The morning started normally.

  For a given value of "normally" that included a wolf sleeping on Kael's legs, a crow on her chest, and three souls arguing about breakfast before she'd even opened her eyes.

  "Bacon," Mammon insisted. "We need bacon. The bird said bacon yesterday. The bird is wise. We should listen to the bird."

  "The bird is a crow," Azrael replied. "Crows do not have nutritional expertise."

  "The bird ate our bacon yesterday and didn't die. That's expertise."

  "That's not how expertise works."

  "IT IS NOW."

  "Pie," Beckett said, directly into Kael's face. "You promised pie. Promises were made. I remember. I have excellent memory. It's a crow thing."

  Kael opened one eye. "I didn't promise pie."

  "You implied pie. Implications are promises. This is basic negotiation."

  "The bird is gaslighting us," IRIS observed. "Impressive."

  Lycos, sensing that the morning was already too complicated, got up, stretched, and walked out of the room with the dignified air of a wolf who had decided that humans and birds were beneath his concern.

  Pack-leave. Pack-cannot-deal. Pack-will-be-back-for-bacon.

  ---

  Breakfast was chaos.

  Not the usual chaos—the controlled chaos of an inn preparing for the day. This was a different chaos. This was Beckett chaos.

  Ghoran had barely started cooking when the first customer arrived. Old Man Heston, still convinced that the mayor's chickens were government informants, took his usual seat by the window and waited for his usual porridge.

  Beckett, perched on the back of a chair, watched him with interest.

  "You," Beckett said.

  Heston jumped. "Who said that?"

  "I did. The bird. Obviously." Beckett tilted its head. "You're the chicken conspiracy man. I've heard about you. Your theories are creative but poorly researched."

  Heston's mouth opened and closed several times. "The... the bird is talking."

  "Observant. You're not as stupid as you look. Though that's a low bar."

  "Beckett," Kael hissed from the kitchen doorway. "Be nice."

  "I am nice. I didn't mention the hat."

  Heston clutched his hat protectively. "What's wrong with my hat?"

  "It's brown. Brown is for dirt and sadness. You deserve better."

  "The bird is giving fashion advice now," Azrael said faintly.

  "THE BIRD IS GIVING EXCELLENT FASHION ADVICE," Mammon corrected.

  ---

  By mid-morning, word had spread.

  How, exactly, was unclear. Thornwell was a small town—two thousand people, most of whom knew each other's business within hours. But this was different. This was faster. This was like someone had lit a fire under the rumor mill and thrown kerosene on it.

  The inn filled up.

  Not with regulars—with everyone. Farmers who should have been in their fields. Merchants who should have been at their stalls. Children who should have been in school. They packed into the common room, standing at the back, sitting on the stairs, crowding the windows.

  "Is it true?" someone shouted. "Is there really a talking crow?"

  Beckett, who had been enjoying a leisurely bath in a water bowl on the bar, lifted its dripping head. "There is. I am it. What do you want?"

  The crowd erupted.

  "OH NO," Azrael said.

  "OH YES," Mammon countered. "THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY."

  Ghoran, trapped behind the bar with forty people demanding drinks and answers, shot Kael a look that clearly said this is your fault.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Kael shrugged helplessly. "I didn't tell anyone."

  "Birds talk," Beckett said, preening its wet feathers. "Word travels fast when you have wings."

  "That was a pun," IRIS noted. "The bird made a pun about word traveling fast because it has wings. This is sophisticated humor."

  "I LOVE THIS BIRD SO MUCH," Mammon declared.

  ---

  The next hour was absolute pandemonium.

  Beckett, apparently deciding that it was now the official entertainment director of the inn, greeted each new arrival with a personalized comment.

  To the baker: "Your bread this morning was excellent. I stole a piece. You should be honored."

  To the blacksmith's apprentice: "You're getting stronger. Keep working. Also, your shirt is inside out."

  To the woman who ran the fabric shop: "That color is lovely on you. Very complementary to your eyes. I would wear it myself if I had a body."

  To the town drunk, who had stumbled in hoping for a drink: "You smell like regret and cheap ale. I respect the commitment."

  "It's running a talk show," IRIS said. "From a bar. This is unprecedented."

  "It's a CELEBRITY," Mammon added. "WE'RE LIVING WITH A CELEBRITY."

