It was far too early in the morning for the shop to be open, but Alvin went straight for the taxidermist's anyway. What other business could Arthur Stuart have? Mike's guess that Arthur had found a girl was not likely to be right– the boy almost never left Alvin's side, so there'd been no chance for such a thing, even if Arthur was old enough to want to try.

The streets were crowded with farmers from the surrounding countryside, bringing their goods to market, but the shops in buildings along the streets were still closed. Paperboys and postmen made their rounds, and dairymen clattered up the alleys, stopping to leave milk in the kitchens along the way. It was noisy on the streets, but it was the fresh noise of morning. No one was shouting yet. No neighbors quarreling, no barkers selling, no driver shouting out a warning to clear the way.

No Arthur at the front door of the taxidermy shop.

But where else would he have gone? He had a question, and he wouldn't rest until he had the answer. Only it wasn't the taxidermist who had the answer, was it? It was the French painter of birds, John-James. And somewhere inside the shop, there was bound to be a note of the man's address. Would Arthur really be so foolhardy as to…

There was indeed an open window, with two crates on a barrel stacked beneath it. Arthur Stuart, it's no better to be taken for a burglar than to be taken for a slave.

Alvin went to the back door. He twisted the knob. It turned a little, but not enough to draw back the latch. Locked, then.

Alvin leaned against the door and closed his eyes, searching with his doodlebug till he found the heartfire inside the shop. There he was, Arthur Stuart, bright with life, hot with adventure. Like so many times before, Alvin wished he had some part of Margaret's gift, to see into the heartfire and learn something of the future and past, or even just the thoughts of the present moment– that would be convenient.

He dared not call out for Arthur– his voice would only raise an alarm and almost guarantee that Arthur would be caught inside the shop. For all Alvin knew the taxidermist lived upstairs or in an upper floor of one of the nearby buildings.

So now he put his doodlebug inside the lock, to feel out how the thing was made. An old lock, not very smooth. Alvin evened out the rough parts, peeling away corrosion and dirt. To change the shape of it was easier than moving it, so where two metal surfaces pressed flat against each other, keeping the latch from opening, Alvin changed them both to a bevel, making the metal flow into the new shapes, until the two surfaces slid easily across each other. With that he could turn the knob, and silently the latch slid free.

Still he did not open the door, for now he had to turn his attention to the hinges. They were rougher and dirtier than the lock. Did the man even use this door? Alvin smoothed and cleaned them also, and now, when he turned the knob and pushed open the door, the only sound was the whisper of the breeze passing into the shop.

Arthur Stuart sat at the taxidermist's worktable, holding a bluejay between his hands, stroking the feathers. He looked up at Alvin and said, softly, “It isn't even dead.”

Alvin touched the bird. Yes, there was some warmth, and a heartbeat. The shot that stunned it was still lodged in its skull. The brain was bruised and the bird would soon die of it, even though none of the other birdshot that had hit it would be fatal.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Alvin. “The address of the painter?”

“No,” said Arthur bleakly.

Alvin went to work on the bird, quickly as he could. It was more delicate than metal work, moving his doodlebug through the pathways of a living creature, making tiny alterations here and there. It helped him to hold the animal, to touch it while he worked on it. The blood in the brain was soon draining into the veins, and the damaged arteries were closed. The flesh healed rapidly under the tiny balls of lead, forcing them back out of the body. Even the ball lodged in the skull shrank, loosened, dropped out.

The jay rustled its feathers, struggled in Alvin's grasp. He let it loose.

“They'll just kill it anyway,” said Alvin.

“So we'll let it out,” said Arthur.

Alvin sighed. “Then we'd be thieves, wouldn't we?”

“The window's open,” said Arthur. “The blue jay can leave after the man comes in this morning. So he'll think it escaped on its own.”

“And how will we get the bird to do that?”

Arthur looked at him like he was an idiot, then leaned close to the bluejay, which stood still on the worktable. Arthur whispered so softly that Alvin couldn't hear the words. Then he whistled, several sharp birdlike sounds.

The jay leapt into the air and flapped noisily around the room. Alvin ducked to avoid it.

“He's not going to hit you,” said Arthur, amused.

“Let's go,” said Alvin.

He took Arthur through the back door. When he drew it closed, he stayed for just a moment longer, his fingers lingering on the knob, as he returned the pieces of the lock to their proper shape.

“What are you doing here!” The taxidermist stood at the turn of the alley.

“Hoping to find you in, sir,” said Alvin calmly, not taking his hand off the knob.

“With your hand on the knob?” said the taxidermist, his voice icy with suspicion.

“You didn't answer to our knock,” said Alvin. “I thought you might be so hard at work you didn't hear. All we want is to know where we might find the journeyman painter. The Frenchman. John-James.”

“I know what you wanted,” said the taxidermist. “Stand away from the door before I call the constable.”

Alvin and Arthur stepped back.

“That's not good enough,” said the taxidermist. “Skulking at back doors– how do I know you don't plan to knock me over the head and steal from me as soon as I have the door unlocked?”

“If that was our plan, sir,” said Alvin, “you'd already be lying on the ground and I'd have the key in my hand, wouldn't I?”

“So you did have it all thought out!”

“Seems to me you're the one who has plans for robbing,” said Alvin. “And then you accuse others of wanting to do what only you had thought of.”

Angrily the man pulled out his key and slid it into the lock. He braced himself to twist hard, expecting the corroded metal to resist. So he visibly staggered when the key turned easily and the door slipped open silently.

He might have stopped to examine the lock and the hinges, but at that moment the bluejay that had spent the night slowly dying on his worktable fluttered angrily in his face and flew out the door. “No!” the man shouted. “That's Mr. Ridley's trophy!”

Arthur Stuart laughed. “Not much of a trophy,” he said. “Not if it won't hold still.”

The taxidermist stood in the doorway, looking for the bird. It was long gone. He then looked back and forth from Alvin to Arthur. “I know you had something to do with this,” he said. “I don't know what or how, but you witched up that bird.”

“No such thing,” said Alvin. “When I arrived here I had no idea you kept living birds inside. I thought you only dealt with dead ones.”

“I do! That bird was dead!”

“John-James,” said Alvin. “We want to see him before we leave town.”

“Why should I help you?” said the taxidermist.

“Because we asked,” said Alvin, “and it would cost you nothing.”

“Cost me nothing? How am I going to explain to Mr. Ridley?”

“Tell him to make sure his birds are dead before he brings them to you,” said Arthur Stuart.

“I won't have such talk from a Black boy,” said the taxidermist. “If you can't control your boy, then you shouldn't bring him out among gentlemen!”

“Have I?” asked Alvin.

“Have you what?”

“Brought him out among gentlemen?” said Alvin. “I'm waiting to see the courtesy that would mark you as such a one.”