The Aviary by Kathleen O'Dell Page A

was about to say she found it upstairs, but the bird in her hands trembled so violently that even Harriet was dismayed. Citrine stretched her neck and chanted her
tsips
so shrilly that Clara wanted to cover her ears.
    “Perhaps Citrine wasn’t ready for all that exertion,” said her mother, dropping the sock back into the basket. “She seems distressed.”
    As suddenly as she started, Citrine stopped.
    “You’re right, Mama. I’ll put her back.”
    “But first, Clara, what about the stocking?”
    Clara thought quickly. “I was hoping you would tell me,” she said. The look on her mother’s face showed that she was not prepared with an answer.
    “I want to know where
you
found it.”
    “In Mrs. Glendoveer’s room. I sometimes go thereand sit at my old desk. We spent so much time together there.”
    Her mother pulled in her chin. “I never saw such a thing in her room. Are you sure?”
    “Where else would I find it?” Clara asked. She waited while her mother considered.
    “I suppose it’s an antique of some sort,” she said at last. “It’s no matter, then.”
    “I’ll take Citrine now,” Clara said. As she walked away, she marveled at how easily she could fib to her mother. Only a few months before, she would have been mortified at the thought.
    Clara held Citrine to eye level. “Do you think I’m a bad girl?”
    “Tsip!”
    “No?”
    “Tsip!”
    “I think you idealize me, Citrine. I hardly know who I am at times.” At this, a cloud overtook Clara, and she felt horribly guilty.
    She set the bird back in her elaborate cage and fastened down the dome. Citrine fluttered up to her swing for the first time. She lifted her tail up and down, shifting her weight until the swing began to move.
    “Tsip! Tsip! Tsip! Tsip!”
    It was a charming diversion, and Clara couldn’t help but feel lighter.
    “You’re such a pretty clown, aren’t you?”
    “Tsip-tsip!” cried Citrine.
    If only all the other birds were this delightful
, thought Clara. And then, despite her best intentions, her thoughts turned toward tomorrow and the hope that Ruby and her mother would find some business to take them out of the house in the morning.

Harriet and Ruby were surprised to see Clara awake and washed up, stoking the fire in the oven, before the sun rose.
    “I’m making breakfast for you,” she said. “I decided it’s time I stopped being the baby of the family and helped out.” In truth, Clara couldn’t lie in bed any longer, so excited was she about the possibility of seeing Daphne. But she did think helping out was a good step forward in allowing her mother to see her less as a child.
    “That is quite thoughtful of you,” said her mother, “but I don’t like you carrying in the wood. It’s heavy. And may I warn you that you are
never
to chop wood?”
    “Yes, Mama,” Clara said.
    “Because I know how it is. You’re my daughter after all. It is tempting to overexert, but you don’t have the luxury. You must take care.”
    Clara tried to hide her irritation. “Most people consider it a luxury to lay about with a book and listen to the clock tick—which I’ve done more days than I can count.”
    “It is a bit inside out,” agreed Ruby.
    “We bend to circumstance and necessity,” said her mother. “Heaven forbid …” She trailed off. “Never mind.”
    Lately, Clara had been wandering up and down stairs more than ever before. The excitement of uncovering clues, scurrying, and then controlling her breathing so as not to betray her increased activity had actually increased her energy. If her heart pounded, it seemed to be from passion rather than a defect in that organ.
    “Mama,” Clara said as she set the table, “do you think it’s time I saw a doctor?”
    “Unless you feel particularly ill, I don’t see why.”
    “Because I’m thinking that maybe my heart has healed. I’m rarely bothered by it. Maybe I had some childhood ailment I’ve outgrown.”
    Her mother crossed her arms.