I pulled the burlap open. Inside was a simple box of unvarnished oak, the top fastened with a pair of latches. I could hear something sloshing around within. I unhooked the latches and opened the lid.

The smell was the first thing that hit me. Hot, thick, coppery.

Blood.

And so did I find blood inside. A pool of it, half an inch thick, at the bottom of the box. And there, in the middle, wrapped round with cord, was my pigeon.

“BRIDGET!” I screamed. “NO!”

I pulled her out, box falling from my hands. It hit the floor, breaking apart at the hinges. Blood splashed on my boots, my hose, staining them scarlet and warm.

No, my mind kept shouting, over and over. No no no no no no

No.

She cooed.

Bridget, cupped in my hands, opened her eyes, and turned her head to look at me. Her feathers were soaked in blood.

She’s alive! my mind howled. She’s alive, I thought, a prayer.

Tom, who’d come limping when I screamed, stared in horror at the bloody bird in my palms.

“Get water. Water!” I shouted.

He ran into the workshop, came back with a giant bucket. I saw blood on his thigh. I wondered madly how he’d gotten blood from the box on him when he was in the workshop, before I realized that, in his hurry, he’d torn the stitches holding the wound together on his leg.

He scooped handfuls of water from the pail and let it rain on Bridget. She didn’t even have enough energy to shake her head at the drops. I held her, bloody water running down my wrists, until most of it was gone. Then I cut the cord and turned her over, looking desperately for the wound in her little body.

Where is it? Where is it?

Master Benedict came then. Calm, child. Think. Think of the blood.

Think of the blood? Why would he say that? Didn’t he know I couldn’t think of anything else? There was so much of it, it was all over the place—

I stopped.

The blood. So much.

Too much. There had to be a pint of it, splashed all over my floorboards, staining my clothes. It couldn’t have come from a pigeon.

Freed from her bonds, Bridget flopped about in my hands, righting herself. She shook her feathers out as Tom continued raining water over her, washing the rest of the red away. She spread her wings, flapped them weakly, once, twice. Then she walked up my arm until she was nestled in the crook of my elbow.

She was all right. She was going to be all right. Tears came hot to my eyes, and I blinked them away.

“Christopher.”

Tom lifted the broken box from the floor. Inside the lid, a pair of brass clamps held a letter. It was spotted with blood, crimson drips where the liquid had splashed when I’d dropped it.

There was another spot of red on it, too. A simple circle of wax, sealing it shut.