, but the third's contents were different. “And beetles too.”
“Huh?”
“Somepony's collection.” I scanned the row of cases. The quagmire deepened. “And there's a ton of it.”
“Better you than me.”
“Thanks, bud.” I walked back to get a clipboard from my pack. To the right of the door sat a desk with boxes stacked on top, so I stopped and checked them out. One box held framed photographs. The pictures were almost identical: a dour looking older pony in the center surrounded by a bunch of smiling younger ones. Some featured the group on the steps of a building I didn't recognize. In others, they stood outside under some trees. The young ponies changed in each photo, but the one in the center stayed the same. Well, not entirely the same. By the fifteenth or twentieth picture, he'd aged considerably. I dug to the bottom of the box. In the last pictures he'd become positively decrepit, yet still surrounded by forty or more ageless assistants.
I'd found my tormenter, a pedantic old researcher, long dead if the fashions in the pictures were any indication. They must have cleared out his office, along with his life's work, and dumped it down here when he died. Now it was my job to go through it, most likely for the last time. I couldn't imagine it selling at auction.
I returned the pictures to the box and got my clipboard. It was time to get to work. I went to work on the first case and I noticed something. The little label holders held slips of paper with a two letter and three number designation. The light wasn't great and I must have missed the old faded ink. That development held promise.
After writing down the label codes, I opened the top drawer. It held glass topped boxes filled with moths. I picked up one to count the specimens it held, when I spied a yellowed piece of paper tucked beneath it. The sheet contained a listing of the drawer's contents in elaborate but legible cursive. “AM-017: 6 cases of 24 specimens each, genus Amerila; 2 cases of 36 specimens each, genus Phyllodesma.”
At that moment, I wanted to dig up the old sourpuss in the photos and give him a hug. His manifests would make my inventory easy. If I applied myself, I'd be able to get the entomologist's records transcribed in a day. Only the problem of an appraisal remained, but I was working on that.
Wry and I worked in relative silence all morning. At lunchtime, we complained about Rapid Fire and his schemes and went right back to work. By two o'clock, Wry had room number one done and moved on to room three. He should be nicknamed Speedy. I'd almost finished room two's inventory by a quarter to four, when I heard the clink of something falling to the floor in the corridor. I went to investigate. Over by the door to the stairs, somepony had left us a present.
Wry stuck his head out of room three. “What was that?”
“Our badges.” I held them up for him to see. “That buzzard DeCamp didn't even stop to ask how we were doing.” I tossed Wry his badge.
“Nice.” He caught the badge and shoved it in his vest pocket. “Remind me to send him a thank you note.”
I tossed mine on my pack and got back to work. By a quarter after five, I'd finished my first room. Although Wry hadn't finished three, we decided to call it quits. It was the first day of what was going to be a long project, and we didn't want to tire ourselves out. We headed out, puffing up the endless flight of stairs.
“Bet you're glad you're finished with your bugs, eh?” Wry said.
“Absolutely.”
“How did the valuation go?”
“Haven't—started,” I panted.
“What? Paperwork's not finished and the boss won't be happy.” We paused at the landing on level C to catch our breaths. “Well, how would you go about appraising them anyway? Call an exterminator?”
“Close, but no. You remember Birdsong, right? She can help, but I need to get to her before closing time.”
—❦—
Wry and I parted at the gate, and I hustled towards where my contact worked: the Canterlot Museum of Natural History. I hadn't seen Birdsong in years, but I'd kept in touch with some mutual friends. Back at school, we were all part of an informal group that called itself The Society of Useless Degrees. The Society's primary purpose was to drink while complaining about the ponies in engineering and business who'd get fat paychecks right out of school.
But I could never figure out why Birdsong hung around with us. We were lazy cynics, resigned to the fact that we needed a degree to get a halfway decent job. We couldn't wait to leave school once we had one, but she was different. After graduation, we went out and got our jobs, but Birdsong got a doctorate and a real career at the museum.
I was winded by the time I made it to the top of the museum's steps. The last time I'd been to the museum was two decades ago on a field trip, but it didn't look like the place had changed a bit. I strode into the entrance hall, my hoofsteps echoing in the deserted rotunda. I glanced up at the clock. It was fifteen minutes before closing. I'd made it just in time.
