Page 47 of The Frozen River

“Percy,” I whisper.

There are only three falconers in the territory of Maine, and only one in Hallowell. Ephraim is the only one who practices mounted falconry. So, when I say the bird’s name, Joseph North loses all bluster and turns his horse away.

“I thought you wanted to speak with my husband?” I call after him. “As you can see, he is home now.”

“It’s getting late,” North says, gravel in his throat. “I’ve no time left to dither.”

On horseback, at a brisk walk, it will take four hours to reach Vassalboro. There is no chance he and Lidia can make it before nightfall. Which means they must find shelter along the way, or ride after dark.

“Pity,” I say, loud enough that Lidia can hear. “I am certain my husband would love to speak with you about your visits this week.”

“Cicero, come!” North snaps. He neither looks at me nor bids me farewell. The mongrel trots after him, skinny rump wagging with each step. North has met up with his wife, halfway to the tree line, when I see another horse and rider emerge. My heart soars for one brief second until I realize that it is not my husband.

Moses Pollard is riding his father’s favorite stud and wearing his Sunday best. He has a bouquet of bright red sumac berries in one hand and a silly grin on his face.

“Oh good grief,” I whisper.

Percy tightens his grip on the garden gate, and I hear the scratch of talon against wood. The jesses dangle from his feet, all twelve inches swaying back and forth as he watches the young man approach.

Moses has noticed the bird as well, and he pulls up ten feet from the gate. His horse prances uneasily.

“Did you pass Ephraim on the drive?” I ask.

“No.”

Moses dismounts, holding the bouquet awkwardly in one hand as he gathers the reins in the other. He clears his throat, uncertain how to proceed now that he knows Hannah’s father is not at home. It is obvious he has not prepared for this possibility.

Percy, however, is growing impatient and squawks loudly, bobbing his head.

“He’s hungry,” I explain.

For a moment Moses’s eyes grow round with alarm, and I realize he’s taken it to mean I might set the bird on him.

“Hannah!” I call, then tighten my lips to stop from laughing when Moses pales. Oh, how faint grows the heart of man when he plucks it—still beating—from his chest and lays it at the foot of a woman. When my daughter appears in the doorway I say, “You have company. And please send Cyrus out with one of those roosters. Percy is hungry.”

Hannah’s cheeks bloom with happy color when she sees Moses. She smiles at him, he returns the gesture, and I know that all is lost. There will be a wedding within the year.

“Is Father home?” she asks, looking at the bird.

“I don’t know. But I have to get Percy to his mews.”

Hannah ducks inside and returns a moment later with Cyrus, who is holding a plucked bird by the neck.

He smiles and dangles it above the ground. There is a teasing glint in those hazel eyes that suggests he might lob the bird right at Moses just to see what happens. Hannah is his little sister after all. He can’t make it easy for her suitor.

Under different circumstances I might let him toy with Moses. “Toss it in front of the gate,” I tell Cyrus. “Before he comes at you.”

The chicken lands with a wet flop exactly where Cyrus intends. I back away when Percy launches off the gate and starts to savage his lunch right there on the path.

“Moses, why don’t you go inside with Cyrus and Hannah and have some tea? I’ll get Percy put away in the mill and will join you shortly.”

“Of course, Mistress Ballard,” he says, tying the reins and easing through the gate. He keeps a wide berth, careful not to watch the carnage, then follows the others into the house. He would come calling on an afternoon in which it is impossible to keep any sense of decorum. At least they will have a story to tell their children one day. Carefully, I ease to the side and wash the blood from my hands.

I am not ashamed to admit that I wait too long to collect Percy. I am hoping Ephraim will come down the drive at any moment and relieve me of the duty. But he does not come, and there is no sound of hooves anywhere in the woods. It grows quieter and colder by the moment.

“I am going to speak with your master about this,” I say, pulling the shawl off my shoulders. It isn’t enough protection, I know that, but it’s better than nothing, and I wrap it around my left forearm. Percy could crush my arm with one ferocious squeeze of those talons. He could rip through flesh and bone. But surely Ephraim’s training isn’t for naught? This is what I tell myself as I hold my breath, close my eyes, turn my face away, and extend my left forearm at a right angle from my side. No sooner does it come to a halt than a wall of air and beating wings hits my face.

I ease the door to Percy’s mews open with my foot. He did not, in fact, wound me. Most likely because I did exactly as I have seen Ephraim do a thousand times. Once Percy was stable on my arm, I looped the fingers of my right hand between his legs—just above his talons—then lifted him off my arm. After that it was only a matter of securing the jesses and walking, arm extended, down to the mill.