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gusted, she flapped her wings.
    â€œShe ought to be flying by now,” said Userref. “Maybe she lost her confidence, falling out of her nest.”
    â€œHow can I help her?” said Pirra.
    â€œBe patient. It shouldn’t be long.”
    â€œWhen she does fly—will she come back?”
    â€œOh, yes. She can’t hunt yet, and she thinks of this place as her eyrie. She’ll fly around, learning to use her wings, but she’ll keep coming back.”
    Pirra shot him a glance. “Always?”
    â€œNo,” he said gently. “Once she’s made her first kill, she’ll be gone.”
    Pirra went cold inside. “When? When will she make her first kill?”
    He hesitated. “A few days. Maybe longer.”
    Pirra put her hand to her mouth. Only days ? “Well,” she faltered. “That’s as it should be. I want her to be free.”
    But that night, as she gazed at the falcon on the bedpost, she said, “Don’t leave me, Echo. I can’t be here without you.”
    Echo paused in her preening and glanced at her, and in her dark eyes, Pirra glimpsed the wildness of high places where she could never go.
    The next day was blustery, with snow swirling in the courtyard. Echo was restless, flapping her wings at every gust.
    All at once, she bobbed her head up and down, shook out her feathers, spread her wings—and flew .
    Pirra felt a sharp tug in her heart as Echo rose with a joyful shriek, wobbled, then glided over the sanctuary wall.
    Echo flew higher—and for a moment, to Pirra’s astonishment, she felt as if she was flying with Echo: rushing through the limitless Sky.
    She felt as if she was free.

    The falcon rode the Wind and shrieked with joy. She was a falcon, this was what she was for !
    In places the Wind flowed fast and smooth, but in others it was bumpy, with sudden drops and peaks. The falcon couldn’t see them but she felt them, and she had fun twisting and turning: tilting her wingtips to slide off a bumpy bit, slowing herself down by spreading her tail feathers, then stretching her wings and letting an updraft carry her higher.
    The strings on her legs dragged a little, but she forgot them as she soared and the earth fell away. The girl was a speck—and yet the falcon felt her spirit flying with her.
    Suddenly, the falcon’s heart leaped. There, far below: pigeons .
    Folding her wings and tucking her feet under her tail, she dived, enjoying the rush of the freezing air.
    The pigeons were fast and they’d seen her. They darted confusingly, she couldn’t decide which one to attack. The Wind was lumpy and tangled. She struggled to adjust her wing feathers to keep her plunge straight.
    Just before she reached them, she thrust out her legs and clenched her feet to knock one out of the Sky . . .
    She missed.
    Pretending it hadn’t happened, she flew off. She was outraged. She was ashamed . What had she done wrong?
    Through the voices of Wind and snow and the flurry of escaping pigeons, she heard the girl calling, and flew back toward the eyrie.
    The girl didn’t mind that she’d missed. The falcon swooped down, skimming so low that her wing beats stirred the girl’s hair, and the girl laughed, which made the falcon feel a bit better, so she swept off to the juniper tree for a rest.
    Perched snugly out of the Wind in the dense branches, she did some preening, then realized she was hungry. The girl always had meat, so the falcon launched off again to get some.
    Something yanked her back.
    Startled, the falcon struggled to free herself. She couldn’t. The strings on her legs had become tangled in the branches. The falcon tried to peck herself free, but the juniper was prickly and thick; she couldn’t reach.
    She shrieked and gaped in alarm. She was stuck.

7
    â€œS he’ll come down when she’s hungry,” said Userref. “Until then, you’d better leave her in