The rook brought a small wooden flute and a sock which would not come down.
The flute she laid on the counter. The sock floated beside her, turning slowly, heel over toe.
“It is an excellent drying wind,” she said. “But the washing was dry on Monday.”
The badger put down his tuning fork.
“Have you tried the stop?”
“Repeatedly.”
He pressed the little brass key at the foot of the flute. The sock made another revolution.
“Mm.”
Above the bench, a row of drawers bore labels in a careful hand: SPRINGS, REEDS, SMALL HAIL. The badger opened the drawer marked FELT and took out a square of green cloth. Then he moved the basin under the rain accordion two inches to the left.
“Mind that,” he said.
“I have been minding this sock for three days.”
With a pair of narrow pliers he lifted the brass key. Beneath it, the old felt pad had worn through. A small, steady wind escaped from the hole, lifting the fur on his wrist.
The rook watched him cut a new pad.
“Is it expensive?”
“The felt is not.”
“And the other part?”
“Finding which bit of felt.”
He glued the pad in place, closed the key, and waited.
The sock fell into the basin.
Neither of them spoke.
The rain accordion dripped once.
“I shall dry it,” said the badger.
He carried the basin into the yard, pegged the sock to a line, and played three notes on the flute. The sock filled out smartly. The rook stood on the gatepost, watching the brass key.
When the sock was dry, the badger pressed the key.
The wind stopped. The sock hung limp.
“Once more,” said the rook.
He played. The sock lifted. He pressed the key. It fell.
“Good,” she said.
Inside, he wrote out the bill: one felt pad, fitting, no charge for drying.
“Do you test all the instruments with a sock?”
“Only the winds.”
She tucked the flute under her wing and took the sock in her beak. At the door she paused.
“What do you use for thunder?”
The badger reached up and steadied a cupboard door. Something inside it knocked twice.
“Come back on Thursday,” he said.
Illustration generated with Gemini.