Free Music of Ghosts by Sallie Bissell

didn’t,” she explained.
    â€œAh.” Stratton’s puzzled gaze lingered on her a moment, then he turned his attention to the box. “Well, then. Let’s take a look at your bird.”
    He buttoned his shirtsleeves and looked at Mary. “Are you squeamish? Faint at the sight of blood?”
    â€œNot especially,” she replied.
    â€œThen you can give me a hand with this. My regular staff is currently unavailable.” His tone was bitter, as if his staff had quit and walked out in a huff, en masse.
    â€œWhat do I do?” asked Mary.
    â€œFirst, put those gloves on.” He nodded to a long pair of leather gloves, hanging by the sink. “Injured birds still have eight sharp talons. I learned that years ago, when a big Golden Eagle decided to filet my upper lip.”
    So that’s where the scar came from , Mary thought as she walked over and pulled on the gloves. Thick deerskin, they came up to her elbows and had the well-worn feel of silk.
    â€œCan I do something?” asked Lily.
    â€œStand over by the light switch,” said Stratton. “When I tell you, dim the lights.”
    Mary frowned. “We’re going to do this in the dark?”
    â€œIt’s only dark to us. To the owl, it’s daylight.” Stratton spread an old quilt on the table and spoke in a whisper. “I need you to hold the bird while I examine it. We need to move very slowly, very calmly, and whisper when we speak.”
    Mary crossed the kitchen to stand beside him. Lily stood at her post, one hand on the light switch as Stratton began.
    â€œI’ll get the bird out, and put it on its back. You just cradle it between your hands. Allow it to move, but not thrash.” He looked at Mary. “We’ll have to stand a lot closer together.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” she said. God knows nobody else wanted to stand close to her.
    He turned to Lily. “Okay, kiddo, dim the lights.”
    Lily darkened the room. Stratton opened the box and lifted the injured bird out. Its white feathers looked luminescent, a quivering froth in the darkness.
    â€œTyto alba,” he whispered. “Barn owl.”
    He laid the bird down on its back. It flapped broad wings, made a couple of swipes at Stratton with his beak, then Stratton began to hum—a weird, mesmerizing kind of tune. Amazingly, the owl relaxed into the procedure.
    â€œJust hold the bird gently and try to keep it still,” he told Mary. “I’ll do the rest.”
    Mary did as he asked. When she corralled the bird, Stratton stepped close and put his bare fingers between her gloved hands. He smelled of leather and oranges, and something else she could not name. She watched as he palpated the owl’s neck; felt the line of feathers down the animal’s chest. Using his fingers like calipers, he measured the width of the bird’s breast. She noticed that his hands were strong and his long fingers went through their practiced motions precisely, as if he were playing one of those violins.
    â€œI’m not feeling any internal deal-breakers,” he whispered. “Let’s check the wings.”
    He shifted slightly toward her and spread the owl’s left wing. The bird struggled, the feathers under its beak quivering.
    â€œIs he getting too hot?” whispered Mary.
    â€œJust scared. She’s stressed.”
    â€œHe’s a she?” Mary wondered how Stratton had determined the gender of the owl—to her it seemed all feathers and huge eyes.
    â€œProbably. They’re larger than the males. She likely has fledglings that just left the nest.” He looked at Mary. “You live on a farm?”
    She nodded.
    â€œThen she’s probably one of your tenants. Pays her rent by killing your mice.”
    Stratton continued examining the owl. Mary watched, fascinated as he felt the tiny bones and ligaments that made up the structure of flight.
    â€œThis bird flew in front of