A young mare sat at the information desk. I've always been partial to green eyes and a yellow mane and I thought there was no harm in making this a dual purpose visit. As I sauntered up to the desk, I spied her nameplate and it gave me an opening line.
I casually leaned against the countertop and cooed, “April Breeze. What a beautiful name. So appropriate for this time of year.” The icy glare that greeted me made me reappraise my statement. Perhaps her real name was November Gale.
“May I help you?” she snarled.
“Uh, yes. Yes, you can.” I gulped. “Would you mind telling Birdsong that her old friend Dusty Stone is here to see her.”
“I assume you mean Doctor Birdsong.”
“Doctor Birdsong, of course.” My eager grin didn't thaw her a bit, and she walked away quite deliberately.
It took five long minutes before April came back with Birdsong by her side, the pair of them giggling. At first, I hardly recognized her, but there was no mistaking Birdsong's voice.
“Well, well, well” she began. “Look what rolled in my front door.”
“Evening, Doctor.” I bowed. Back at the desk, April covered her mouth and snickered.
“I haven't seen you in years, Dusty. What gives? You get lost and wander in here by accident?”
“Nope, nope. Not lost at all. I came to see you.”
“Really. Say, how did you know I worked here?”
“Blue Skies and Crystal Refrain,” I said. “I used to work with Blue, and he still talks with Crystal. She knew you were here.”
“Huh.” She waited in skeptical silence. “And you're here because?”
“Oh, I popped in to see if an old friend would join me for dinner.” I paused. “Would she?”
“Uh-oh. What exactly are you up to?” She eyed me like I hung from the discount rack in a department store. “This isn't going to turn into one of those evenings where you drink yourself—what name did the gang give it—Stone stupid?”
I blushed, but the eavesdropping April choked on her suppressed laughter. She excused herself, coughing all the way.
“The days of drinking myself blotto are long gone, Birdsong. I'm a regular model citizen these days.” I crossed my heart. “Promise.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” She tapped her hoof while continuing to regard me with suspicion. “Well, I didn't have anything planned. As long as you're buying, I'm in.”
“Super,” I replied.
“Let me lock up my office and we'll head out.” She walked off but called back over her shoulder, “Oh, just so we're clear: I choose the restaurant.”
—❦—
After a quick negotiation we headed uptown to a place better than she could afford but not so expensive that I couldn't cover it. The restaurant was classy, with linen tablecloths and real flowers, but it was early in the evening, and there wasn't much of a crowd. Most of the diners were older so it was relatively quiet and conversing was easy.
“Gee, I almost didn't recognize you back there at the museum, Birdsong. What happened to that wild hairdo you had back in the day?”
“You don't like my hair now?” She flipped one of the long strands hanging alongside her neck.
“I didn't say that, it's just…” I backpedaled. “It's a little conservative isn't it? That is, compared to what you used to have.”
“Yeah, I lost that look after my first year in graduate school. One must make allowances for one's profession, you know. Plus, it was too much effort wrestling with all those curls.”
“I always thought they were natural.”
Birdsong laughed. “You've got a lot to learn, Mr. Stone.”
I was tongue-tied but to my relief she kept going.
“Dusty, you didn't drop by to critique my looks. So, honestly, why look me up after six years?”
“Well, I'm working on this little project at work, and I think you'd find it interesting.” I pulled out the clipboard filled with my inventory of room two and presented it to her. Birdsong hunched over the list as she leafed through it, absentmindedly twirling her hair. After ten or so pages, she glanced up without lifting her head.
“You do remember my specialty is ornithology not entomology.”
“Yeah, I know, but I don't know any entomologists—well—living ones that is.” She stared back at me vacantly. “All this stuff belonged to some old entomologist, dead for at least a century. Probably a royal researcher, filling up his boxes year after year till they finally put him in a box of his own.”
“Okay.” She drew the word out and leaned back before flipping through the inventory again. “But what do you want from me?”
“I'd like to know if you could work up an appraisal for the collection.”
