sparrows fluttered up when Niklas turned the east corner of the main house, hauling a stepladder. The birds circled for a bit before settling on the roof to watch.
âSorry, guys,â Niklas said, tugging the ladder into position. âYouâll get your place back after. I just need to examine it first.â
He had looked at the bird castle plenty of times. He often put crumbs and sunflower seeds inside the parapets of the walls, a task he did by leaning out of the bird room window with a slim, long-handled spade. But he never got truly close that way, and the angle meant he couldnât see the whole castle properly.
From the outside, there was always the danger of falling bird poop. âDonât get any ideas, now,â he said up tothe sparrows. They shuffled sideways on the eaves, making no promises.
The grass beneath the castle wore a constant, filthy halo of droppings and husks. The castle itself did not, because Uncle Anders cleaned it every week. Niklas had always assumed he did it on Grandma Almaâs order. But he realized now it had nothing to do with having the finest birdfeeder in all of Willodale, and everything to do with the person who had created it. Uncle Anders couldnât keep his shirt neat if he tried, but he would not allow so much as a breath of dust on Erikaâs portraits, or a spot of lichen on her headstone.
Up close, the castle almost took Niklasâs breath away. The doors had pinprick keyholes. The pillars were carved with miniature climbing roses. The wraparound balcony at the top of the tower had a toothpick-thin railing, and the drawbridge could be opened and closed with a tiny wrench hidden inside an archway in the courtyard. Niklas turned the handle. Hardly a squeak. Maybe Uncle Anders oiled the hinges, too.
Nightmare castle, the photo had said. There was an unsettling edge to many of the details. The vines that crept up the tower walls bristled with sharp thorns. The roof tiles had ridges that made them look like fingernails. And the tall tower had a ring of windows behind which stood a lone figure.
Niklas squinted through the opening. The figure hadits back turned, but he thought it might be a man with a big cloak. He shifted his grip to see better, and the dome moved under his fingers. With a firm twist, it came off completely, flooding the tower chamber with light.
A chorus of tiny screeches went up from the roof as the sparrows all took to the sky, flapping toward the barn in a chaotic cloud. Niklas took a shaky step down the ladder, heart thudding.
The cloaked man was not a man at all: He had a bird skull for a head. The beak made him look like a plague doctor from Harald Rosenquistâs history books. He was not alone. Behind the billowing cloak stood a cage overgrown with roses. Trapped inside that cage was a child.
The skull man reached for the cage with skeletal fingers that had been fitted to the wood. They looked nearly human, but Niklas guessed they had belonged to a field mouse. The child had no features except for shallow dents where the eyes and an open mouth would be.
If his mother had dreamt this, Niklas knew who had given him his talent for nightmares. Sometimes he, too, dreamt of beaked skulls that pecked at his eyes. He thought of the photo and the skittish, pleading expression in his motherâs face and suddenly wondered what he looked like when he woke up in the middle of the night. He screwed the tower roof back on, hiding the skull-man and the child.
Instead he examined the castle for more concealedsurprises, tugging and pulling every ledge and part. At last he found something, trapped under a round flagstone in the courtyard. It bore a faint mark that resembled a thorn. When he turned it, the flagstone came loose to reveal a tiny dog, curled up like it was sleeping.
Unlike the skull-man and the cage, this figurine could be removed. Niklas lifted it out and held it up in the sunlight. On the bottom, there was a name
âSorry, guys,â Niklas said, tugging the ladder into position. âYouâll get your place back after. I just need to examine it first.â
He had looked at the bird castle plenty of times. He often put crumbs and sunflower seeds inside the parapets of the walls, a task he did by leaning out of the bird room window with a slim, long-handled spade. But he never got truly close that way, and the angle meant he couldnât see the whole castle properly.
From the outside, there was always the danger of falling bird poop. âDonât get any ideas, now,â he said up tothe sparrows. They shuffled sideways on the eaves, making no promises.
The grass beneath the castle wore a constant, filthy halo of droppings and husks. The castle itself did not, because Uncle Anders cleaned it every week. Niklas had always assumed he did it on Grandma Almaâs order. But he realized now it had nothing to do with having the finest birdfeeder in all of Willodale, and everything to do with the person who had created it. Uncle Anders couldnât keep his shirt neat if he tried, but he would not allow so much as a breath of dust on Erikaâs portraits, or a spot of lichen on her headstone.
Up close, the castle almost took Niklasâs breath away. The doors had pinprick keyholes. The pillars were carved with miniature climbing roses. The wraparound balcony at the top of the tower had a toothpick-thin railing, and the drawbridge could be opened and closed with a tiny wrench hidden inside an archway in the courtyard. Niklas turned the handle. Hardly a squeak. Maybe Uncle Anders oiled the hinges, too.
Nightmare castle, the photo had said. There was an unsettling edge to many of the details. The vines that crept up the tower walls bristled with sharp thorns. The roof tiles had ridges that made them look like fingernails. And the tall tower had a ring of windows behind which stood a lone figure.
Niklas squinted through the opening. The figure hadits back turned, but he thought it might be a man with a big cloak. He shifted his grip to see better, and the dome moved under his fingers. With a firm twist, it came off completely, flooding the tower chamber with light.
A chorus of tiny screeches went up from the roof as the sparrows all took to the sky, flapping toward the barn in a chaotic cloud. Niklas took a shaky step down the ladder, heart thudding.
The cloaked man was not a man at all: He had a bird skull for a head. The beak made him look like a plague doctor from Harald Rosenquistâs history books. He was not alone. Behind the billowing cloak stood a cage overgrown with roses. Trapped inside that cage was a child.
The skull man reached for the cage with skeletal fingers that had been fitted to the wood. They looked nearly human, but Niklas guessed they had belonged to a field mouse. The child had no features except for shallow dents where the eyes and an open mouth would be.
If his mother had dreamt this, Niklas knew who had given him his talent for nightmares. Sometimes he, too, dreamt of beaked skulls that pecked at his eyes. He thought of the photo and the skittish, pleading expression in his motherâs face and suddenly wondered what he looked like when he woke up in the middle of the night. He screwed the tower roof back on, hiding the skull-man and the child.
Instead he examined the castle for more concealedsurprises, tugging and pulling every ledge and part. At last he found something, trapped under a round flagstone in the courtyard. It bore a faint mark that resembled a thorn. When he turned it, the flagstone came loose to reveal a tiny dog, curled up like it was sleeping.
Unlike the skull-man and the cage, this figurine could be removed. Niklas lifted it out and held it up in the sunlight. On the bottom, there was a name
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