Excerpt from Flight of the Wild Swan by Melissa Pritchard, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Searching the ground among oaks, birch, sweet chestnut, and spruce, I choose three gray striated stones, drop them into the pocket of my day dress. Once I show him these, I will be able to choose from among Papa's brachiopods, mollusks millions of years old. Pushing strands of hair back from my hot cheeks, I hear it, a cry of injury. Hear it again. A creature, in distress, not far from me. The cries are high-pitched, monotonous. For an instant, I long for the somnolent peace of the third-floor nursery, the large open windows overlooking the river Derwent. But the sound draws me on.

Its injury is worse, more fascinating than anything I have seen. A hare, fully grown, caught in a poacher's snare. Sensing my presence, it goes still. Even in its agony, it wants not to be found.

Dropping to my knees, I stare into its amber eyes, stretched wide with fear. We regard each other. Though I am only seven, I see its creature soul.

"Shhh. Poor thing."

Twine, wire-thin, hardened with wax, has torn the skin off its back legs, cut into its flanks, torn open the white-furred abdomen. I study, as if dreaming, the bloody muscle, white bone, sinew. The hare kicks once, with little force. Sinks onto its side, unmoving, one slightly protuberant eye steadily regarding me. A wild creature with tall, tapering ears and tawny, stippled fur, powerful hind legs meant to bound at great speeds across fields and woodlands, unharmed until now.

I work to free him from the sharp twine, drag the petticoat from beneath my dress. Wrapping the maimed animal in its muslin (a use for the stupid thing!), I struggle to my feet, return to the footpath. Papa's stones, the size and weight of chestnuts, shift against one another in my pocket.

Blood, red and warm, seeps through the petticoat. Stepping out from the woodland's edge, I see my sister running toward me. Farther off, standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, scowls our nurse and Sunday cook, Mrs. Gale.

Parthe dashes up, her blond hair plaited into two skinny ropes.

"What have you got, Flo? Gale is very angry. You have run off and frightened us."

"I found him in a snare. I'm going to save him."

Screwing up her face, Parthe lifts the blood-soaked hem of the petticoat. A hard little expression of disgust.

"Flo. It's dead. Ugh, your petticoat! Mama will be so mad with you."

Mrs. Gale trundles up, panting.

"What have you got, naughty child? I nearly sent one of the gardeners after you. Oh my. If you haven't got Jack Rabbit! Poor thing, snared, was it? Good as finished. Give him over; I've still time to turn him into Mr. Nightingale's favorite supper. Come into the house, wash your filthy hands, change clothes before tea. A blessing it's Miss Christie's day off. If she saw you looking like some dirty little heathen, she'd faint away, wouldn't she?"

Before Gale can pry the bundle from me, I cradle the hare, nuzzle its warm brindled fur, stroke the rounded place between its tall, dusky ears. It smells of wild grasses and sunlight. A film slips over its eyes, a glassy, distant look. Gone.

Deep Time

Take your Hare when it is Cas'd. Cut it into little pieces, lard them here and there and with little slips of bacon, season them with a very little pepper and salt, put them into an earthen jug, with a blade or two of mace, an onion stuck with cloves, and a bundle of sweet-herbs; cover the jug or jar you do it in so close that nothing can get in, then set it in a pot of boiling water, keep the water boiling, and three hours will do it; then turn it out into the dish, and take out the onion and sweet-herbs, and send it to table hot. —Hannah Glasse, The Art of Cookery (1747)

"Ah, Lepus europaeus, Mrs. Gale. Blood sauce as well?"

"Your favorite, sir."

"Indeed. High season for hares. How did you come by it?"

"It was Flo!" Parthe shoves her plate away. "She thought to save it!"

Excerpted from Flight of the Wild Swan by Melissa Pritchard. Copyright © 2024 by Melissa Pritchard. Excerpted by permission of Bellevue Literary Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.