The door kicked open. The tall woman in white wings filled the doorway. "Raven!" she bellowed.
The glass cup tipped. Crash. Raven dove behind the bed.
Skritch. Skritch. Skritch. The white wings scraped the doorframe. Paint flaked off.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The boots stamped the old floorboards. The bed legs rattled.
Raven pulled the thin blanket over her head. It was dark. It smelled like the soap her real mother used to rub into her hair.
The door banged harder. The little clay bird rolled off the shelf and crashed. Pieces everywhere.
Raven peeked one eye over the blanket. Moonlight caught the orange shards on the floor.
A low voice slid under the door. Raven pressed her back flat against the cold stone wall.
Then—quiet. The stomping stopped. The shouting stopped.
Outside, the tall grass brushed the low hedge. Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.
Raven slid out from under the blanket. She wrapped both arms around herself, tight. Her fingers pressed into her shoulders.
She thought: I am here. The quiet settled, low and round, like her real mother braiding her hair by the window.
The moon stretched pale across the floor. The broken clay bird sat in its little pile. No one picked it up.
The room was small and still. Raven breathed in the soap-smell of the blanket. She was here.