Connie looks down at the scalpel in her hand. Quicksilver-thin blade, ivory handle. To the untrained eye, it looks like a stiletto. In other houses, it would be mistaken for a paring knife for vegetables or fruit. Not flesh. Connie cradles the dead jackdaw in her hands, feeling the memory of warmth and life in its dead muscle and sinew and vein, in the heavy droop of its neck. Corvus monedula. Black glossy birds, with ash-grey necks and crowns. Pale eyes. Almost white. Her tools are ready. An earthenware bowl with a mixture of water and arsenical soap. Several strips of cloth, and a pail on the floor at her feet. Newspaper. Pliers and scalpel and file. Gently Connie lays the bird down on the paper. With her fingers, she parts the sooty feathers and lines up the blade at the top of the breast bone. Then, with the anticipation she always feels at the moment of incision, she manoeuvres the tip into place, looking for the best point of entry. The jackdaw lies still, accepting of its fate. She breathes in and slowly exhales. A ritual of sorts. […] The perfumes of the trade are pungent – alcohol, the musty odour of flax tow, linseed oil, the paints for the claws and feet, beaks and mounts – too strong for a child’s sensibilities. Over the years, Connie has become accustomed to them and now she barely notices. If anything, she believes that acknowledging the scent of things is an integral part of the process. She glances up at the high windows that run the length of the workshop, tilted open today to let in the fresh air. The sky is a welcome shock of blue after the weeks of rain. She wonders if she might persuade her father to come down for lunch. Perhaps a cup of beef tea?
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