Page 21 of Harnessed in Gold

Rak-kak.

“Hi,” I breathe.

Wings folded, it’s about the size of a man’s outstretched hand. It holds itself steady by wrapping its twiggy, black feet tightly around Rime’s finger. Meanwhile, the one on his shoulder takes off into the air, flaunting a wingspan twice the length of its body. I watch it swoop over the river, the tips of its striped wings slicing two parallel, frothing wakes in the water.

With a soft rattle, the remaining kingfisher calls for my attention. “He wants me to admire him, doesn’t he?”

“She,” Rime corrects with a smile. “And yes, she does.”

She fluffs her wings and fans out the dark gray crest on her head.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell her.

“You can touch her,” says Rime.

“Where?”

“Her chest.”

The thought of petting a wild bird both scares and thrills me. I reach out with tentative fingers, giggling nervously when she puffs out her chest. Her feathers are softer than they look, smooth and downy. I stroke her from the neck to the red-brown ‘belt’ across her belly. She preens and ruffles her crest.

When she spreads her wings, I step back to give her space and watch as she soars up into the sky. Touching her was a lot like hugging that hemlock with Leo. All that incredible natural energy. Untamed, balanced, free.

I meet Rime’s hawk eyes. “That was amazing.”

He nods as he replaces his glamour.

“And your ring does that?”

“Yes.” Hands in his jacket pockets, he resumes walking. “It channels the weaving bond.”

I frown. He said that already. “But how? I mean, did you actually talk to them? Like, ‘Hey, kingfishers! Come on over here?’”

Rime laughs, a full-on, throw-back-the-head laugh. “Ah, little psychic, I love how curious you are.”

Unfortunately, my reaction to his compliment isn’t to thank him, but to think of Leo. About how amused he always was when I got too inquisitive, his eyes sparkling with a scholar’s delight. That is, until I asked something abouthim. Then the sparkle went black.

Rime slows his pace when he notices I have to take three steps for his every two. “The birds and I are bonded,” he explains. “We have a connection that doesn’t need words.”

“So it’s more intuitive, then?”

“Yeah, it might be a little different for everyone, but for me, I just envision what I’d like the birds to do.”

“And they do it?”

“If they’re willing.”

“And they can talk back to you?”

“Yes, in the same sort of way. I see what they see or feel what they feel.”

“That’s incredible,” I murmur, imagining what sort of messages the birds might send him. “So, why birds?”

Or trees?

Or snakes? Ugh.

Rime shrugs and smiles, his gaze far away. “Because since I was a child, I felt connected to them. It’s what happens to most of us. We spend as much of our childhood as we can just roaming around out in nature, and usually by the time we’re about ten or so, we start to feel drawn to a particular species.”