It was snowing, but only lightly, and the roads were fine, so I made good time. And while my shoulder wasn’t back to normal, it didn’t hurt as long as I refrained from raising my hand too high or trying to lift anything heavy.

St. Byblig’s was a quaint little gray stone building nestled into the side of a hill on the outskirts of Caerphilly. The roofs were covered with snow, the surrounding grove of evergreens all had a light dusting of snow that outlined every needle, and the whole thing looked like a picture postcard. Well, except for the long line of people well bundled in overcoats and down jackets, trudging into the church with their gloved hands empty and then out again, each carrying a snowy white duck. It was a memorable scene, and a reporter from The Caerphilly Clarion was taking pictures to document it.

The line continued down to a small panel truck from the Shiffley Construction Company, parked at the foot of the church steps. Here the process was reversed—people walked in carrying ducks and walked out empty-handed, to join the procession back into the church.

I parked my car as close to the door as I could, and peeked into the panel truck on my way into the church. Someone had done a quick conversion job with chicken wire and a rough door frame, transforming most of the space inside the truck into a giant duck cage.

“Morning, Meg.” Inside the truck, Caroline Willner was minding the gate, holding it open just enough for each arriving human to tuck his or her duck inside, and then shutting it so the ducks already in residence couldn’t escape.

“Where are they going?” I asked.

“Down to the zoo for now,” she said. “Your grandfather’s got his men clearing out some space.”

“Odds are they won’t have to stay there long,” I said. “Sooner or later, some farmer is going to wake up and notice his ducks are gone.”

“I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already,” she said. “Of course, when someone does show up, we’ll need some proof of ownership. No way we’re just going to turn over several hundred valuable Pekin ducks to any old person who shows up claiming to have lost some. We’re nearly full here—can you stick your head out and see if the other truck’s back?”

I did as ordered.

“No other truck in sight,” I reported.

“Blast. Well, send in the next dozen ducks, and have the rest wait back in the church till the truck’s here.”

I relayed her instructions to the duck-laden conga line. The first twelve queued up outside the truck door while the rest trudged back into the church, calling out “Hold up! Waiting for the next truck!” to those still emerging from the church.