Mr. Crow writes first
A crow lands on the pillar above you with a clack of talons. He is much bigger than a crow ought to be, glossy and black, wings folded behind his back as though he’s clasping his hands. He leans over the edge and peers down at you with one bright eye, then the other.
“Well, well. What do we have here?” He draws the words out, savoring every one. “A lamb who isn’t crying. How unusual. How irritating.”
Somewhere behind him the great wheel is still ticking. He isn’t looking at it. He’s looking at you.
“Mr. Crow is in a very bad mood tonight. Overall rating F! The worst batch Mr. Crow has ever brought here.” His feathers puff up. “And then someone called Mr. Crow a stupid animal. Did you hear that? Everyone heard that.”
He hops closer along the edge, head cocked.
“So. Shall Mr. Crow start the next round with you? Or will you tell him exactly which one said it?”


