Page 53 of The House of Quiet

Chapter Forty-Five

A Bird Revealed

The doctor stares at Birdie over the rectangular lenses of his glasses, bushy eyebrows sprouting in all directions. How did she ever think he was the type of man who would help her?

She was just so desperate. And she’d been raised in a community that believes in helping.

She should have learned by now that those in power don’t feel the same.

To them, young people are an acceptable sacrifice, every time.

Sent to work to help support families with almost nothing when a few families have nearly everything.

Put through an unpredictable and dangerous procedure in order to have hopes of a better future—but one that’s tracked and controlled.

Or simply stolen and never returned, in the case of young people from the north.

“If you don’t want to talk here,” Dr.Bramble says, gesturing to the finely furnished bedroom around them, “I can give you to the House Wife. How did you survive the procedure?”

Birdie sits on the sofa at the end of the bed. “I don’t know.”

“Interesting.” He opens a little pad and writes with a stubby oil pencil. It makes sense that he wouldn’t assume she’s lying. He doesn’t understand how she survived; how could a silly maid ever know more than someone of his standing?

“And what did the procedure do to you?” he asks.

“Do you want me to describe how it made me feel?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “No, I don’t care about that.”

Birdie hates him. It’s not a sharp or urgent hate, but a low, weary hatred. Of him, and every man like him. They don’t care what anything costs, only what it produces. Only how it benefits them.

“You mean what ability I have now.”

“Yes.” He looks up again in intent anticipation.

“I don’t have one.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snaps.

“It didn’t do anything, after the initial burst of pain and disorientation.” She puts it in absurdly mild and clinical terms, trying to sound reasonable to him.

He reaches out for her hand. She wants to flinch away from his touch, but she wants to survive even more.

He notes something down. Then he reaches into his large bag and pulls out a long, thick needle.

Before she has time to wonder what it does, he pokes it into her arm.

This time she does flinch. He puts the needle away and writes something else.

“We can rule out empathic abilities. I’m not getting any stray emotions from you, and I assume if you were feeling what your friends are feeling, you’d be insensible. ”

He’s assuming too little steel in her spine and heart. She lets him. He pulls out a stopwatch and is quiet for a full minute as he holds her wrist, watching the seconds tick by. Then he drops her hand, replaces the stopwatch, and takes another note.

“No mind reading, either, or you’d be extremely upset by what I was thinking.”

Now Birdie’s pulse picks up. What is he thinking about?

What can she do to protect everyone? She saw what that terrifying blond girl can do.

Forest was their only hope, but the doctor dealt with him already.

She has to believe Forest will be all right, but fear clings to her.

She can’t shake the image of him lying prone.

She’d gotten used to his quiet strength.

Why couldn’t the procedure have given her a weapon? As always, Birdie can only listen and watch and wait, hoping against hope she finds an advantage on her own somehow. No shortcuts for Birdie, ever.

The door opens. Hawthorn drags in Arrow and shoves her into the corner. Arrow crouches there like a wounded animal. In Hawthorn’s free hand, he holds a black box, small enough to be tucked into a trunk. Or a doctor’s bag as he makes house calls to wealthy families.

“Iron will hurt the others if you don’t do exactly what we tell you to,” Hawthorn says to Arrow. Then he turns to the doctor. “Well?”

“Nothing.”

Hawthorn frowns. “She might have one of the stranger ones. They don’t manifest as clearly.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps there’s a simpler explanation, as there nearly always is. You didn’t do the procedure correctly.”

Hawthorn visibly bristles at the suggestion. “I did.”

“Then why didn’t you see it through to the end and take notes?”

“One of the children downstairs started screaming. I didn’t want to risk discovery before you arrived.”

“So what you are telling me is that you did not, in fact, do it correctly. Which explains Birdie’s survival and lack of ability.”

Hawthorn’s jaw twitches. “The machine could be broken.”

“If you have a hypothesis, let’s test it. On her.” Dr.Bramble points to Arrow.

