We reach 12 Kiln Lane after mid-morning. The house sits alone at the path’s end—low, old, thatch sagging. Stone lifts pale plaster, patched and hairline-cracked. No ornament. Just a heavy door set deep, dark-paned windows, terracotta jars crowding the step. The place is sealed—simple, sturdy, watchful.

A man kneels before it, hunched over a pottery jar, drawing careful marks on the clay. Must be Aldous. Slim, pale under clay dust. Short dirty-blonde hair, sleep-hollowed hazel eyes. Stained work clothes, reinforced knees, scarred hands rougher than the jar. The smell of kiln smoke and wet clay drifts over even from here.

Bertram steps forward, pipe in hand.

“Aldous, my good man! I’m glad to say that I can finally lift your spirits about the chicken problem.” He gestures at me. “You see, this exotic out-of-towner, Vespera’s the name, decided to take on your request to deal with your misbehaving poultry. I also got our local warrior Threadscar to help. Oh, and there’s this stray teenager we picked up along the way. So fret not, Aldous, about your poultry situation! This posse of killers will make short work of it all. Then we could all head to town and drink ourselves stupid in celebration.”

The moment Bertram says posse of killers and make short work, something tightens in Aldous’ expression. Worry.

He stands, brushes clay dust off his trousers with deliberate care.

“Bertram, I appreciate you bringing help. Truly. But this isn’t a culling. It’s an extraction.” He gestures toward the back of the property. “The infected birds are quarantined in the coop. Locked. It stays that way until we have a plan that doesn’t start with knives. Come to the yard—I’ll show you the setup and explain what needs to happen.”

He turns and walks toward the yard without waiting for acknowledgment. Melissa follows immediately. She moves like she trusts her own eyes. Bertram ambles after them, curious but unhurried.

I’m still standing at the front of the house like I missed the cue.

“Right behind you, Aldous,” I call, following with easy, prowling steps. “Let’s see what’s got you so spooked about your poultry, meow. I’m very interested in hearing about this ‘extraction’ you have in mind.”

The yard opens up behind the house—a wide stretch of grass marked with geometric patterns in thick salt lines. Twelve chickens peck and cluck like nothing’s wrong. On the far edge sits the coop: simple wooden frame, wire mesh opening into darkness that smells sharp and acrid. Burnt clay.

I catch movement—Rill, hurrying to catch up. She doesn’t want to be left behind.

Bertram wanders in, pipe still in hand, surveying the setup with mild curiosity. Aldous doesn’t acknowledge him. He walks straight toward me instead—close, closer than conversational distance—and drops his voice low.

“You took the contract, so you get the explanation first.” He gestures toward the wire mesh coop. “Those five birds in there are infected with something that came from buried ceramic. Not folklore. Not temperament. An actual entity that’s anchored biologically now. I have a containment vessel that can trap it if we extract properly, but the process will provoke violent resistance from the host. I need someone who can restrain a flailing chicken without panicking, without improvising cruelty, and without deciding that killing is ‘simpler.'” His hand moves to the leather thong around his neck. “The key to that coop stays around my neck until I’m standing there with the vessel, the geometry is stable, and everyone understands this is a procedure with rules. Can you work under those terms?”

He isn’t testing my strength. He’s testing my restraint.

My eyes—one ice-blue, one amber, both steady—meet his.

“I can work under those terms. Restraint. No shortcuts. You keep the key.” I flick an ear; the silver hoops catch light. “I’ve held plenty of things that didn’t want to be held, Aldous. Show me the geometry. Explain the procedure. I’ll follow your lead on this—it’s your vessel, your birds, your entity. I’m here to make sure it goes into the container instead of into someone’s throat.”

Melissa edges in to listen; Rill hovers behind her, intent.

Bertram wanders over to where Aldous and I stand. A few free-roaming chickens trail after him, pecking casually at his boots.

“Aldous.” His eyes narrow as he rubs his forehead slowly. He tilts his pipe to drop ash onto the grass, then slides it behind his apron. His gaze moves to the precise geometric patterns drawn in salt. “All these years I’ve known you, I’ve supported you on your artistic projects, but… this is a bit too much, don’t you think?”

The chickens keep pecking. One investigates Bertram’s heel with stubborn curiosity.

“That request at the Registry said…” Bertram continues. “How did you word it again? That the chickens were possessed by the spirit of your mother-in-law? I’ve never even known you to be married, but besides, you also said you wanted the chickens gone.” He gestures toward the coop. “What the hell is this now about birds getting infected with something that came from buried ceramic? What’s this ‘entity’ you speak of that lives in pottery? Are you sure you haven’t gone off the deep end, my friend?”

Aldous turns from me to face Bertram directly. His voice stays measured.

“The posting said ‘mother-in-law’ because I needed help fast without advertising a ward breach at the Registry where anyone could overhear. You know how gossip travels in Mudbrook.” He gestures toward the coop. “As for ‘gone’—smell that? Burnt clay. From chickens. That’s not normal, Bertram. You work with organic materials daily; you know what decay smells like versus what corruption smells like. This is the latter. I didn’t invent the geometric patterns for decoration—they’re containment boundaries that have kept twelve birds safe out here while five infected ones stay locked inside.” His eyes meet Bertram’s. “You’ve known me long enough to know I don’t do things without reason. I’m asking for procedural help, not validation. Vespera’s agreed to the terms. If you’re here to assist, I’ll explain the full extraction process. If you’re here to diagnose my mental state, you can wait by the fence.”