  "We're living with a crow who has no filter and enjoys chaos," Azrael corrected. "There's a difference."

  "IS THERE THOUGH?"

  ---

  By mid-afternoon, things had escalated.

  Someone had brought a chicken to "introduce" to Beckett. The chicken, a large and apparently fearless hen, stood in the middle of the common room while Beckett observed it from a chair back.

  "This is Bertha," the farmer said proudly. "She's my best layer."

  Beckett examined Bertha. Bertha examined Beckett.

  "She looks delicious," Beckett said.

  The farmer grabbed Bertha protectively. "You can't eat Bertha!"

  "I can try. I won't succeed—she's larger than me. But the thought counts."

  "The bird is threatening a chicken," Azrael said. "I don't know how to process this."

  "Process it as HILARIOUS," Mammon supplied.

  Bertha, apparently unimpressed by the whole situation, laid an egg right there on the floor and walked out.

  Beckett stared at the egg. "I respect her. She has dignity."

  ---

  The afternoon brought more chaos.

  A group of children had formed a "Beckett Fan Club" and were demanding that the crow give them "lessons." Beckett, never one to pass up an audience, agreed.

  "Lesson one," it announced, perched on the highest table. "Crows are superior. This is not opinion, this is fact. Lesson two: shiny objects are valuable. If you see something shiny, take it. Lesson three: never trust a cat. Cats are spies."

  One of the children raised a hand. "My cat is nice."

  "Your cat is waiting for you to die so it can eat your face. It's what cats do. They're patient."

  The child looked horrified.

  "Beckett," Kael said warningly.

  "I'm educating. This is education. They'll thank me later."

  ---

  By evening, Kael was exhausted.

  She'd spent the day running between tables, refilling drinks, calming customers, and trying to prevent Beckett from offending anyone too badly. It was like trying to hold back a river with a spoon.

  Ghoran, despite the chaos, was making more money than he had in months. Every seat was taken. People were ordering food just to stay longer. The tip jar was overflowing.

  "Your bird is the best business decision I never made," he told Kael.

  "Beckett isn't mine. Beckett is... Beckett."

  "Same thing." Ghoran grinned. "At this rate, I can afford to fix the roof. And the curtains your bird destroyed yesterday."

  "The curtains were structurally unsound. That's what Beckett said."

  Ghoran laughed. "Of course it did."

  ---

  The evening rush was winding down when she walked in.

  Young woman, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with dark hair and an expression of barely controlled fury. She marched straight to the bar, ignored Ghoran's offer of a drink, and pointed at Beckett.

  "YOU."

  Beckett, who had been dozing on a shelf, opened one eye. "Me. Yes. What do you want?"

  "My UNDERWEAR."

  The room went silent.

  "Oh no," Azrael whispered.

  "OH YES," Mammon whispered back.

  "You," the woman repeated, her voice trembling with rage, "stole my UNDERWEAR last night. From my clothesline. My SILK underwear. The red pair. My favorite."

  Beckett sat up, suddenly very alert. "Red. Yes. That was you."

  "YOU REMEMBER?"

  "Of course I remember. Red is my favorite color. Very bold. Very confident. Excellent choice."

  The woman's face went through several shades of red that would have impressed a sunset. "You—you—that's not the POINT!"

  "What is the point, then? Because from my perspective, you have excellent taste in undergarments and I helped myself to a sample. This is how crows operate. We're collectors."

  "It's explaining crow culture to an angry woman about her stolen underwear," IRIS said. "I'm recording this for posterity."

  "Posterity," Mammon repeated. "POSTERITY. THIS IS HISTORY."

  The woman sputtered. "I want them BACK!"

  Beckett considered this. "No."

  "No?!"

  "They're in my collection. I don't return items from my collection. That's not how collections work."

  "IT'S UNDERWEAR!"

  "And very nice underwear it is. Soft. Well-made. You clearly have a good seamstress. Or a good shop. Where did you purchase them? I'd like to send them a compliment."

  The room was holding its breath. Kael could hear someone—Mira's father, she thought—choking back laughter behind his hand.

  The woman looked around desperately, as if hoping someone would support her. No one did. They were all too busy trying not to laugh.

  "You—" she started.

  "Also," Beckett added, "they were on a clothesline. Outside. In the open. If you didn't want them collected, you should have put them inside. This is basic security. You wouldn't leave coins on the street and expect them to stay. Underwear is the same principle."

