The True Confessions of a Nine-Tailed Fox

Chapter 84: Miss Overgrown Taila

"Little friend! Thou hast returned! Here, I have some rice for thee."

As usual, after flying for an entire day to reach Lychee Grove, I headed straight to Miss Overgrown Taila's house for dinner. As usual, she set aside her sewing to pour rice on the windowsill for me, and watched me eat with a face full of wonder. I didn't get the point of watching a common sparrow peck at a handful of uncooked rice grains, but hey, as long as she kept feeding me, I wasn't complaining.

After I'd eaten my fill, I spread my wings to take off as usual – and then hesitated. I'd promised Flicker that I wouldn't go charging off for Honeysuckle Croft at once, that I'd give life in Lychee Grove a try first. If I stayed here longer than a day or so, Miss Overgrown Taila would be a useful food source, er, ally.

Flipping my wings across my back, I hopped one step closer to her, cocked my head, and chirped.

Her eyes lit up, and she chirped back, surprisingly well. Slowly, she extended her right forefinger. "Come, little friend. I won't hurt thee."

Hmm. How much did I trust her? She might not have thrown a net over me while I ate, but she could still wring my neck and take me downstairs for her mother to cook. Or she might grab me too hard and snap my bones by accident.

With another chirp, I sidestepped her hand. Before her face could fall, though, I flew into the room and landed on the table next to her sewing box. Skeins of colored cotton thread and a partially-embroidered purse peeked out of it. The cotton thread I dismissed at once – everyone knew that the only thread worth embroidering with was glossy, brightly-dyed silk as fine as hair – but the design on the purse caught my eye. The cotton might have been thick and dull, but the execution was reasonable, and there was something appealing about the way she'd captured the sway of the peony blossoms and the flutter of bird wings. You could practically see them move. Had she copied a painting, perhaps? That had been common in Cassius' time.

I glanced back at the young woman. She was sitting very still by the window, hardly breathing as she watched me. No, as she watched my wings, my head, the play of light across my feathers.

Taila would never have sat still for so long. She'd have lunged at me five minutes ago, squealing, "Mr. Sparrow!" Then she'd have grabbed me, snapped both wings in the process, and started wailing even more loudly than I could have screamed. Ah, Taila.

Maybe it was a good thing that Miss Overgrown Taila was so much more subdued. Even if that patient intensity were a bit unsettling.

In a chunky earthenware jug on the table were two pink peonies, tied together with a reed. A scrap of parchment with writing on it peeked out from under the jug. Watching Miss Overgrown Taila out of the corner of my eye, I hopped over, took it in my beak, and yanked it out all the way.

A rustle. My head jerked around. Miss Overgrown Taila had risen halfway out of her chair, one hand outstretched, anxious lest I ruin the parchment, I supposed. Since she wasn't attacking me, I went back to my inspection.

Decent calligraphy, I noted automatically. The writer had obviously developed their own style, sort of connected and ribbony, which made it a little hard to read but not illegible by any means. You could tell a lot about someone from their calligraphy. This person – hmm, yes, definitely the artsy sort, probably someone who wore their hair a little too long, and their tunic a little too loose, who made all the old folks cluck, "In my day, we'd never – !" Satisfied that I'd pinpointed the writer's personality from just their handwriting, I turned my attention to the content conveyed by aforementioned calligraphy.