The Wild Birds by Emily Strelow

Author:Emily Strelow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rare Bird Books
Published: 2018-02-02T19:23:21+00:00

Siren Song

Farallon Islands, California, 1874

After a month at the job, Olive found herself relegated to the kitchen in the lighthouse keeper’s shared quarters more often than she felt comfortable with. In addition to her confinement to the kitchen, there was the disturbing fact that Richardson began using terms like “tender” and “intuitive” to describe her cooking, which led her to believe that she was in grave danger of being found out, or perhaps already had been. “You have an uncanny, intuitive way around a stew,” he would say. Or, “These blackened rabbit haunches are simply the most tender I’ve ever tasted.” Despite the fact that it meant she was perhaps revealed, she took some pride in the compliments, as her culinary skills were part of the small, intangible parcel she had left of her mother.

She began plotting her escape plan, should she be officially discovered. And whenever a whiff of fairer-sexed terminology made its way off Richardson’s tongue, she quickly changed the subject.

“A fine sort of cook you are, dear boy,” he began, “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.”

“Richardson,” she diverted. “You mentioned you might show me to the abalone caves soon.”

“I did indeed and I have not kept my word. I do apologize, but I’ve been kept busy with those rapscallion eggers trying to work out some sort of deal so they don’t make me ‘pay’ for eggs that are my god-given right to collect.” Every time Richardson began to talk about the Pacific Egg Company men, he grew red in the face and poured himself whiskey. “Liars and thieves, the lot of them. They have tried every means in their power to effect my removal. But I’ve started my own plea with the inspector, did I mention?” He poured another two fingers of brown liquid, “And have made headway by sending documentation of their untoward activities on this island to Washington. I expect these men will soon know who, in fact, is the true keeper of the Farallone Light.”

Olive let Richardson snort and harrumph his way through the end of his tall pour of whiskey without interrupting, satisfied that at least he was off the subject of her fine and tender anything. He rubbed his eyes and ranted, shifting in his chair or laying a hand flat on the table when he wanted to punctuate. As she scrubbed the dishes clean, she tried again.

“Perhaps, Richardson, you might just oblige me with directions to the abalone cave so that I may visit it on my own tomorrow. I do believe it’s my afternoon off.”

“Of course, boy. I’ll draw you a map and leave it on the table tomorrow morn. And if you wouldn’t mind bringing some abalone home tomorrow, I know you can manage some delicious and tempting cioppino for tomorrow’s dinner. That’s Italian for seafood stew, if you don’t know. My grandmother was Italian.”

Olive craned her head back a little to release the little cricks in her neck as she finished up the dishes.

“Of course, Richardson.

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