When Spring Died

Chapter One

It's a well-known fact that firebirds do not live in Frantsiya. It's too warm. Too sunny. Too bright even for them, though they are creatures with feathers so lustrous and incandescent that they seem forged of fire itself.
They prefer the cold, the barren bitterness of tundras and snowy mountains. So that is why it was very odd when a firebird landed upon Ivette's windowsill and impatiently rapped on the windowpane with its gilded beak.

The sound startled Ivette so badly that the quill pen she held jerked across her half-written letter leaving an unsightly streak of ink.
She looked up, the crick in her neck from being bent over working for so long vanishing as she did so. A half gasp made its way up from her throat to her tongue when she saw the firebird.

Her first thought was simply...beautiful. She'd never seen a bird so large and elegant. Its feathers shone scarlet, gold, and orange, each one glossy and twinkling. It arched its neck proudly, and its eyes glittered like onyx beads. Crimson plumes crowned its head, and upon closer inspection, they reflected little bits of every color in the rainbow.

Ivette stood, fingertips splayed on the desk. She knew little of firebirds, but for a few rules: do not touch them, do not chase them, and under no circumstances must you ever try to catch them. There was no rule about letting them into your study, however. It gave another impatient rap upon the window.

Ivette didn't know if it was rude to decline a firebird's request to be let inside--though letting a bird inside the Marseille Palace sounded like a fine recipe for disaster. But firebirds weren't ordinary birds. They were rumored to have magical powers, the ability to bless those they deemed worthy. They were good omens. It couldn't be all that bad to let a good omen indoors. She just hoped it wouldn't make a mess of the place.

So Ivette hesitantly made her way over to the window and reached forward to unlatch it. She didn't know why, but she had almost convinced herself that no good could come of ignoring a firebird.
The window swung open. With a great beat of its gorgeous wings, the firebird flew inside, forcing Ivette to stand back lest it run straight into her.

The plumes of its tail were long and curled at the end, trailing far after it like a banner as it made a full circle around the room before alighting on the desk with ease.
Again Ivette hesitated. Now what? What is one exactly supposed to do after letting a firebird inside? It couldn't have a singular purpose in showing itself to her. So she thought.

The firebird ruffled its feathers and regarded Ivette with intelligent eyes. Slowly, it craned its neck low and bowed.

Even more bewildered by a bird demonstrating decorum, Ivette could only gape in astonishment. At least she did until the bird ruffled its feathers in an agitated way, and she realized that it waited for her to respond in kind. She dropped into a curtsy. The bird seemed to like that. It settled more comfortably onto the desk, folding its wings neatly by its side.

Ivette wandered closer in a kind of daze. She had an uncontrollable urge to touch the bird's head, to see if its feathers were as soft and smooth as they looked. Don't touch a firebird. That was the rule. Ivette forced her itching hands to stay folded in front of her, her fingers pinching at her dress.

"You're an awfully long way from home," she said. It felt foolish talking to the bird, seeing as it had no way to respond. But what else was she supposed to do? It made no signs to leave. "Ryssland, correct? That's very far north of here. What a lengthy flight."

The bird, in typical bird fashion, didn't answer. But with a small tossing of its head, Ivette felt that it agreed wholeheartedly with her deductions.

Half to herself, Ivette said, "I wonder why you have come to me. An accident perhaps."