Six made the pattern. One added the volume.
“Am I too late?”
The seventh duck stood in the doorway, where the afternoon sunlight had reached the pink floor.
Behind her, six splendid ducks were gathering ribbon scraps into a basket. The stylist sat beside the mirror with her slippers stretched out in front of her.
She looked at the clock, then at the open storage box.
One bundle of flowers and feathers remained.
“You may be the last,” she said.
The seventh duck stepped inside very carefully, as though being last were an appointment she might disturb.
The Last Flowers
The choreographer brought the bundle to the stylist’s chair. The seventh duck lowered her head, and the first held the waiting wing decorations close enough to reach.
The stylist worked sitting down. When she needed the other side of the crown, the duck turned instead of making her get up.
Purple rose behind pink. Blue feathers spread along both wings, with orange flowers tucked between the green leaves.
The sixth duck carried the last ribbon scraps to the basket while the stylist secured a white plume.
“There.”
The seventh duck opened her wings.
The stylist closed the box and rested her hands in her lap.
“That is all for today.”
Too Much for a Row
The choreographer had called a photographer from the studio next door. He arrived with a camera just as the seventh duck joined the others.
They tried standing in a line.
He stepped back. Then back again.
At the door, he lowered the camera.
“I can have the first flower or the last flower.”
“All of them,” said the first duck.
They tried two rows, but the new crown filled a gap that had been perfectly useful a moment before.
The choreographer looked toward the little gallery above the shop floor. She climbed a few stairs and glanced down.
From there, the crowns looked round. The spread wings curved between them.
“Stay where you are,” she said.
Then she reconsidered.
“Actually, everybody move.”
Six Around One
She came down and asked the first six ducks to form a circle, leaving the seventh in the middle.
They crouched with their feet pointing outward and lowered their heads toward the pink floor. The choreographer guided their wings sideways until neighboring tips met.
Blue and violet feathers made six curved arches. Flowers filled the spaces between them.
The third duck shifted a wing slightly. The curve closed.
In the center, the seventh duck stood upright, her orange feet neatly beneath her.
The photographer climbed to the gallery and aimed his camera down.
“Lovely. The six outside, keep your heads lowered. The one in the middle, look up.”
The seventh duck tipped her bill toward him.
“Can you see me?”
“Perfectly.”
She spread her wings.
“Wheee!”
The camera clicked. Six white plume halos trembled around her.
The Shop Closes
The photographer came down and showed the picture to the stylist.
Six crowns made a flowered ring. One bright face beamed from its center, bill wide open.
The stylist smiled.
“You can almost hear that one.”
“You could hear her from next door,” said the photographer.
At the doorway, a few more ducks had stopped to admire the result. One leaned inside.
“Could we have ours done?”
“Not today,” said the stylist.
The choreographer helped the seven stand while the photographer packed his camera. The first duck carried the basket back beneath the table.
“Even something small?” asked the visitor. “Just one flower?”
The stylist glanced at the first duck’s enormous crown, then closed her appointment book.
“I know how that one goes.”
She slipped off her slippers.
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