Birdie in Bruges, page 1
BIRDIE IN BRUGES
Book One of the Birdie Abroad Series
Heidi WILLIAMSON
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Originally published as Legend of the Lost Aventurine under the pen name Heidi English.
Copyediting by The Blue Garret
Book Cover Design by ebooklaunch.com
Published by Flyaway Ink Creative
Copyright © 2022 Heidi Williamson
All rights reserved.
For the daydreamers
A village
grieves for its soul
its families
vanished
its houses
empty
its shops
deserted
its life
extinguished
so only ghosts remain.
PROLOGUE
Bruges, Belgium
April 1499
“What do you know of the witch’s daughter?”
“The witch’s… daughter?” Henri’s thin legs quaked as his toes strained to touch the ground.
“Oui, you fool.”
There’d been rumors at school of a swirling sorceress who conjured potions from the icy waters of the North Sea. Maybe she was the witch’s daughter.
But that couldn’t be it.
No. Certainly not. Henri’s father, who was well versed in such things, had dismissed the rumors as rubbish when he’d dared to mention them one winter evening as they warmed themselves by the fire in the parlor.
“Henri, my son.” He’d leaned in close, tapping sweet-smelling tobacco into his pipe. “I sail the dreaded North Sea each time I leave you. A fortnight ago I crossed it as I returned from the mighty Rhine River, where rumors flow not of a sorceress, but of a lovely blond maiden called the Loreley who lures sailors to their deaths upon the jagged rocks.”
He puffed into the end of his carved pipe as he swirled a flame across its ivory bowl, briefly illuminating his bearded face. Only then did he continue, his light eyes twinkling as he met his son’s gaze. “I can assure you there is not a woman in all of Belgium – sorceress or no – powerful enough to tame those wicked waters.”
Clearly his father had not met this girl – this wicked girl – who now held him so firmly he feared he’d never escape. Henri had a dim recollection of seeing the girl before, but he couldn’t place where. Her face had been pretty then, not strained with anger and hunger as it was now.
A gaggle of boys milled nearby on the canal bank, watching the proceedings with muted curiosity.
Henri struggled to breathe as the girl tightened her grip. He wished he’d never wandered back here beyond the red brick brewery on the edge of town.
He kicked, but met only air.
The sky snapped with the energy of a coming storm. In the distance, canal boats were moored near the busy Markt, weighed down with goods from far-off lands. Bulky shapes moved in the fading light as the seafaring crews hastened to secure a hard drink and a soft place to sleep before the skies opened.
Somewhere close by a bird wailed, its normal song distorted and panicked. Henri’s gaze darted to locate the source of the sound.
He spotted a dove several yards away and his heart sank. The pitiful creature had been snared. Several of the boys surrounded it, ready to play a game he’d heard of but never witnessed firsthand.
The girl gave Henri another rough shake and then dropped him at her feet. His legs crumpled beneath him at the surprise release.
He met her dull blue eyes, the dove forgotten.
“The witch’s daughter haunts all who tread here,” she warned. “She’ll chase you in your dreams until you wake screaming and even your maman cannot save you.”
Two of the boys broke away from the dove and made their way toward Henri. One was tall, with a rat-like face and a crushed hat. The other was shorter, with blond hair that hung in ringlets across a long forehead.
“Her eyes are dead sockets and she smells of mice and demons,” the taller of the two sneered as he circled him.
“She casts spells that make your skin shrivel and slide from your bones,” the other added, falling in step behind the first.
A low voice cut through the taunts. “What should I do with him?”
It was a boy who was bigger than the others, and older than the girl. Henri hadn’t noticed him before. He lounged against the canal wall as if bored with the latest turn in their day.
“Bury him like a bird.” A lanky boy standing not far from the dove picked up a heavy stone from the ground. He tossed it into the air to feel its weight.
Henri scrambled backward to his feet and, remembering his station for the first time since wandering into this nest of ne’er-do-wells, puffed his chest and raised his chin.
He was younger than the children who surrounded him, but he was a LeFort and, even here, he knew that meant something.
The girl leaned in, her breath hot on his face.
“Cours,” she whispered. “Run.”
Henri blinked. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that.
He took a half step back, then bolted up the dirt path toward the Minnewater park, whose iron gates would release him to the freedom of the busy cobblestone lanes beyond.
In the Middle Ages, Bruges was the richest city in Belgium. Its thriving port welcomed merchants from across the known world, and its markets rivaled only those of Venice. But by the 1500s, the town was all but abandoned. It remained that way, a mysterious time capsule near the sea, until tourists rediscovered its charms in the Romantic age.
—Marty McEntire, Europe for Americans Travel Guide
CHAPTER ONE
Bruges, Belgium
Present day
Birdie Blessing, a fifteen-year-old American with an unfortunate name and cheap luggage, tailed her mom through slippery cobblestone lanes at twilight on the longest day of the year. They’d missed their connecting train to Bruges at the sprawling station in Brussels, and now they were running late.