Bertram shifts his weight.

“You sound quite convinced, I admit, but… I mean, you misrepresented your request to Copperplate at the Registry. If he catches wind of this, he’ll spend a whole afternoon with his quill to the books.”

I let them have it. Bertram’s doubt. Aldous’ control. If the potter’s delusional, he’s functionally delusional.

Bertram nods, but his eyes stay worried.

“Sure, I know you to be a master craftsman at your particular trade. I value all the pots you sold me. They’re sturdy, and those drawings you make on them are quite nice.” He pauses. “It’s just… you’ve never been the same since the kiln explosion. Even you should be able to admit that.”

Bertram glances toward Melissa and Rill. “Anyway, you think there’s some ‘entity’ thing inside your chickens, then sure, let’s deal with it. So… you want the muscle here to help you contain your possessed chickens in that vessel? I mean, I guess you could squeeze a chicken into it if you pressed hard enough, but it will hardly take five. And they wouldn’t survive either.”

Aldous pulls the containment vessel from his satchel—glazed ceramic, intricate patterns catching the morning light. He holds it out toward the tanner.

“The vessel isn’t for the chickens, Bertram. It’s for what’s inside them.” His voice stays calm, precise. “Look at the glaze composition—cobalt oxide with salt-fired stoneware, fired at cone ten for structural integrity. The geometry etched into the surface creates a spiritual anchor. When we perform the extraction properly, the entity transfers from the biological host into the ceramic matrix.”

Aldous extends the vessel closer. “The chickens survive. The threat gets contained. That’s the difference between my work and what you’re imagining. This is craft, not butchery. Feel the weight of it if you don’t believe me.”

Bertram takes it. His hands turn it over slowly, examining the glaze patterns, the etched geometry, testing the weight.

“I’ve never known a better potter than you, Aldous. I recognize great craftsmanship. But when I spend hours making saddles, belts, boots… I don’t expect them to catch ‘entities.’ Whatever an ‘entity’ may mean in this occasion.”

He passes the vessel to me. Cool ceramic settles into my feline hands—heavier than expected, dense with that structural integrity Aldous mentioned. Bertram holds Aldous’ gaze through the potter’s glasses.

“You posted the request, and your chickens are in trouble. You’re in charge here. If you believe we should sing a chant or something while holding your chickens, I’m nobody to argue.”

Aldous doesn’t rise to it. He turns his full attention to me instead, steps closer so he’s addressing me directly rather than the whole group.

“Look at the etching along the rim—that’s the anchor geometry. When we extract, the entity will resist leaving the biological host. The patterns create a spiritual gradient, a pressure differential that pulls it toward the ceramic matrix instead of dispersing or jumping to another living thing.”

He points to specific glaze marks without touching the vessel.

“The extraction happens in stages. First, we isolate the primary vector—the large speckled hen. I’ll position the vessel near her head while you restrain her wings and body. The geometry does the heavy work, but she’ll thrash violently when it starts. Your job is to keep her contained without breaking bones or letting her escape the salt boundary I’ll draw around us. Once the entity transfers into the vessel, I seal it immediately. The other four birds should stabilize once the primary anchor is severed.”

His hazel eyes meet mine—ice-blue and amber both steady.

“Questions before we go to the coop?” the potter adds.

I turn the vessel in my hands, studying the etched geometry along the rim. I trace the glaze beside the etching, careful not to cross it.

“Where exactly do my hands go on her so I’m not blocking the anchor when she thrashes?” I meet Aldous’ eyes. “The other four—are they linked to her, or just infected? And timing—do you start the extraction the moment I have her secured, or should I watch for a signal?”

Behind me, Melissa stands positioned where she can hear clearly. Observing the procedural briefing. Calculating failure points and emergency responses without interrupting. The teenage girl is closer to Melissa than to us, absorbing every word with quiet intensity.

Aldous doesn’t pause. He pulls the leather thong over his head—key catching morning light—and moves toward the coop door.

“Proximity matters. The vessel needs to be within a handspan of her head for the gradient to engage properly. Your hands go on her wings first, folded tight against her body, then secure her legs so she can’t kick or claw when the thrashing starts. I position the vessel near her beak, angled so the anchor geometry faces her directly.”

He fits the key into the padlock.

“The networked effect—it’s more like removing the source infection. The speckled hen is the primary anchor. The other four birds are secondary hosts, tethered to her. Once we sever the primary connection, the entity loses its strongest foothold and the symptoms should resolve in the others within hours.”

Click. The lock opens.

Behind me, Bertram’s voice drops low, directed at Melissa.

“I’m guessing you’ve dealt with weirdness before. Gods know what you’ve had to kill through your mercenary work.” Brief pause. “But doesn’t this feel… This feels off to you too, right?”

Aldous lifts the padlock free. The burnt-clay smell punches out.

“Timing: I start the extraction the moment you have her secured and I’ve drawn the salt boundary around us.” He looks at me. “No signal to watch for—you’ll know when it starts because she’ll fight like she’s being burned alive. Keep her contained. Don’t let go. Don’t break the salt line. The geometry does the rest.”

“Feels off, yeah.” Melissa’s response comes flat. “But Aldous just opened the door. I’m going in.”

She moves past and steps through the coop entrance into darkness.

THE END