While the owls weren’t friendly as a rule with the village dogs, there was one dog they did speak to somewhat regularly, and that was the border collie, Sadie. Sadie wasn’t a hunting dog; or rather, all her hunting instincts had been softened and turned into collecting instincts. And so she had no interest in harassing the forest animals—unless of course they harassed her or her charges first.
Sadie was generally the first animal Armand went to when he wanted to learn the village gossip because border collies were bred and trained to understand everything people said. So when the dog lifted her floppy ears the next evening from her dinner of gristle and stewed carrots and stale biscuit and frowned at Armand’s question about Violet and the robin in the woods, the owl knew there wasn’t anything to be gained down this avenue of investigation. If Sadie hadn’t heard anything, there wasn’t anything to be heard. Whatever had happened between Violet and the strange spirit robin, the girl had kept it to herself.
Sadie chewed thoughtfully for a moment. Armand looked around, but they were out behind the sheep shed, and no men were in sight. He was perched on the roof of the shed over the spot where Sadie usually bedded down for the night in a warm heap of straw and kept an ear out for foxes and the like (the wind had been against her the night Martin and Melinda had visited for their arsonous purposes).
“I did think I heard a robin last night.”
“At night?” Armand blinked.
“Yes, I thought it odd. At night, and at this time of year. But I have always found robins to be a bit nutters, if you know what I mean. No offense.”
Armand chuckled in his throat. “None taken. We’re not exactly birds of a feather.”
“No, I suppose that’s right,” Sadie said. “Sorry not to be of more help, Armand. But I’d watch that north wood of yours. I heard the men say they need more timber for the train track, and they can’t take any more from the west wood on account of it belonging to the Beringford estate, outside the easement for the track at least, and they’ve taken all the timber they can from that strip. So they’ll be headed your way shortly, likely the first day the weather cooperates.” That day, luckily for the denizens of the north wood, had been a raw one with a cold wind and blowing snow. Not that it mattered to an owl. Armand quite liked the song of the wind in the canopy and the gentle rocking of his ancient spruce as he dozed.
“Thank you, Sadie.” He lifted off the shed roof. As the collie turned to make herself into a warm crescent against the chill of night, she called up:
“If I hear anything else, I’ll let you know. Good night, friend owl.”
The Rookery 