I stop and act casual until Calvin relaxes and gets back to bullying the others. He’s not close, but I can tell he’s forgotten about me, so I lunge and get him by one of his legs. And of course he’s flapping and struggling hard, trying to pull his body away, but I position him in my arms and pull him into my body. I take him over to the bench where I’ve left the knife, sit him in my lap, and pet him. And when he’s nice and calm I say thank you, like Rose taught me to, find the place where his jaw meets his beak, place the knife in a tiny gap between feathers directly against his skin, and cut his throat. The knife is sharp; the only thing that could prevent it from slipping easily through the slim column of skin and tendon and muscle and organs is doubt. Hesitation causes unnecessary suffering at moments like these, so you have to cut with complete conviction or not at all. He’s completely still for a second while gooey red blood spits onto the grass in a stream the thickness of a nickel. Then his body spasms and his wings try to flap, but I’ve got him hard on my lap. And when his body is still again I take his head and pull it back, breaking his neck, and with a final twist pull off his head.

I hoist the pot of steaming water off the stove and into the yard and dip the carcass into it by its scaly feet. After a few seconds in the water, I loop a length of twine around one of the feet, hang it from a low tree branch, and start pulling the sodden feathers away from the bumpy skin. Rose comes over and hands me a burlap bag.

“Sorry.” I’ve forgotten to bring it out and the feathers are starting to make a mess.

“It’s all right, junior. Just pay more attention next time.”

Rose does all this for the Swans but not for me. Which is fine. I kind of like doing it. Not in a serial-killer way. It just makes me feel like I can take care of myself. And the exposed skin, the swollen dotted lines that cover it—it feels like something I have to face up to.

“So you’ve been mouthing off to Mrs. Tyburn . . .”

“What’d I say?”

“You called her Cruella de Vil. To her face.”

“She killed a bee.” Rose appears unmoved. “They’re endangered!”

Rose takes a deep breath in, like she’s about to lay some heavy shit on me, even though I totally already know what she’s going to say. “Mind you, you’re a guest here. And Mrs. Tyburn’s peculiar project keeps you in chicken and pie. Keeps body and soul together.”

Something about that last thing strikes me as funny.