“Please,” Birdie says. “Arrow’s too old. It will kill her.”

“Or perhaps she’ll be remarkable, like you.” Dr.Bramble lifts an eyebrow, daring her to contradict him. So that’s it. He didn’t believe her after all. And he’s going to sacrifice Arrow to call her bluff.

But the reason Birdie survived is unconscious in the other room.

Forest won’t be here to call Arrow back from wherever that terrible noise sends her.

She doesn’t even know if he could. He doesn’t mean the same to Arrow that he does to Birdie.

And River can’t find Arrow in time if nothing is holding her here.

“Please don’t do this,” Birdie says again.

Arrow locks eyes with Birdie. Birdie knows her friend is afraid, but there’s no evidence of it.

Arrow’s chin is up, her eyes bold, her mouth firm.

Hawthorn grabs her arm and pushes her into a chair while he prepares his instruments.

A handle is inserted into the box, and he cranks it rapidly for a full minute.

Inside the box are wires connected to two metal prongs.

Hawthorn attaches those to Arrow’s temples with a sticky coating of glue.

Birdie reaches up to her own temples and finds the residue. None of them noticed.

How many wealthy children did the doctor do this to in order to force the ministers to use the House of Quiet?

“Survive,” Arrow says to Birdie, holding her gaze. “For Magpie. And for me.”

Birdie nods, trying not to cry. She glares at the doctor and wonders how his mind works that he can do these things without caring about the damage. And then, at last, she understands what’s different. Because she can see . Maybe her eyes have adjusted, or maybe her desperation unlocked the answer.

Dr.Bramble doesn’t shimmer brightly like her friends in the other room, but there’s still a hint of something there. He has channels in his mind. Dry streambeds that have always been there, old and calcified over now.

That’s what the procedure does. It opens those existing channels and lets information flow freely through them. It creates abilities out of senses that were only ever meant to be subtle ways for people to love and connect with and understand each other.

But instead of a gentle trickle, the procedure creates a torrent. It takes advantage of something natural by turning it unnatural and overwhelming, and it works only on brains young enough to adapt to the trauma.

The doctor has not so much as a drop of energy or thought going through those channels in his mind. No part of him is curious about others’ experiences, or concerned about their well-being, or willing to consider anything other than himself and his own goals.

If Birdie can see those channels even when they’re not in use, though…

“I’ll take over from here,” Dr.Bramble says, standing. Hawthorn glares but moves out of the way. The innocuous-looking box is on the table next to Arrow’s chair. It holds what they tried to kill Birdie with. What they’ll kill Arrow with next, all so they can see what happens.

“I know what it did to me.” Birdie stands and steps toward the doctor.

He turns with a smug, satisfied smile. His gambit worked. “And?”

“I’ll show you.” Birdie brushes a finger against his forehead. An instant is all she needs to find one very specific channel. It’s the same one she saw in Dawn this morning. She needs in , though. Not out . There. With a push, Birdie blasts it open.

Just like that, Dr.Bramble now has empathy so strong he can’t deny or turn away from or close himself off to others’ emotions.

All the feelings in this house, the power and intensity of a group of young people suffering and dreaming and hoping and loving and fearing together, slam into him like an avalanche.

He crumples to the floor, broken, his brain too old and rigid to grow around the same thing he’s forced on countless children in order to line other men’s pockets.

Or he might be dead. It doesn’t matter. Birdie isn’t sorry.

Men like him look at her and see something small and fragile, but they never stop to wonder what type of bird she might be.

Birdie isn’t even her real name. It’s a nickname from Magpie, who couldn’t pronounce Kestrel.

A falcon known for hovering silently and waiting until exactly the right moment to strike.

There’s a surprised whimper. Birdie looks up to see Hawthorn holding a scalpel to Arrow’s throat. “Stay there or she dies,” he growls as he drags Arrow backward out of the room, slams the door, and locks it.