“Keep up. It’s just a few more blocks.”
Birdie tugged on the hand-me-down suitcase, its scratchy wheels skittering across the uneven stones. The purple case tilted hard to the right, twisting her wrist. As she struggled to tame it, her backpack straps slid down her shoulders, gluing her arms to her sides. She dropped the suitcase and glowered at it.
High above, a church bell tolled, just once, then quieted as the deep note faded in the distance. She tilted her head to the sky. The blue-black night pressed the pinks and oranges of a stormy sunset toward the west.
Toward home.
“Come on, let’s go,” her mom called without turning around, raising her voice above the clamor of her own luggage on the cobblestones. “Or we’ll get locked out of the bed-and-breakfast.”
Birdie hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders once more and cinched the straps down hard. As she bent to reclaim the suitcase, she locked eyes with a lanky boy loitering on a stoop several doors down. She teetered back, drawing the suitcase close.
He flashed a crooked smile, then took a step forward. As he did, an image of her brother, teasing and laughing at her, swept into her mind.
She wrinkled her nose and willed it away. She couldn’t think about Jonah right now. Even if everything was his fault.
Not hers.
His.
No matter what everyone said.
“Birdie?” Her mom stood staring down the narrow lane at her, hands on her hips.
The boy sank back onto the stoop and disappeared into the shadows.
“Coming!” She hurried on long legs to catch up to her mom, who’d started walking again and was already several yards ahead. The church bell tolled as she fell in step behind her.
Birdie glanced up from her footing long enough to spot the old gray bell tower rising off-kilter above the pointed roofs of the town’s Gothic buildings. They leaned heavily against one another in the deepening light, each dependent on the next for support after centuries of standing together.
The bell tolled again. Was that twice? Or had she missed one? She checked her watch. 9:49 p.m. Why was the stupid thing ringing at all?
She peeked over her shoulder to make sure the boy hadn’t followed her, and her sneaker caught the edge of a jagged cobblestone. She tumbled forward, barely catching herself with her free hand before she crashed onto the lane. She squeezed her eyes closed.
“I’m in no danger here,” she whispered.
“What did you say, Birdie?”
“Nothing.” She scrambled to her feet as she opened her eyes and flicked a piece of gravel from the heel of her palm. She tugged on the tie that held her long chestnut hair until it fell in a comforting wave against her back, hiding her pale face from unwelcome eyes.
The bell had struck its last note by the time they reached a small square where a half-dozen curving lanes and alleys converged. Her mom dug around in her purse for the map. It was the last thing she’d printed before tucking the printer and the computer into moving boxes.
“Are we lost?”
“No.” She pivoted slowly as she compared the names on the map with the hand-painted street signs bolted just above the first story of each corner building. She flipped the map upside down and held it high to capture the last of the light. “But this town is a maze.”
Birdie l
Her dad had been an awesome navigator. They never got lost.
Until now.
Now they were people who got lost. People who missed trains. People who didn’t have a clue what they were doing.
“Ah, there we go. This way.” Her mom pointed to a stone archway on the far side of the square.
“Are you sure?”
A rumble sounded behind them, fast and low.
Birdie dropped the suitcase and grabbed her mom’s arm, pulling her back against the weathered wooden door of a chocolate shop as a pair of headlights swept over them. A black sedan flew by, so close that her hair lifted from her shoulders in its wake.
“What the…” Birdie began as her mom shook loose from her grip.
“Maniac!” Mrs. Blessing charged out into the middle of the lane. “You… maniac!”
A few people smoking outside a nearby tavern snickered.
“Let’s just go.” Birdie retrieved her suitcase. “It’s that way, right? Come on, Mom.”
Accommodations in Bruges range from high-end, full-service hotels to cheery youth hostels. In between are bed-and-breakfasts, which many of my readers find offer the best value for the price. Reserve early and mention this book to receive my special Marty McEntire rate.
—Marty McEntire, Europe for Americans Travel Guide
CHAPTER TWO
The next morning dawned brightly as sunlight filtered through the open window of their attic bedroom and settled on Birdie’s eyelids. In her dream, the opening notes of a familiar song repeated, tugging her awake.
It was way too early for music.
“Turn it down, people.” Her voice was scratchy, and her body felt like lead on the soft mattress.
She opened one eye, squinting against the light. The notes came again, echoing against the medieval houses that hugged the lane below, which was so narrow she’d wondered last night if she could touch both sides if she spread her arms wide.
They’d made it to the bed-and-breakfast with a few minutes to spare, even after missing the swinging sign with the bear on it that hung out front, forcing them to backtrack. Her mom had punched a code into a glowing green keypad that looked out of place against the old masonry, and then they’d quietly climbed the three flights of stairs to their cozy room.
