The mill was a stately structure with a big creaking wheel sunk to the axle into the half of the river diverted into it. Dalliance picked his way carefully across the rocky top of the wall, two handspan thick and noisy from the rush of the water through its water gate. On the other side, the destination loomed—cold storage for the barge goods, and the ice house. It was a massive addition, looking almost like it had, if a building could, tripped headlong and crashed into and partially through the mill building, low-to-the-ground and missing much of the clean-lined symmetry of the mill.

  Fortunately for them, the [Miller] and his family lived several hundred feet from either building, perhaps due to the noise, on the other side of a hedgerow and the family’s kitchen garden, where the last of the squash still lay on the vine, dusted with the falling snow.

  Dalliance’s ankle throbbed dully. His feet were cold, his right foot worst of all, since the torn leather of his shoe flapped in the frigid air with every step. Gooseflesh prickled on his forearms, the tiny hairs rubbing unpleasantly against the inside of his sleeves.

  The western entrance to the attic loft loomed above Dalliance like a portal to the hells. Or perhaps he was just nervous from the precarious pathway and the unfamiliar weight of the heater shield on his back.

  Earnest, crunching through the snow behind him, began to sing quietly.

  “The woods loom dark, though yet at day;

  Their shadows bar my forward way.

  Yet if my soul would whole remain,

  I needs must tread—that path of pain.

  There legion’s tramp,—our stout hurrah!—

  None ever braver champions saw;

  (Else heroes, passing, should we err,)

  on Triumph’s last—march to Despair.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Earnest,” Dalliance complained. His friend’s tenor was pleasant enough, but too loud—and far too foreboding—to tolerate just now.

  “Well, you said it wasn’t there.”

  “I said I didn’t see it flying anytime soon,” Dalliance hissed. “NOT the same thing.”

  Zenith was already scaling the large, bricked retaining wall that ran parallel to the cold storage roof, preparing to jump down to where Sterling and Immaculate were positioned. Effluvia, meanwhile, had no need to cross the narrow wall. She said she could avoid the bird better on open ground if it got away, and had shimmied up a short juniper instead. Dalliance watched her, knowing the tree well; it was nearly bald of leaves from all the local children who used it to get a height advantage, to see over the walls and the water wheel to spot oncoming barges down the river.

  She would swing down if trouble started.

  Charity followed Earnest, and Dalliance brought up the rear. He met the wooden wall leading up to the loft, and his hands shook more than he'd expected as he reached up the short six feet to grab the lip and pull himself over. He'd had [Prediction] active for a while now. The danger wasn't supposed to be here, which was why he’d sent Sterling and the others the opposite way.

  Of course, the cold storage attic wasn't empty. Fragrant bunches of herbs and dried goods hung in the cool, dry air. Barrels of potatoes, bushels of carrots, and bags of flour were stacked high—provisions for the barges that supplied the more western villages, he assumed. He slipped past a long-hanging bundle of sage.

  And saw it.

  And it saw him.

  It stood less than waist-high, but if the owl had been monstrous, this crow was an abomination. Its claws were glittering metallic hooks. Its eyes were a constellation of dark blue, scintillating facets that studied him from above a cruelly curved beak of polished gold.

  In an instant, the creature’s plans shifted. The new plan involved landing on Dalliance and tearing out his intestines.

  “Beware!” he shouted. He threw up his shield just as Earnest crested the top beside him, his own shield thudding into place. His heart was beating wildly—the images were so real.

  “Shit,” Earnest breathed.

  The monster hopped on two feet in the bouncing manner birds have, cocked an eye sideways at them, then flapped its wings—and it was upon them. It was fast, though not as fast as the serpent had been. What scared Dalliance wasn't its speed, but the speed at which it had changed its mind: how it had instantly adapted to his own strategy. All the ghostly images of future crow, and others, had shifted the instant its eyes focused on him.

  How did you counter your own counter?

  It struck their shields like a charging bull, and Dalliance was airborne.

  The woods loom dark, though yet at day;

  Their shadows bar my forward way.

  Yet if my soul would whole remain,

  I needs must tread—that path of pain.

  There legion’s tramp,—our stout hurrah!—

  None ever braver champions saw;

  (Else heroes, passing, should we err,)

  on Triumph’s last—march to Despair.

  Those passed who mourn amidst the noise,

  For all their fallen girls and boys,

  Please pity we who share their fate,

  Bound swift unto the Watergate.

  Live well your years, for not shall we,

  And tip a cup as oft may be,

  To honor those who took your place

  In valor—or in last disgrace.

  Thanks for reading! Follow/favorite if you're enjoying the story, and I'd love to hear your thoughts and theories in the comments.

  As to the poetry, I did warn you.