The Book Without Words Read Free

He barely speaks to me.”
    The bird leaped atop the girl’s head and gave her nose a rap with his beak. “Stupid girl—if he reveals the secret, we can live like lords.”
    Sybil wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Odo, four months ago he took me in from the streets. I’m his servant. Nothing more.”
    “Sit up!”
    When Sybil pushed herself up, the bird dropped to her knees and peered up into her face. She stared back at him. Odo was almost two feet long, from black, curved beak, to hunched back, to stiff tail. Though his black feathers were without sheen, his eyes wer bright as polished ebony. His talons were sharp.
    “Sybil,” he croaked, “you’re an orphan. You’re attached to no one. Not to me. Not to anyone. Do you think—when he dies—that anyone will give you food and shelter?”
    Sybil considered the raven’s words. When Master had taken her up, she was grateful. Oddly, all he had cared about was her age. As for his house, it mattered nothing to her that it was filthy and chaotic. Nor did she mind the work, any more than she considered Thorston’s silent, reclusive life. Winter was approaching. She had a roof above. Something to eat. It was enough.
    As for Odo—at first she had found it odd that he talked. But from the moment she had arrived the bird had belittled her, bossed her about. Though self-effacing to Master, he never said a kind word to her—he was ever snide or cynical. But wasn’t that the way people always talked to her? It might as well be so with a bird. Though she didn’t trust him, she had to admit he was right: if Master died, she’d have even less than she had now.
    She looked about. In the dim light she could see the little room that was her domain: cold and dirty stone walls. No windows. A straw pallet. A few rusty iron pots and cracked wooden spoons. Some chipped clay pots that contained food: dry, salted fish; cabbage; turnip bits; and barley grains. A damp, dreary chill that made her shiver. She supposed Odo was correct: it could get worse.
    “Odo,” she said, “please, is Master truly dying?”
    “Do not all men die? And when he does,” said the raven, “I suppose even brainless girls like you might appreciate some gold.”
    “You’re mocking me.”
    “Sybil, listen!” cried the bird. “He has made gold. I’m sure of it. If we don’t find it, or learn how he makes it, we’ll have to steal to stay alive. Get caught stealing, and Master Bashcroft, the city reeve, will put us in jail and hang us.”
    “I haven’t told you,” said Sybil, “but Master has been sending me to the apothecary quite often.”
    “Of course he did! He was working on the gold-making secret.”
    “When I bought those things Master wanted—gargoyle ears, spider legs—the apothecary began asking questions about him.”
    “Mistress Weebly is a meddlesome fool.”
    “But the last time I went, Master Bashcroft watched me from the street.”
    “You should have told me,” said the bird. “The moment that vast man learns of Master Thorston’s death and discovers there’s no heir, he’ll seize the house. He won’t care dead slugs about a stupid servant girl and a raven that can’t fly. He’ll throw us onto the streets. In less than two weeks we’ll be dead, dumped into shallow paupers’ graves, and left to rot and stink. I suppose even you can hope for something more than death.”
    Sybil rubbed her eyes, her nose. “All right,” she said after a few moments. “I’ll go to him.”
    7

    Sybil padded down the dim hallway into the large front room. The wooden floor, worn and uneven, was icy to her bare feet. Odo came right behind, his claws tip-tapping as he hopped along.
    Candlelight revealed the clutter: Thorston’s apparatus—pestles, bone cups, mortars, vials, kuttrolf bottles, flagons, and funnels—lay strewn about. Tilted and broken shelves were laden with glass jars, wooden boxes, and clay vessels. Books, screeds, and parchment had been cast about at random.