The Snow Owl

Francesca de Mournay was gazing out the window of her study, staring at a magnificent white owl perched on a snow covered branch in front of her, or at least seeming to.  In all honestly, she wasn’t genuinely looking out of the window at all.  She was frankly appraising her reflection in the glass. Her face was gaunter than when she had been launched into society, her complexion darker from her all of her riding, her figure more generous, but she thought she could still manage elegance under the right conditions, perhaps even beauty. 

“Wouldn’t it be marvellous to be an owl for a night?”

“And eat nothing but raw mice?” her old friend Heloise said, looking up from her needlework.  “Personally, I prefer your chef’s beef bourguignon.  That man is a magician.  You don’t deserve him.  You obviously don’t appreciate his virtuosity.”

“Imagine it, Heloise, being completely unaware, free from thought, drifting through the night, silent and unseen?”

“What’s on your mind, dear?  You hardly said two words over dinner.  I haven’t seen you in ages, we retire to chat, and now all you can talk about is birds?  You are not yourself.”

“Am I not?”

“You’re lonely, aren’t you?”

“Lonely?  Me?  How could I be?  I have a house full of servants, an estate to manage, tradesmen to deal with, the stable yard.  I’m anything but lonely.”

“You know what I mean.  It was unjust, what they did to you.”

“That was so long ago.”

Heloise looked at her sharply.  “It wasn’t that long ago.  I don’t need you adding any extra years to my account, thank you very much.”

“It doesn’t weigh on my mind the way it did then.  I accept my penance.”

“You do?  Honestly?”

“Society is correct to shun me.”

“For something that you didn’t do?  How is that justice?”

“In their position, I would have acted no differently.  You know that.”

“You were a silly girl, then.”

Francesca shrugged.  “He was weak.  I understand that now.”

“It was Henri who ran off the battlefield, not you.  Not that it did him any good.  He was a vision in his uniform, though.”  Heloise sighed.

“Those brave soldiers died because of him, all the same.”

“It’s not right that you should suffer for it.”

“Suffer?  I enjoy a comfortable life here.  The estate is sufficient.  I shall never want.  My position is enviable”

“Yes, you suffer.  For years, you’ve done nothing but work from dawn to dusk.  That is entirely inappropriate for a woman of your position.  Granted, you have managed the estate well.  It’s nearly double in size and the gardens are magnificent, but still.  It’s no life for a woman with your interests… and appetites.”

“It will be spring soon.  The snowdrops will bloom, then the daffodils, then the irises.”

“Wonderful,” Heloise sighed.  “Another season, another gown size.”

“I suppose the opening ball will be in a few weeks.”

“Indeed, the masquerade.  I have my invitation already.  Some of us do not choose to live as hermits.”

Francesca pulled her shawl over her shoulders and stared out the window at the beautiful owl. 

“How marvellous it would be to wear you as I would a cloak or a riding habit, even for a night.’ she murmured.  “Or as I would… a mask.”

Heloise put down her needlework.

“Francesca, we’ve known each other for a long time, haven’t we?” Heloise asked softly.

“Since we were but innocent girls, yes.”

“May I speak frankly with you, dear? We can be open with each other?”

“Of course, Heloise.”  Francesca smiled sweetly.  “You can say anything to me, you know that.”

Heloise sat for a moment, choosing her words carefully.

“You are the most conniving, duplicitous, egotistical, cunning little vixen that I ever set eyes on.  I’m quite certain that the only reason you invited me here was to use me as a pawn in one of your nefarious schemes.”

Francesca’s hands went up to her chest, her eyes glistening.  She stared at Heloise for a long moment.

“That’s exactly right,” she said.  “I knew you were the just the woman to call upon!”

“Good.  I’m in.  What are you up to this time?”

Francesca swirled around, charged with energy, and glided over to sit next to her friend.  The owl, startled, flapped wildly but went nowhere.  It was tethered firmly to the branch.

“The best part of being an owl,” she said, clasping Heloise hands in her own, “is silently swooping down on your unsuspecting prey.”
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