WOO who…
There it was again. Seriously? Were there workers outside? Didn’t they have rules about this kind of thing?
She perched on her elbows and peered outside. She thought about climbing out of bed to get a better view, but the breeze was cool on her bare arms, and the yellow duvet’s warmth seemed far more inviting than the wooden floor.
A ray of sunlight danced along the rafters to the foot of the twin bed where her mom was sleeping, her breath slow and gentle, her new blond highlights fanned out around her face. Birdie sent a thank you to the stars. It’d been ages since she’d seen her rest so peacefully.
She turned back to the open window as a gray-and-white dove glided to the sill. Its wobbly gaze darted to the cobblestone lane three stories below, then up to the bright blue sky. From far away, the crisp notes of the song sounded again, carried across the morning air.
WOO WHO!
Birdie buried her head beneath the duvet as the dove’s answer ricocheted across the room.
“What on earth?” her mom grumbled, her voice barely audible. “That sounds like the beginning of a song.”
Birdie peeked over the edge of the duvet as she twisted in the soft bed to look at her mom. “That’s exactly what I thought. I dreamed somebody kept playing it. Then Willy showed up.”
“Who’s Willy?”
“The dove.”
“You named him?” She looked as if she might laugh, but held back. “Why? And why Willy?”
Birdie shrugged. “Willy or won’t he wake us up every morning?”
Her mom settled deeper into the mattress. “Glad to see you’re getting your sense of humor back.”
Birdie swallowed, the words washing over her like ice water. She punched her pillow to fluff it, then rolled back toward the window to try to forget she’d heard them.
“Well, I guess I’m awake now,” her mom said with a sigh. “But it’s early. According to the guidebook, breakfast starts at eight. I’m grabbing a shower.” The bed squeaked as she stood. “And Birdie?”
She continued to stare out the open window. “Hmmm?”
“Do not let Willy fly in here.”
She hadn’t considered that possibility.
Fortunately, Willy had little interest in exploring the attic of the bed-and-breakfast. He called to the other dove for a while, then latched his beady eyes on Birdie’s hazel ones, dipped low as if he were bowing, and flew off in a rustle of wings and air.
At his departure, she threw back the duvet and stepped to the window on bare feet. A handful of feathers that resembled small quill pens lay scattered on the broad stone windowsill. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the bathroom door was still closed, then reached out to retrieve them. As she did, the sun sparkled off an object a few inches away.
She bent forward to get a better look and clunked her head against the glass. She rubbed the pain away as she cranked the window open as far as it would go. When she was sure her shoulders would fit, she leaned through the slender opening.
The sun flashed against the object again, making its surface sparkle as if it were on fire.
Birdie stretched through the window as far as she could, but she still couldn’t reach it, even with her fingertips. She checked the bathroom door again, then lifted off the floor, teetering across the windowsill until she could just touch it.
She felt for the shiny stone, cool and smooth beneath her fingers. She raked it toward the window, but as she did, it caught on a rough part of the sill and flipped farther away.
She stopped, transfixed by its brilliant sheen as it rocked halfway off the ledge.
She had to have it now. She leaned a precarious inch further out the window, flexing her toes against the wall. An inch more, and she grasped it.
Behind her, the latch of the bathroom door slid open.
Birdie wriggled back into the room, cranked the window to its previous position, then spun to face her mother.
“Ready for breakfast?” Mrs. Blessing emerged, dressed in casual clothes and looking refreshed. She draped her nightgown over a rickety desk chair. “It’s in the dining room.”
Across town, a bell began its sluggish chime.
“I’ll get ready.” Birdie dove for her suitcase, retrieved a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and pushed the stone deep into the front pocket. She gathered the rest of her clothes for the day and headed for the bathroom.
“Make sure you wash your hands if you were handling those feathers.”
Birdie had forgotten about the feathers. “Right,” she said.
Breakfasts in Europe vary from country to country. The further north you travel, the heartier the fare. The further south? Get used to croissants and jam.
—Marty McEntire, Europe for Americans Travel Guide
CHAPTER THREE
Twenty minutes later, Birdie followed her mom down the stairs into a beautiful foyer, through a sunny sitting room, and into the dining room, where a handful of guests were already seated around a single long table.
“No, Harry, I don’t think that’s right,” a jolly-looking woman was saying. She sat at the far end of the table, examining a multicolored map through a thin pair of reading glasses. The elegant drapes behind her were thrown open, revealing a crumbling brick wall crawling with ivy.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Let me see that map.” Harry’s bushy white mustache wiggled as he spoke.
The woman handed it to him, shaking her head as she did. “I can’t find Widger or Winger or What Ever Street it is anywhere.”
“It’s right here, Helga.” He smoothed the map on the fabric tablecloth and pointed to a spot on it. “Wijngaardstraat. You don’t need to add street at the end: straat means street.”
Birdie glanced at her mom and saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
