I wrapped the bed coverings around myself, swaddled tight like an infant. That was when the tears began to flow, fast and hot in enduring rivulets down my cheeks. My breathing, too, came ragged in harsh pants that filled the silent room.
There were no sobs. Those were for people who were not the cause of their own suffering. They were a relief to the knot in my throat that I did not deserve.
I must have fallen asleep eventually because I woke, still bereft of his warmth, to an irritating chirp outside the window.
Damn bird.
“Go away,” I mumbled, my throat raw and sharp, in the direction of the bird. If anything, the chirping increased in volume and frequency, with an added tap on the window between each two-note repetitions.
Over and over again he continued, chirp twice, tap, chirp twice, tap. I ignored it. I yelled at it and ignored it again in a similar rhythm. Eventually, I could take it no longer and floppedmy way out of my pile of bedding to yank the window open with no ceremony and far more irritation than the situation deserved.
Far from startled by my efforts, the bird made two little hops to sit on the inside of the sill. It tilted its head, staring at me curiously, judgmentally.
“What?”
Chirp-chirp, it answered. It hopped over to the side of the sill where a pile of pebbles sat. After grabbing one in its little beak, it bounced over and dropped it in front of me. It was bizarre. I would have thought I’d imagined it if a tiny pebble didn’t sit before me.
I glanced about the room, searching for something, anything. My eyes fell on the breakfast tray still on the opposite side of the bed from where I cried myself to sleep. I stepped away and grabbed the pastry and the empty teacup. I tore a tiny bite off the edge of the pastry and handed it to the bird. He ate it in one, two bites with a pleased two-note chirp.
Skipping back, he grabbed another pebble and set it next to the one in front of me. I traded him for a piece of pastry. This continued twice more until he returned, looked at the bite, looked at me, sauntered over to the empty cup, and tapped it.
Taking it to the basin, I filled it and returned and watched in awe as he flitted to the rim and dipped down to take a drink before returning to the pebbles and bringing another one to me.
After that trip, he took no more bites and drank no more. Instead, he tapped the sill next to his stones.
“Yes, it’s a nice pile.” He tapped it again with his beak. “Thank you.”
Three quick hops and he found my finger resting on the wooden frame and gave it a sharp peck.
“What?” He pecked at the finger once again before returning to his pebbles. He straightened one or two before stepping away and quirking his head at me.
Finally, I looked, truly looked at the pebbles. They were arranged in aW.
“I’m losing my mind. This is what going mad feels like,” I muttered under my breath.
Chirp-chirp.
“Gabriel?”
Two chirps.
“I don’t know what this means.” He pecked my hand and tapped his pebbles again.
“I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t understand.” He grabbed the tip of a finger in his beak, dragging my hand to the pebbles. “You want me to findW?”
Chirp-chirp.
“I can’t. They’ll kill William. I can’t let that happen. I’m sorry, Gabriel. I would give almost anything to find out what happened to you. Anything but him.” That statement earned me a flurry of angry cheeps and taps and a slightly more vicious peck at which point I pulled my fingers away.
“I’m sorry. But no. Not him. I won’t let anything happen to William.”
He gave one more irritated series of chirps before he flew off, leaving behind a thousand questions and no answers.
Anthropomorphizing a bird who wanted breakfast, that was madness. No question.
Thirty-Seven
RYCLIFFE PLACE, LONDON - JUNE 28, 1816
