With a sigh, Priscilla exited the safety of her bedchamber and returned to the parlor with Koffi perched on her finger.
Here it came. Mr. Middleton would wince at Koffi’s screeches, wrinkle his nose to discover grey feathers instead of green, or—
Mr. Middleton was not wrinkling his nose. He was staring at Priscilla and Koffi as if they’d just slid down from heaven on a rainbow lined with gold. Inexplicably, his first words were:
“Better than bluebirds,” he murmured, more to himself than as conversation.
Priscilla had no idea how to respond to a comment like that.
“This is an African grey parrot,” she said instead. “He’s fourteen years old.”
Grandmother thought Koffi a filthy creature the color of soot.
“He’s beautiful,” Mr. Middleton said at once, eyes shining as he bent to Koffi’s level. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Koffi was uncharacteristically silent. Likely because he hadn’t heard the phrase “pleased to meet you” since he’d been deposited in Priscilla’s arms.
Mr. Middleton held out his finger near Priscilla’s.
Turning, Koffi ruffled his feathers and lifted his beak in contempt.
Mr. Middleton burst out laughing. “Was that the avian cut direct?”
“I fear it was,” Priscilla said solemnly. “I hope your heart is not broken.”
His dark eyes were merry. “At least he didn’t say, ‘You’ve nothing I want, Mr. Middleton.’”
Her stomach clenched. She had not wished to wound him.
“Plain mister, no title!” Koffi squawked. “Plain mister, no title!”
Priscilla tensed even more.
Mr. Middleton laughed until tears came to his eyes. “Your sword, it has struck true!”
Slowly, her tight muscles relaxed, and a smile began to play about her own lips. Mr. Middleton wasn’t offended. He was delighted.
No one had ever been delighted over something Priscilla cared about before.
“What’s his name?” Mr. Middleton asked.
She took a deep breath. “Koffi.”
“Ah.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid this is where we must part. I vastly prefer tea to—”
“Tea and cake!” Koffi squawked. “Tea and cake!”
“Exactly,” Mr. Middleton said with feeling. “Perhaps Miss Weatherby could go and fetch us some and leave the coffee for herself?”
“Not coffee,” she said with a laugh. “‘Koffi.’ It’s a Baoulé word. In the village where Koffi is from, sons are often named after the days of the week. I don’t know when Koffi was born, but I do know the day he arrived here. I essentially named him ‘Saturday.’”
Mr. Middleton looked at her as if he’d been waiting his whole life to hear someone say precisely that.
“At least he’s not Wednesday,” he said with a strange smile. “One is enough.”
“If it had been a Wednesday, his name would have been ‘Konan,’” she explained.
He leaned back, impressed. “How do you know all this?”
