Plumage by Nancy Springer Page A

green-yellow spark in the creamy dawnlight it flashed up from its treetop—straight into one of the mist nets.
    â€œNinth floor,” said Sassy rapidly, counting up to the balcony to which the end of the net was attached, seeing the parakeet flutter, struggle, thrash itself into a lump of gossamer mesh. “Quick, you run over to the other end and undo it.” She darted toward the elevator.
    â€œHow come I get to run to the other end?” Racquel grumbled.
    â€œJust do it!”
    When she reached her end of the net, she could see the parakeet more closely. Still struggling. Tangled nearly into a ball.
    â€œPoor thing,” she muttered, feeling a pang in her heart. She knew all too well what it was like to feel entangled, trapped.
    The parakeet fluttered once more, then settled into a frozen, panting panic. Too terrified to move. Sassy had heard that small animals were likely to die of shock when they were caught in traps. Mice rescued from cats would still die of shock. “Hurry,” she whispered to Racquel, who could not possibly hear her.
    There she was—there he was, finally, on the far side of the atrium.
    Sassy had expected that Racquel would undo the fastenings that secured the net to the far balcony. But evidently Racquel had other ideas. Racquel flourished a massive pair of shears and simply cut the thing loose.
    â€œWhoa!” Sassy grabbed at her end as the net swung down, down—
    Its trailing tendrils caught in the treetops. “Oh, no,” Sassy moaned, pulling in yards of net which piled like froth at her feet. The bird formed a small, still lump in the cobwebby mesh about ten feet away from Sassy when the net went taut.
    So near and yet so far. “Come on, would you!” Sassy tugged, braced her feet against the railing and tugged harder, tugged with all her five-foot-five-inches’ worth of strength.
    It was not nearly enough.
    â€œThey make these things out of fish line or something.” Like an unlikely angel, Racquel was there, reaching over her shoulder to grab a double fistful of net. “On the count of three. One—two—”
    Three. They both pulled at the net.
    It did not tear loose, exactly. Rather, it tried to tear up the tree by the roots, and the tree made some sacrifices to save itself. Leaves stripped, twigs gave way, and the net was free.
    Racquel stood back and let Sassy gather in the parakeet.
    â€œOh, poor baby,” she whispered. Even through the wad of netting in which it was enmeshed she could feel it trembling. “Oh, poor sweetie.” Sitting on the carpet with the bird in her lap, she began to pick at the netting, uncovering the bird’s head. It stared at her with eyes that had gone silver with shock. “Hang on, honey child,” she murmured. “Just hang on a couple of minutes—”
    â€œOh, for God’s sake, we don’t have a couple of minutes. Security’s probably already on the way.” Racquel crouched and took the Gordian knot approach, slicing into the net with his shears, cutting the wad of string and bird away from the rest of it. “Come on.” He ran toward the nearest service entry.
    A few minutes later they were in the back room of his shop, where Sassy sat on a cardboard carton and carefully, oh so carefully untangled the bird in her lap.
    She smoothed its wings and held them gently against its body as she freed them, but the parakeet seemed to have no desire to struggle against her or fly away. When she had untangled its tail and, last of all, its delicate legs and feet, it stopped trembling. It nestled in the cup of her hands as she held it against her flat chest. So low that she could barely hear it, it chirped.
    â€œI think that bird is grateful to you,” Racquel said.
    â€œI’m grateful to you ,” Sassy said humbly. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have been able to—”
    â€œNo problem. Hey, stay up all night with a crazy woman,