The Canary

Beatrice stood at the window, still wearing her nightgown and the turquoise silk robe sent to her by an old suitor – a naval officer stationed in the East Indies. A lock of black hair had escaped the loose bun and rested now on her bare shoulder; it had a weightless, feathery presence that yet marred the milk-white innocence of a casual slip of the sleeve.

The smell of gentle, hesitant sunshine came in with the cool morning breeze. Beatrice let it push the window back, slowly, steadily, until the hinges would move no further and the breeze danced off in victory.

Somewhere outside a bird sang three notes, a quick and straight little tune. A petite canary in the spacious wicker cage by Beatrice’s window hopped along its perch and sang back through the bars: a long, high note that faded out slowly. Somewhere outside tree leaves rustled, but the wild bird did not respond.

The three notes were reprised at the door, jarring Beatrice from her fixed stare at the canary’s tilted head. A maid entered and curtsied sprightly, giggling.

The canary blinked at Beatrice before hopping up to the cage’s door, wings beating delicately but still hitting the white wicker bars. Its claws tore at the door but were too small to grasp it; unstably thrashing about the cage, it soon realized that it would fall unsupported, and flew back to its steady perch. Its eyes, its face betrayed nothing – not a hint that it had ever for a moment been unsteady.

It was a good pet, mostly.

The maid returned blithely with a pile of clothes over one arm. Dutifully, Beatrice removed her silk robe and let the maid slip a blush colored corset around her waist. She let the maid’s chatter swirl once round her head before it floated out to the morning through the window: suitors, petticoats, the latest scandal in London… it made little impact while she watched the canary attempt to free itself. Each time it scrambled to keep its grip on the door, and each time it scrambled back to its perch, defeated.

Beatrice jerked backward abruptly; the maid took no notice and continued to lace the corset tightly. Beatrice raised her hand to steady herself on the birdcage but drew back almost immediately. The canary flew at the door again, and Beatrice watched her hand slide back the bolt that locked the door; a flurry of yellow feathers rushed through, lighted on her wrist, then without a second glance flew out the window, singing. The maid stopped.

“Ah, a pity. Such a beautiful bird,” she said. “Though I can’t imagine how she ever could’ve felt trapped, in that big, pretty cage the lieutenant sent with her. Miss Beatrice, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re seeming a little big…”

“No,” Beatrice answered. “The cage is too small.”

“Beg pardon, but I meant the corset, Miss Beatrice. Yesterday –”

“I said what I meant.”

Somewhere outside tree leaves rustled, and a bird sang three notes. Beatrice hummed a long, high note that faded out slowly.