She got quiet and skimmed another couple of pages. “You want my honest opinion?” she asked and I nodded. “The only place that would be interested in something like this would be the museum. A collection like this is priceless, but we never have any money. So, for you, it's next to worthless.” She slid the clipboard back to my side of the table.
I sat silently, trying to think of a way to salvage the mess. Birdsong believed the collection unsalable, and I had to agree. What pony in their right mind would buy a bunch of bugs, except the museum. But throwing out the old fellow's life work seem wasteful, especially if I'd end up breaking my back getting it up those stairs. I pondered the conundrum, and in the end, the solution seemed obvious. The problem would be getting everypony's buy in.
“What if I could get the collection to the museum for free?” I asked.
“That sounds like it's in our budget.” She cocked her head. “But why would you do that?”
“Well, my boss would love to make some bits, but I think even he'll admit there's no way to do it with a bug collection.” I leaned forward on the table. “Our customer doesn't care about money, not really. He cares about impressing the Princess. So let's say I concoct a story about the discovery of this long lost, fabulous collection—”
“I see,” she said. “And the museum director humbly accepts this regal gift—”
“Telling everypony about how priceless it is, but not forgetting to mention a nice inflated figure.” I grinned.
“Gotcha.” She reached across the table for the clipboard. “Let me get this to our resident entomologist. I'll tell her to put a fair value on it.” She winked. “Would two, maybe three, days be okay?”
“Great. I knew you could do it.” I shot her a satisfied smile. “But don't tell her where the bugs came from. I want to keep it mum for a while, since I'll need to work out the details with everypony involved.”
—❦—
When I got to the subbasement on Thursday morning, Wry's hat hung on its hook. He'd arrived early to finish room three. I told him I was in, and he stood around grousing while I tried to find the key to room four.
“I mean,” he said, “even if it was valuable at one time, how did they expect it to last down here? They tossed things in without a care. There's hardly an attempt to keep an aisle—” A key finally turned in the lock and he stopped yapping.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Let's see what's behind door number four.”
I opened the door, and if I hadn't known better, I would have thought I was back in room two. Wry roared in laughter and slapped me on the back.
“Have fun bug-boy.” He went to work, leaving me alone in the corridor.
The thought of another day with the bugs drained my energy. For a second, I considered offering Wry fifty bits to trade evens for odds, but he'd probably laugh in my face and call me a quitter. I summoned my determination, reached down, and grabbed my clipboard. But my resolve didn't last long, and I stood in front of the first cabinet for minutes, wishing I'd wake up from the bad dream. But the alarm never rang, and the wooden drawers refused to vanish. Well, I told myself, maybe tomorrow will be your lucky day.
So, it was back to the same old grind: list the drawers and copy the manifests. I got nervous, thinking that maybe this room didn't have them, so I yanked a drawer open. The drawer wasn't filled with bugs, but what it held made me wish I'd been looking at more beetles.
The long gone professor wasn't just an entomologist, he was an ornithologist too. Room four contained bird study skins. And while the drawers didn't contain manifests, they didn't need them. Each drawer held a different species of bird, their pitiful bodies trussed up, tags tied to their feet. I found myself standing in a veritable avian morgue. My stomach quivered.
I understood it was for science, but what compelling reason could you have to collect twenty-two of the same type of parrot? And the smaller a bird was, they seemed determined to kill more of them. I took a moment to calm down. It was time to be a professional. This was a job, like any other, and I had to get it over with, no matter what it was.
I came to the conclusion that the room full of birds held two consolations. First, the inventory involved far less writing than the bugs in room two. All I had to do here was copy a name from a tag and count corpses. My other consolation was thinking of Birdsong's reaction. When she saw the inventory, she'd probably buy me dinner.
As I worked, I became aware of a faint odor, like the stale feather pillows in my grandmother's guest bedroom. After a couple of hours, my eyes burned and my brain was a throbbing lump. By lunch I'd lost my appetite, but I still chatted with Wry.
“Hey, sorry for laughing at you,” he said, “I hate to see you have such rotten luck. Honest.”