  "THE BIRD IS VICTIM-BLAMING ABOUT UNDERWEAR THEFT," Mammon howled. "I CAN'T BREATHE."

  "We're all in the same body," Azrael pointed out. "If you can't breathe, none of us can breathe."

  "METAPHORICALLY. METAPHORICALLY CAN'T BREATHE."

  The woman's face had now achieved a color that IRIS would later describe as "approaching ultraviolet." She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and finally let out a noise that was somewhere between a scream and a sob.

  Then she turned and stormed out of the inn, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.

  The silence lasted exactly three seconds.

  Then the room EXPLODED.

  People were howling with laughter. Slapping tables. Wiping tears from their eyes. Old Man Heston was laughing so hard he'd slipped off his chair and was now on the floor, still laughing. The baker was doubled over, clutching his stomach. Even Ghoran—Ghoran, who had seen everything in fifteen years as a soldier—was leaning against the bar, tears streaming down his face.

  Beckett watched the chaos with visible satisfaction. "I handled that well, I think."

  Kael buried her face in her hands.

  "We're never going to live this down," Azrael said.

  "We're going to LIVE FOREVER ON THIS STORY," Mammon corrected. "PEOPLE WILL TELL TALES OF THE UNDERWEAR CROW FOR GENERATIONS."

  "Statistically, he's not wrong," IRIS added. "This incident has a 94% probability of becoming local legend."

  Beckett hopped down from the shelf, landed on the bar, and walked over to Kael. "You're embarrassed."

  "Yes."

  "Why? I was magnificent."

  "You told a woman her underwear was your favorite color. In front of forty people."

  "And?" Beckett tilted its head. "It WAS my favorite color. I was being honest. Honesty is important."

  "The bird's moral compass is... unique," Azrael observed.

  "The bird's moral compass is PERFECT," Mammon argued.

  ---

  An hour later, the crowd had finally dispersed, still chuckling. Ghoran was counting the day's take with a smile that suggested he'd already forgiven Beckett for everything. Lycos had emerged from wherever he'd been hiding and was now giving Beckett a look of grudging respect.

  Pack-bird-cause-chaos. Pack-bird-make-humans-laugh. Pack-bird... acceptable.

  Beckett accepted the compliment with a slight nod.

  Kael sat at the bar, drinking hot cider, trying to process the day. "Beckett."

  "Yes?"

  "Tomorrow, maybe... maybe fewer insults?"

  "I didn't insult anyone today. I gave compliments. Fashion advice. Life lessons. The woman with the underwear received a genuine compliment on her taste. That's not an insult."

  "She didn't take it as a compliment."

  "Her reaction is not my responsibility. I can only control what I say, not how people interpret it." Beckett paused. "That's actually good advice. You should write that down."

  "The bird just gave us philosophical advice about personal responsibility," IRIS said. "After stealing someone's underwear."

  "This bird," Mammon said reverently, "is the greatest creature who has ever lived."

  ---

  Later that night, after the inn had closed and the fire had burned low, Kael sat with her pack.

  Lycos was asleep at her feet. Beckett was on her knee, unusually quiet. Ghoran had gone to bed hours ago, still smiling.

  "Beckett," Kael said quietly.

  "Mm?"

  "Thank you. For today. It was... a lot. But it was also good."

  Beckett was silent for a moment. Then: "You're welcome. I know I'm chaotic. I know I cause problems. But I also make people happy. Even the angry woman—she'll tell that story for years. It'll become funny. Eventually. Maybe."

  "The bird understands narrative structure," IRIS observed.

  "The bird understands EVERYTHING."

  Kael stroked Beckett's feathers. "Just... maybe warn me next time before you steal someone's underwear?"

  "No."

  "...no?"

  "Where's the fun in warning? Surprise is better." Beckett settled more comfortably on her knee. "Also, they were very nice underwear. I'm not sorry."

  "I respect the commitment to not being sorry," Mammon said.

  "Of course you do."

  Kael laughed—tired, genuine, full. "You're impossible."

  "I'm a crow. Being impossible is my nature." Beckett closed its eyes. "Now be quiet. I'm sleeping. Today was exhausting."

  Pack-bird-sleep. Pack-bird-deserve-rest. Pack-bird-best-bird.

  Kael smiled in the firelight.

  "Yeah," she whispered. "Best bird."