Lost Tales of Ga'Hoole

the scales. Start again with F. Loose and open throat. And…”
    Why must she make such a chore of singing? Brunwella thought. She loved to sing. Whenever she was alone or off hunting with Thora, she could barely stop herself from singing. It was just so uplifting, so freeing. This practice Thora was being subjected to was exactly the opposite. By the time Thora had gotten to scales in the key of A, Brunwella had drifted off to sleep.
    As focused as Rodmilla appeared to be on Thora’s singing, her mind and her gizzard were straying toward other things. Rodmilla was determined to send the oldest of her stepdaughters to the great tree. What a perfect way to get that one out of the hollow—in fact, out of the Northern Kingdoms . That would solve half of her problems! Who would have thought that her plans would come together so quickly? Just when she was ready to go to extremes to get rid of Thora, the current Madame Plonk goes and drops dead. She must be careful now; this was big .
    The next evening, before the sun had a chance to set, Thora and Brunwella woke up to their stepmother dusting under their nests.
    “Time to wake up, dears!” Rodmilla said cheerfully. She nearly dumped Brunwella out of her nest. “Our honored guests arrive tomorrow. This awful little hole must be made perfect for Marquis Henryk VI and his lovely parents.”
    “Mother, I don’t know why you’re so concerned about impressing them,” Brunwella complained in between yawns. “I’ve heard they’re boring fuddy-duddies, not to mention complete Snow snobs.” “Snow snobs” was the nickname given to Snowy Owls who only socialized with other Snowies. Of course, in the firths, where there were few owls of other species, it was not hard to be a Snow snob. Brunwella and Thora, however, made friends easily with owls of all species.
    “They’re royalty, my dear. Their bloodline goes back to the H’rathian court. They have very close ties to those in power. And since the defeat of the Kielian League”—she shot her stepdaughters a hard look—“they’ve become very important. While this family is one of commoners, descended from gadfeathers, for Glaux’s sake. It’s an honor that the marquis and his family would even deign see us. We have to work hard to impress them. How else do you think we’re to get young Henryk to propose to you, hmm?”
    “PROPOSE?!” Brunwella and Thora asked at once.
    “Of course, dears! Oh, Brunwella, if we play this right, your chicks will have royal blood running through their veins.” Rodmilla was giddy, so giddy that she didn’t even notice that her younger stepdaughter was on the verge of going yeep. “Now, girls, lend a talon, this lemming feast won’t serve itself, you know.”
    Brunwella was aghast. She couldn’t take a mate now, much less one like Henryk. If she did, her chances of becoming the next singer would be ruined. Tradition at the great tree demanded the singer be unmated at initiation. And Thora, the singer at the great tree? Unlikely, indeed. Thora would rather forge iron into Glaux knows what! Just what is going on here? Why is Mother so determined to get us out of the hollow?
    The next night, their guests arrived. Henryk’s parents, a plump pair of old owls whose spots had all but faded to a dull shade of gray, arrived first. Young Henryk flew into the hollow after them. He was small for a male Snowy, and Brunwella towered over him.
    “Welcome! Welcome to our humble home!” Rodmilla trilled, bowing deeply with outspread wings. “I trust your flight wasn’t too dreadful.” She stuck out her talon and prodded Thora, urging her and Brunwella to bow as well.
    “It was as dreadful as dreadful can be,” grumbled Marquis Henryk V, father of young Henryk.
    “Yes,” the portly marquise said, “my poor mate was just tossed around by these awful winds. It’s a good thing he’s such a strong flier, even at his age.”
    “Oh, my dear Marquise Gertrude,” Rodmilla frothed, “I do apologize for the weather here, it is dreadful. So good of all of you to make the trip.” Rodmilla bowed again, so deep this time, she almost tumbled forward, head over tail.
    Thora was disgusted at her mother’s desperate attempts to charm the primaries off their guests. She clearly wanted Henryk to fall in love with Brunwella. That wouldn’t be too hard, Thora figured. Brunwella’s beauty and grace were well known in the firths. Henryk was not exactly a catch; he was neither attractive nor a