It was three days before Christmas, and after Violet and Bertie and their mother came back from church, they set to decorating the house for the holiday. Bertie went out to cut some greenery while the women got up into the attic and pulled down the special things. They already had the Advent candles set up, but now they also got out the bells for the door, and the cornhusk elves Violet’s grandma had made for the mantel, the Christmas plates and the tablecloth with the holly leaves embroidered around the hem.
“Do you want gingerbread or pudding for Christmas dinner?” Ma asked. “Never mind, I’ll make both. I have the fixings.” With the extra pay Bertie had been bringing home from the train works. There would be plenty on the table on Christmas Day, and good ale. Ma had even invited the neighbors to dinner, which she hadn’t been able to do since Pa had died.
Bertie burst in then, bringing a swirl of snow through the door with him; it was a right blizzard out. “Ho ho ho!” He cried as he dragged in a little Christmas tree, a good, round mistletoe, and plenty of holly. They cut the bottom branches off the tree and stood it up in a bucket of wet gravel. Ma unwrapped the German glass ornaments for the tree while Bertie and Violet hung the mistletoe and decorated the mantel with the cut boughs and the holly branches.
“Where did you find the tree in this storm?” Violet asked Bertie as they secured the twigs with wire.
“In the north wood. I knew right where it was—spotted it when I was out surveying with the timbermen. We’re going out to cut on Christmas Eve if the weather holds.” He broke off a cluster of berries, turned, and tucked it behind his sister’s ear.
“There,” he stepped back to admire his work. “You’re a proper Yule Princess now.”
“Bertie…” Violet reached up and touched the berries. “The north wood. Could you…convince the foreman to cut somewhere else? I’m…worried about the animals.”
“Aw, don’t fret, Vi,” Bertie smiled indulgently and turned back to the mantel. “They’ll find a home in another wood.”
“But they’ve already done that. They’ve run there from the damage in the west wood. That little squirrel I brought home? Her nest was destroyed there—that’s why Codger got her. And she’s in the north wood now, in that big old spruce that you lot have marked to cut down.”
“I thought you wanted the train to come through,” Bertie frowned at her, confused. “I thought it was your ticket to Beringford.”
“I do!” Violet felt her face grow hot. “I do. But not at any cost. You should have seen the mother falcon sitting on her fallen nest by the track with her dead young still in it. It would have broken your heart, too, Bertie. I know it would have.”
“Aw, Vi.” Bertie pulled off his cap and scratched his head with the same hand.
“If they can just have the north wood, that’s all I’m asking. If you can just ask the foreman to cut the timber you need somewhere else.”
“That means the Beringford estate,” Bertie said. “That’ll mean leasing fees, which even if the train corporation would accept them would mean lower pay for us laborers. They have to make their profits for their investors at the end of the day, Vi. That’s how the world works.”
“The Beringfords?”
“Yes, the rest of the west wood and the timber beyond the brook toward Beringford—it all belongs to them. The north wood is a commons belonging to our village and St Vries, and they’ve agreed to sell it to the train company at a lower price in return for a station in our village. I’m afraid it’s a done deal, Vi. Hey, now,” he reached out and took her shoulder, shook it gently, “it’ll be okay, I promise. I’ll talk to the foreman, and we’ll roust out the animals in the north wood real good before we cut the timber, so they won’t get hurt. And they’ll go make new homes in the Beringford woods. Okay?” He reached up to brush away a tear from her cheek, and she grabbed his hand.
“But what about when the Beringfords cut their woods down? Where will they go then? Where does it stop, Bertie? And what about the beautiful old trees, and the faerie how—will our village really be our village without them, and the owls and foxes and deer and hedgehogs and squirrels?”
“I don’t know,” Bertie murmured, “that’s a lot of questions I can’t answer, Vi. I guess in the end everybody can’t have everything they want, and the animals get the short end of the stick.”
And she knew he was right about it, but for some reason, she couldn’t let it go. She tossed and turned that night, watching the snow filter down outside the window. At some point, she stuck her hand beneath her pillow, and her fingers touched the letter from Beringford Veterinary College; she’d been sleeping with it there ever since it had come. And if the letter spoke to her through her fingers, she suddenly had an idea. She smiled, patted the envelope, and waited for dawn to come.
The Rookery 