Mother Vale had emptied the small cupboard above her stove.
Iven stood in the kitchen doorway while she examined the things it had contained. Three cracked cups. A packet of salt. A flat spoon worn almost sharp along one edge. Behind them lay a wooden bird with one wing, which he had not seen in years.
“I thought you threw that away,” he said.
“I thought you took it.”
She put it on the table between them.
The bird had once stood on a little wheeled base. A child could pull a string through its chest and make the wings beat. One of the wings had broken before Iven first touched it. He had been very certain that adding a larger spring would improve everything else.
“It went through the flour bag,” Vale said.
“I remember.”
