The Phoenix Is Allergic to Glory

How it begins

The phoenix arrived with a brass plaque, three ceremonial torches, and a request for somewhere nobody would clap.

Leila Venn read the delivery note again.

"It says you're due to rise in a blaze of immortal glory at noon."

"It often does," said the bird.

He sat inside the open travel crate, his feathers a tired copper rather than the advertised gold. A small label tied to his perch said HANDLE WITH REVERENCE. Someone had crossed out FRAGILE beneath it.

Leila put down the torches.

"Would a quiet room help?"

The phoenix looked at her for the first time.

"Does it have curtains?"

"Yes."

"I may weep."

The sanctuary occupied an old orchard beyond the village. It housed a basilisk who wore shaded spectacles, two kelpies who preferred baths to rivers, and a unicorn that had bitten every person who called it pure. Leila was accustomed to discrepancies between a creature and its brochure.

She carried the crate to the small room above the kitchen. Outside, early sunlight warmed the pear trees. The phoenix turned his face away from the window.

"Leo," he said. "Before someone starts calling me Radiant One."

"Leila. Before someone starts asking me to explain the plumbing."

He made a dry, crackling sound. It took her a moment to realize it was a laugh.

Downstairs, the gate bell rang. A wagon had arrived carrying twelve folding chairs and a banner promising THE MIRACLE OF RENEWAL.

Leila looked at the sleeping bird, then at the banner.

She drew the curtains.

By the time she reached the gate, she had decided on a new sign. It was less impressive than the brass plaque, and nobody would cross a kingdom to see it.

RESTING. PLEASE COME BACK ANOTHER DAY.

For the first time that morning, the sanctuary seemed to deserve its name.