The Curious Vanishing of Beatrice Willoughby by G. Z. Schmidt

Author:G. Z. Schmidt [Z., G. Schmidt]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Holiday House
Published: 2023-09-05T00:00:00+00:00

There once was a pie maker who worked for a powerful king. The pie maker was excellent at making pies. Any type of pie you can think of, the pie maker could make. Apple pies, pumpkin pies, blueberry pies, banana cream pies.

Every day, the pie maker prepared a fresh pie for the king’s afternoon meeting, which was when he discussed important, secret matters with his advisers. The king never ended up eating the pies. The pies were there simply to make the meeting room smell good.

One day, however, the king was hungry, so he sliced open his pie. When he did, something weird happened. To his surprise, a black bird popped out and began to sing.

He called for the pie maker to be brought before him. “What is this dish you have set before your king?” he boomed.

The pie maker replied calmly, “Your Majesty, it’s a magpie, of course!”

It turned out the pie maker had baked birds into the pies in order to spy on the king’s secrets. The king tried to arrest the pie maker, but the bird pecked out the king’s eyes before he could. The pie maker escaped, never to be seen again.

“Magpies are a type of bird from the same family that crows and ravens come from,” Dewey informed the confused guests.

Mrs. Raven smiled nervously at Chaucer. “W-where’d you hear that story?”

“I’ve heard the story before,” cut in Duchess von Pelt. “The von Pelts have connections to all the powerful families in the world. The pie maker must be old now, wherever he is.”

“Yes...he,” Mrs. Raven mumbled. She quickly cleared her throat and stroked the bird gently. “However, it’s true that crows can make excellent pies—I mean, spies. They have exceptional memories.”

They all peered at the dead crow again.

“Well, this one’s not remembering a thing now, and I say it’s nothing but an All Hallows’ Eve prop, just like that scarecrow upstairs,” insisted Duchess von Pelt, still holding her nose. She turned and headed for the door. “This is ridiculous. I’m leaving.”

One by one, the others slowly followed suit. But Mrs. Raven stayed where she was. She glanced over her shoulders. When she thought no one was looking, she gently pressed the bird’s beak.

“What are you doing?” said Mr. H, who had remained behind.

The old woman froze. She had not noticed the cobbler standing next to her. “Oh, nothing, I just thought I’d...um...” Seeing no way out, she sighed and confessed, “I thought I’d heal this bird.”

The others stopped at the doorway and stared at Mrs. Raven. “Ah, but the bird’s already dead,” repeated Dr. Foozle slowly.

But even before the pharmacist finished his sentence, the crow’s small head twitched. Its wings started to shake. The others gawked, stunned. The bird’s eyes fluttered open.

“What the—?” gasped Duchess von Pelt.

The crow let out a cheerful caw.

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