So was I faced with this new vision:
I wanted to see how the image could fit the circle
And how it could be that that was where it was.
I stumble over the last line as I have a dozen times in the past.
He pauses. On which passage I couldn't say. He always reads slower than me. Worth enough that I still get something from it, seeing heaven revealed over his shoulder. The itch in my feathers is a nuisance. I bury my head into rainbow down.
The page is still there when I return.
But that was not a flight for my wings:
Except that my mind was struck by a flash
In which what was desired came to it.
"Flight for wings." I say, ardent.
"I'm not there yet," he says, smiling over his shoulder. He bookmarks the yellowed tome and closes it on his lap.
How can you bookmark—how can you close eternity?
"Red pen! Red pen!"
"Relax, Albie." He turns and offers two fingers. I hesitate. It wasn't so long ago he was half his height and carried me on his wrist. Then again, I could have said the same of his father, forty years removed.
"C'mon, girl." He tipped his head and grinned, honest, warm, like with every woman he had brought home since our home became his. "I can tell you're hungry."
"Morning call. Dark. Dark."
He doesn't understand. I'm tired. Father always knew. Six months together and he pays me care and company, but little deeper. I'm carried towards my room. He strokes my neck and back. The touch and scent are familiar; wine and pipe tobacco fill my nostrils.
His inheritance seems more than three floors, nine bedrooms, and the large stable out back. He has taken to Father's study, habits and even his indulgences. Even still, the boy I remember is on his face, in his eyes—I don't buy it, and I don't think he does either.
The doorbell rings. He stops in stride and rushes to the stairs. I flap to keep balance, but find myself unseated and forced to the air. I glide over the atrium only to land again on his hand. I wonder which one it is: the lawyer, the waitress or the student? I feel much more awake.
The door opens. The snow on small shoulders sparkles in the light. Coal black hair spills over her shoulders. It had been curled, but now looked a mess. This one always tries too hard, and is always unfortunate.
"Books for crooks, books for crooks." The lawyer is a lousy match. I'd rather see him with the teenager. For the catch he is, I'll eventually spend a lot of time with the winner—or alone.
Her eye twitches when she smiles, looking me straight in the face before shifting to his. "H-Hi."
"Hello, yourself, Glory. What do you want?"
Good boy, good. Just send her home already. Don't let her past the doormat.
She pushes inside, nearly knocking me off his hand. He lifts me to the coat rack, where she hangs her scarf, then fur. The motionless perch is a boon to my aching hips.
"I'm here for the inspection, Noel." The woman produces a video camera from her purse.
"It's fucking midnight!" He reaches for her coat. I resist the urge to leave a bonus down its back. Better on the scarf, but she'd notice that. Glory is a sharp one, if twisted. "Come back tomorrow."
She catches his wrist. Her lips pucker before she says, "Look, I'm sorry about the other day. I got a little--uncomfortable about us."
"There isn't an us." He looks to the floor. "Just worry about your job."
"That's what I'm doing. I know your hours and the deadline is ten AM. We miss court this time, and your Trust is gone."
And where would he be without it? She has a lot of nerve. If he were the boy from six months ago she wouldn't be caressing his hand. She wouldn't look at him twice. He doesn't understand this either. His eyes drift to her hem, her legs--too cold for a skirt. Tramp.
"Pass the buck!" My appeal. The best I can think of.
Ignored.
"Let's get this over with." He waves up to the camera; she lifts it. "In interest of the Trust, this is Noel Anatali, January twelfth, thirty-nine eighty-six. This video document is for proof of conditions met to my father's will." He says it like it's a burden.
I can appreciate the dynamic. I'm interested in how he handles this.
I take flight upstairs and wait on the banister, side-stepping back to Noel. A flapping hop and I'm on his arm. He spins to show me to the camera. "This is Albie Anatali, the legal heir of the estate. As you know, her plumage and speech is unique and unreplicable. DNA proof has also been commanded and will be revealed during the hearing." He paused with his first smile of the recording. "Say hello, Albie."
"Hello, fuckwits, fuckwits!" Sometimes I have to say things twice to be understood. Apparently my delivery is unique.
"Classy," Glory says. "Is that your father's or yours?"
"All dad. Anyway, here we come to the aviary in question, second floor." He opened the ornate cedar door to my room.
Green fronds brush the earth. Blooming orchids dot the jungle floor. Long since overgrown, my home has nary a path for humans, but all the open air I could want in a Martian January winter. The dome's windows are frosted with the high humidity, but the chill doesn't penetrate beyond the glass. All the other birds are asleep. The light is dim and ambient from the dome-glass itself.
"We'll always have Tara!" I leave his wrist for a nearby branch. The stunted maple, Cathy, is one of my best friends. "Hello, fuckwits!"
Noel sweeps his arm across the scene before slapping it to his side. "Here you go. The aviary is as it was. Albie and her home are well-maintained by three landscapers a new biologist from Gratis University. My aim was not just to respect my father's will, but to improve upon it by allotting Albie my father's heart--the best conservatory this home can support. Renovations begin in March, and you are welcome to review the process and results."
News to me. I haven't heard him call about it, but it does explain why my 'keepers' were measuring the walls and inviting carpenters into my den. The plan is impressive beyond a device to secure the Trust. Impressive if he actually cared about me. I can't be sure of why.
"Impressive," Glory says, lowering the camera.
Don't use my words. I have too few as it is.
"I kind of figured you'd cook the bird and eat it for all the trouble she's brought you. I would." She walks close and takes his hand, her shoulder to his chest. She looked deep into his eyes, hers glistening with the film of either sincerity or deceit. "You're so noble."
And you're so full of shit, lady. "Pants on. Pants on. Pants—"
"Shhh, Albie." He leans in and kisses her. They stay close after the moment only to continue twice more.
At a loss, I squawk, bobbing and flapping. It doesn't get his attention. They look damn near ready to take the ground before I say, "Red pen! Red pen!"
He drags her by the arm out of my room, the camera cupped in her palm.
I can accept him using her as Father did his women, but I cannot accept watching her use him. As the door shuts behind them, I continue, "Blueberry, yardarm, tea time, Rochambeau!"
All for naught, he doesn't return. A cricket's chirp soon fills the silence.
For whatever his fate or whosever company he chooses, my life was secured by Father. Just past mourning, I had hoped to share and watch his son develop into an equal man. If he can resist the sycophants and tramps, maybe he'll finally finish that tome. If after tomorrow's hearing he still keeps my company, that will be the biggest shock in my sixty years—other than the day Father passed. Tomorrow is a surprise I would enjoy.