“Whatever.” I tossed my sandwich to the side. “What about you? Anything good on your side today?”
“Pretty much the same as yesterday.” He chewed while he talked. “We'll get some money out of it. Not much, but some. But there's no way you and I will be able to drag this junk out of here by ourselves. There's too much and it's too heavy. We'll have to hire movers to get it to the warehouse. It'll eat into the profits.”
“Lovely.” I shook my head. “So we give half of it away and the other half's going to cost us to haul it out.”
“And clean,” Wry added. “All the upholstered stuff worth keeping is still going to need cleaning. Artwork too.”
I sat looking at my hooves, but saw nothing. “Boss is gonna love this.”
Wry smiled. “And who got us into this? Why, old Speedy himself. He's got only himself to blame, right?” Wry poked my shoulder when I didn't look up. He finished his sandwich while I moped in silence.
“Hey,” he said. “You think DeCamp knew what was in these rooms?”
I couldn't fathom his point and scowled at him.
“Call me paranoid”—he slid closer—“but I think this is a big setup. I'm betting DeCamp knew there was nothing but worthless junk down here all the time, and this is a con to get the joint cleaned out for free. I figure his boss doesn't even know about this, that it's just a way for DeCamp to look good by saving money. What do you think?”
“Doesn't matter.” Wry's imaginary conspiracy deepened my depression. “We're the free labor.”
But Wry wasn't about to let me wallow, not while there was work to be done. “All right,” he declared as he stood. “Break's over. Time to get back to your cemetery.”
I got up but didn't move. I didn't want to go back to the dead birds.
“Buck up, Dusty.” He gave me another good-natured poke. “I'm sure you'll finish in record time.”
I nodded and shuffled into room four.
—❦—
It wasn't close to record time, but I finished. Wry hung around, waiting for me, even though his room was done. We locked up and climbed the stairs to daylight. There wasn't much left to the day, but I needed sunlight. I just hoped I didn't see any birds on the walk home.
“So, you gonna stop by the museum tonight?” Wry asked.
“Naw, too late. Plus it will take a couple of days for them to get a value on the insects. I'll surprise Birdsong with the good news when I pick up the first list.” We stopped outside the castle's gate. The two of us usually went out on Thursdays for a pre-weekend celebration. We'd relax and have a few drinks, nothing special, just a chance to blow off steam. But I didn't feel up to it that night, so I broke the bad news.
“I'm going to pack it in tonight if you don't mind.” I'd no right to feel as tired as I did. After all, it wasn't like I'd lifted anything heavier than a pencil all day.
“Go ahead.” Wry patted me on the back. “I know you've had a rough one, pal. Go home and get yourself plenty of rest. We'll hit up a nice joint next week and make up for it.”
“Sure. Thanks,” I replied and he headed home.
I began my walk home, threading my way through the early evening crowds. Their faces became a blur and their conversations a murmur. I was numb to everything as I trudged down the sidewalk. When I arrived at my apartment door, I was genuinely surprised to find myself there. I got inside and let out a long sigh.
The table by the window was covered with junk, so I tossed my bags on the couch. I really needed to clean up the place, but decided to postpone the task till the weekend. After rummaging up a meal, I added grocery shopping to my to-do list.
When I finished eating, I pushed the bags out of the way and sprawled across the couch. I laid there, my eyes fixed on the drab ceiling. Five minutes passed. Then ten, and then fifteen. I thought I should read the paper or a book. Neither seemed appealing. Time crawled as I lay there. Exasperated, I gave up and went to bed earlier than I had in years.
But I didn't sleep. For hours I turned the bed sheets into knots as my body trashed and my mind buzzed. The last time I felt that wretched was in my senior year at school when I'd stayed up thirty-two hours studying for an exam. After the test, I plopped into bed, afraid I'd never sleep again. But I did. And like then, I dreamed.
I dreamt of crows and cardinals, orioles and owls, thrushes and terns, and every variety of sparrow imaginable. Their flocks stretched across the sprawling sky, screeching and squawking. Thousands of birds of packed my dream. Not one lay dead in drawer, not one imprisoned in a forgotten basement. Not like me.