The fix was in for Madame Goose.

Across the pond the ducks gathered, their thin voices tumbling across the water. The man with his fuzzy dog walking along the bank would serve their design.

The elders spoke of balance. Of how no neck should rise so high for so long. The day must come when Madame’s shadow no longer fell across their little duck backs.

But in the middle of their whispering, an eye would lift and scan the water.

There Madame stood as she always did after feeding. Her neck clean from the water, her colors cut sharp against the green. She looked at something over the bank, the treeline, the rolling hills.

The elders drifted off first. Then the others, one by one, until only Penelope remained, the smallest duck.

Penelope watched Madame. She watched the stillness and liked how the light ran its fingers along the top of her neck.

In her small breast something shifted.

She did not feel the fire of rebellion.

Nor did she feel the swoon of peace.

She imagined herself taller than she was.