chapter one

The First Dawn 

The robin is the first voice at dawn and the last voice at dusk. 

In between, he is simply the loudest.

— From Bird Boy’s Notebook —

My heart races with excitement as we assemble along Sage the parrot’s railing. Dawn is only a breath away, and the moon, still fat and bright, is drifting towards the tree line. It’s day one of The Seven Dawns Competition and my choir, Riverside Garden, is singing first. 

"Murmur," says Sage, “take the register of singers, please.”

The starling hops forward, lifts his beak and starts reeling off the roster of singers for today’s performance.

"Rube. Robin. Riverside Garden. Lead tenor, soloist."

I curtsey.

I might not be the biggest bird in this garden. Not even close. But I know how to make every voice count — even the tuneless ones. 

Harmony, I’m told, is about more than tunefulness.

I'm still working on believing that.

"Phil. Song thrush. Tenor, soloist."

"That's me," Phil trills, easy, musical and poised to lead us into song. 

"Merula. Blackbird. Baritone."

Merula dips her head. Murmur's eyes move on without expression. He has, as far as any of us can tell, no expression. He is a small, shiny, iridescent recording machine — everything he hears goes in, nothing is ever lost, and what comes out again is always delivered in exactly the same mechanical chirr.

"Parus. Blue tit. Treble."

Parus chirrups with excitement. Murmur waits for silence, then continues.

"Blanche. Cuckoo. Chorus."

Blanche, Parus’ adopted cuckoo daughter, makes her usual tuneless bubbling sound. I tell myself not to mind. I learnt to my cost last year. Harmony is about more than tunefulness.

I watch Murmur, memorising every chirrup, every bubble, every curtsey.

A rustle in the hawthorn. I stiffen. 

“Hula. Bullfinch. Soprano,” recites the starling.

Hula flutes his reply. He sounds nervous. I reach a wing out to reassure him. And me. 

“I bet the other garden choirs are listening,” I whisper.

He tilts his head while Murmur lists all the sparrows by name. 

“There’s something in the hawthorn. Low. But it’s our side of the garden,” mutters Hula.

Hula’s eyes don’t work, but his ears are his superpower. He never misses a beat.

Heat rises up my chest.  

I promised Alcedo the kingfisher his secret would remain just that. 

A secret. 

Between me, Alcedo and Grebe.

And I’ve just gone and drawn attention to it.

Fortunately, Hula is quickly distracted when Murmur calls Riddler’s name as ‘registered but not performing.’

“Hmm hmm. I mustn’t sing, I mustn’t tap, Rube wants to win, so no more rap,” Riddler replies. 

“You just need to say ‘here’, mate,” calls Phil 

“So-so-sorry Phil. Here mate!” Riddler shouts, before flying to a nearby tree where he lets off steam by hammering his sharp black beak into the bark. 

Sage waits for Murmur to finish, then fixes us all with ‘the look’. The one that means pay attention.

"You know the rules. But we’ll remind you anyway. Murmur."

Flint the jay dreamed up the competition, and made a huge noise about it. Sage is the one who’s made it real.

Murmur steps forward.

I wonder how long this will go on. The chick choir is restless, shuffling and wriggling behind me. 

“Not long now,” Merula whispers to them. 

"One. Only registered birds may sing. Two. No percussion. Three. No soloists undeclared at roll call. Four. No singers from outside the competing garden.”

I try not to look at the hawthorn. Lucy is definitely not from Riverside Garden. 

“Five. Dawn chorus only — performances must finish before the sun clears the rooftops. Six. No coaching from beyond the garden boundary."

He pauses.

"Seven. No mimicry of domestic animals, humans, or machinery."

We all look at each other. Nobirdy knows where that one came from.

"Thank you, Murmur," says Sage, glancing to where the horizon will soon be flooded with golden light.

Sage looks at us all slowly. 

"These rules exist for a reason," she says. "And remember,” she adds, quieter now, “competition rules are one thing. The Bird Code is another. I won’t have them confused.”

The words settle on me like cold dew. 

I think about Lucy, tucked into the hawthorn.

The code is about keeping birds safe. That’s what I’m doing.

It will be fine.

Nobirdy will notice. 

But just in case, I whisper that Hula should move to the other side of Blanche. Her voice drowns out everything, however much she tries to whisper. 

“So if everybirdy is ready, I’ll count you in, and your performance can begin.”

Seven dawns. Seven choirs. One winner. Seven gardens, side by side, all the way down to the river. 

And ours is the best.

Whoever Sage chooses will win prizes I don’t care about, and the honour of performing the Swallows’ Welcome at the May Day celebration in eight days' time, which I do care about. We nearly lost the swallows last year. I won't let that happen again. Ever. 

We are first to perform. 

I made sure of that. 

“Deep breaths,” I call to my choir. “Chests out and …”

A whoosh above our heads, a loud cackle, and an enormous jay circles above us then lands with a flourish in the middle of Sage’s garden. 

“Swoop and rule, baby, swoop and rule,” he shouts.

It’s Flint. Our persecutor from last year, now our friend and neighbour since he ransacked our garden looking for acorns, found none, and had to face the fact he'd been wrong about everything.

“This competition is my gift to you, little tweety birds. Prizes of treasure beyond your wildest dreams. You guys sing your little hearts out, and you might just get lucky.” 

He laughs. 

“And now we’re all friends, I’ll just pop over to your bird table and see what Bird Boy’s left for our breakfast.” And with that, he’s gone. The chick choir is giggling uncontrollably, Murmur is scowling and Sage is looking very disappointed. 

“As I said, on the count of three.” 

Sage lifts a stunted wing.

I give a quick, almost invisible nod towards the hawthorn.

And we open our beaks and start to sing.