Lost Tales of Ga'Hoole

genius. He would be doing very well for himself with Brunwella as his mate, despite her family’s connection to the defeated Kielian League. But would Brunwella ever agree to such a thing?
    “Well, the weather need no longer concern us,” the old marquis piped up again. “Just point me in the direction of some strong bingle juice and I’ll recover soon enough.” He headed straight for the nut cups that had been set out, needing no direction from Rodmilla.
    “And you must be Marquis Henryk VI. I’m honored, truly honored.” She bowed once again to the younger marquis.
    “Yes, a pleasure to meet you,” Henryk said to Rodmilla, all the while not taking his eyes off Brunwella. “I assume these are your stepdaughters then?”
    “Oh, yes, where are my manners?! Allow me to introduce you. This is Brunwella, the pride of the Firth of Canis, the one I wrote to you about. And this is…this is…”
    “Thora, Mother. My name is Thora.”
    Rodmilla let out an embarrassed churr and gave her oldest a hard stare. “Yes, my other stepdaughter, Thora.” Brunwella was sure she saw the young Henryk wince as he laid eyes upon Thora. It made her dislike him immediately.
    “Brunwella,” Rodmilla said, quickly diverting her guests’ attention, “why don’t you show Marquis Henryk to the refreshments.”
    Thora watched her stepmother’s awkward social maneuvering. Whenever Rodmilla was nervous she had a habit of tucking her left leg behind her right to hide a missing talon lost in some accident long ago. She was doing it now. In fact she spent much of the evening with her left leg behind her right.
    The lemming feast went off flawlessly, exactly as Rodmilla had planned it. Thora and Brunwella had hunted enough lemmings to feed a battalion the previous night—no easy feat these days. They counted: The young marquis ate five. Marquise Gertrude ate four. The elder marquis, however, only had an appetite for bingle juice, it seemed.
    Young Henryk chatted with Brunwella all night. First, it was about his friends, or “school chums,” as he called them. Then it was about his elite education: “Graduated from Featherston’s Academy. Did you know you have to have connections just to be accepted?” And finally, he went on and on about his royal lineage, and how proud he was of the history of his family: “We can trace our roots back to the H’rathian court, you know. Very few Snowies can say that.”
    Brunwella was so bored she had to keep pinching her own leg with her talon to keep from nodding off. She and Thora exchanged exasperated looks, but even that got old as the night went on. Rodmilla, on the other hand, acted as if every word out of young Henryk’s beak was fascinating. If Brunwella had to hear her stepmother gasp “You don’t say!” one more time, she was going to yarp her lemming before it was fully digested. Thora was thrilled that she was largely ignored all night long.
    When Rodmilla asked, or rather told, Brunwella to sing a song for their guests, she felt positively ill. She obliged, of course, and sang a traditional hymn called “Blessed Snow.” She considered, just for a second, belting out an old gadfeather tune, just to see what would happen. But she knew Rodmilla would be furious and she didn’t see the point of upsetting her. Besides, Thora seemed to think something more sinister was in the works, though what could be more sinister than selling your stepdaughter off to petit nobility for some paltry increase in your own social standing, Brunwella couldn’t imagine.
    As the blackest part of the night approached, the feast finally began to wind down. The elder Marquis Henryk, who was now barely coherent, raised his umpteenth nut cup of bingle juice and said, “Allow me to propose a toast! To our gracious hostesses: Rodmilla, whose bingle juice is delicious and whose stepdaughter is…I mean, whose stepdaughters are as lovely as she promised they would be.”
    “Oh, how charming. Thank you, I’m honored, truly,” Rodmilla replied. “The bingle juice I can’t take credit for, but I will say that I am quite proud of my stepdaughters. I knew I had something special the day I met little Brunwella. She was the most beautiful little white chick you have ever seen.”
    Thora had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. It was hard for her to believe that this foolish, fawning, portly Snowy, who was her stepmum, was capable of the deeds the rumor claimed. She would have to watch