JULIEN HAD BEEN AT THE farm for over a year. During this time he and Lea exchanged messages for the six months the heron was with them, but in winter there was no way for them to communicate. It was almost the time for the messages to end when the heron arrived on the hillside, standing there as if he were a thin, elegant man in a pale gray coat. Julien climbed the hill to meet him, his heart hitting against the cage of his ribs.

“Hello,” Julien said, always in awe of the creature and half-expecting him to speak. The heron merely stared into his eyes, interested, but removed. Julien knelt to slip the tube from the heron’s leg, then withdrew the message. It was the highlight of every month during the bright half of the year, and what he missed most during the dark winter months.

I’m still here.

I’m keeping my promise. Please, keep yours.

Julien crouched down in the shade. He had not seen Lea for nearly two years. They had been cast into the far sides of a maze, blindfolded, with no walls or trees or bread crumbs to guide them. What they needed was a map; then they would not have to depend on the heron’s messages. Julien took out a pencil he carried with him for sketching, and got to work. He remembered his trip here backward, the way he would if he were spiraling out from the heart of a labyrinth. One could approach from over the mountains or from the village to discover Beehive House, set in the fields, with its barn and its beehives. He was precise in his rendering, even though his hands shook. The heron was still as Julien replaced the message. Time was moving in a blur. It was getting away from him. If he had no hope of finding Lea, perhaps she could find him. He stood with his hand over his eyes watching the heron fly away. It was then he saw Monsieur Félix on the porch with his rifle, pointing up. Julien ran as fast as he could, shouting for the old man to stop, waving his hands like a madman, startling Monsieur Félix so badly that he put down his gun. When he reached the porch, breathless, Julien grabbed it away from him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Monsieur Félix said, aggravated by the interruption. “I won’t have another chance. He’s flying south. Herons bring good luck if you cook them.”

“Don’t ever do that,” Julien said darkly.

“All right,” Félix said, taken aback. Julien was surprisingly fierce when he was in a fit of anger. He was not such a kid, really. And he had a temper it seemed.

“It is not good luck to eat them,” he told the old man. “It’s a crime.”