Blackmoore(34)

A tear slipped down my cheek and hung on the edge of my jaw. Henry moved his hand from my shoulder and brushed the tear away. Then he leaned back, away from me, and sighed. “But you do not confide in me.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Perhaps I have not earned your confidence?”

My lips trembled, and with a shaky breath I said, “No. You have.”

He sat there, waiting, as if he would wait all night long if he had to.

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And suddenly, I had to tell him. Not what had happened with Sylvia, but what I was doing here, in front of this cage, crying. I wrapped my fingers around the bars of the cage again, but this time I did not shake it. I did not want to scare the bird again. But the bird took flight anyway, and suddenly words were forcing themselves up my throat and pouring out of my mouth.

“I feel caged. Always. I feel like I am this bird, trapped and stifled and caged, and I keep looking for a way to escape, but I am barred at every turn.” I drew in a breath, and looking at the confusion on Henry’s face, I said, “Perhaps you cannot comprehend—you are a man. Your life is dif-ferent in so many ways. But have you ever . . .” I drew in a deep breath, feeling my heart aching. “Have you ever wanted something so much it hurt? That the wanting actually caused you physical pain?”

He was perfectly still, watching me with those dark eyes. “Yes,” he said in a quiet, solemn voice.

“That is how I feel about India. I want to go so badly the wanting hurts. But I am afraid that I won’t ever go, and I’m afraid that I will never realize this dream, and if I don’t realize this dream, then it’s possible I won’t realize any dream. And I’ll just live a bleak, dreamless life without adventure or joy or choice or—or— living. ” My breath caught. “When I think about it—when I think about how stuck I am, and what is expected of me, and what I am allowed and not allowed to do, and how little power I have or will ever have, simply because I was born a girl—I feel a million wings inside of me, beating so hard it hurts.”

Now my voice wavered as fresh tears spilled out. “And I cannot even play Mozart without Herr Spohr telling me it is wrong for me, and if I cannot have India or Mozart, then what am I left with? How am I going to live inside this cage that is my life?” I shook my head, feeling wild and undone, as tears streamed down my face. “All I can think is that I will end up like this poor bird. I will beat myself against the bars of my cage until I am too exhausted, and then I will give up and live the rest of my life without a song and inside a forgotten room.”

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J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n My voice cracked, and I pressed my lips together, sealing off any more words that wanted to be set free. I could not look Henry in the eye as I struggled to control my emotions. It was silly—comparing my sorrow at losing my dream of India to Henry’s sorrow at losing his father. It was silly of me to feel so deeply about this. That was what I supposed Henry thought. He had never understood my desire to go to India. And I was suddenly, achingly afraid that he would dismiss my words or fail to understand their sentiment or dismiss my dream as something trivial.

Instead, he said, in a careful voice, “So you are this bird. In this cage.”

I nodded.

“And you see only one option for yourself: to beat yourself against the bars until you are exhausted and give up all your dreams.”

I nodded again, and then dared to look at him. He was watching me with an expression of compassion mixed with affection. After a long moment of looking at me, he looked back at the dark bird in its cage. Then he did something with the cage—some small movement that made the door swing open. He reached inside, and I held my breath as I watched him catch the bird. He was so careful, and so gentle, as he cupped it in his hands and pulled it free of its cage.

Henry turned to me, holding out his hands.

I stared at him and then at the bird, which was fluttering and struggling to be free.

“Here. Take it.” He held the bird toward me, cupped in his fine, gentle hands.

I hesitantly reached out. I slipped my hands inside of Henry’s, until my fingers curved around the small bird. The glossy black feathers felt like silk beneath my fingers, and I felt the fragile bones underneath and the stirring of wings wanting to fly.

“Do you have it?” Henry asked.

I nodded, my breath coming fast with nervousness. Then Henry pulled his hands away, and I held it alone. I felt its eagerness to fly, its 100



quick movements, the swift, thrumming beat of its heart. I opened my hands. And it flew.

The bird took flight with a flurry of wings and an almost frantic speed. As I watched it wheel overhead I felt suddenly, sharply alive. I laughed for a reason I couldn’t explain. I looked at Henry, who was watching me with a smile.

“There has to be more than one option in life, Kate,” he said. “There just has to be.”

I leaned against the wall and tipped my head back and watched the dark bird soar while Henry’s words turned over and over in my mind.

He leaned against the wall, next to me, arms touching.

“We will have to catch it,” I said. “And return it to its cage.” I looked at the high ceiling and wondered how catching that bird would be done.

“Not an easy task, I think.”

“No. But worth it.”

After a long stretch of quiet between us, I whispered, “Thank you.