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Just outside, beyond the back courtyard of the Bellweather mansion, was the estate’s aviary in which Abigail and Raelle stood, still in uniform though now on furlough, playing a guessing game. It was their first day away from the base since their mission in the Altai mountains. The Tarim tribe had been secured and moved away to a safe house not too far from Fort Salem, and Tally was a biddy, no longer a part of the Bellweather unit. The rapid succession of the drastic changes—from failing Basic to fighting for their lives in China, including being dead then not—had Raelle and Abigail both childishly holding on to the familiarity of their cadet uniforms. And Raelle, in her freshly pressed attire, did not want to return to the Cession that day. Abigail could tell. So when it was arranged for Abigail to be taken home to the Bellweather mansion, Abigail did what she had done back in the Altai mountains: She took Raelle’s hand into her own and urged Raelle to come with her. Raelle smiled and followed, all the way till they both stood in the aviary, still in uniform though on furlough, playing a guessing game.
Raelle’s tongue stuck out, pressed thin against her upper lip, ready to fling syllables as soon as her wandering finger had landed on a bird. “That one,” Raelle said finally, her point decidedly toward a gyrfalcon that perched above a gray boulder. Raelle admired the bird’s large stocky figure, the curve of its beak, and the sharpness of its claws. It was an excellent example of the royal hunter. But Abigail shook her head for the fourth time, making Raelle toss her hands in the air, frustrated. It shouldn’t have been that hard to guess Abigail’s bird.
It wasn’t the proud bald eagle, which had been Raelle’s first guess. The eagle was the inspiring seal of the country, a spiritual symbol for longevity, victory, and pride. It aligned perfectly with Raelle’s idea of the prestigious Bellweather, and she was right about that. Except it had been General Petra Bellweather’s bird, not Abigail’s.
It hadn’t been the pair of swans Raelle had seen earlier at the pond either. Those were Abigail’s late cousin, Charvel’s birds. The swan was a symbol of opulence that was apparently too gaudy for Abigail’s taste.
It also wasn’t the great tiger owl, Raelle’s third guess. The tiger owl was admired for its courage and beauty, Raelle couldn’t see anything wrong in guessing it for Abigail. But Abigail said the bird was too obvious, and a bit of a cliche. Often, the other High Atlantic girls had an owl as their bird. In fact, the owl was gifted to them by one such family, meaning it was never a chosen Bellweather bird to begin with. At this point, Raelle was out of clever options.
“Give up?” Abigail teased.
Raelle sighed, shaking her head. “How’s it not the gyrfalcon?”
“It’s my father’s, Claude.”
Raelle rubbed her forehead deeply. “How about that other falcon, the brown one?”
Abigail glanced over to the next enclosure where the aforementioned brown falcon resided. “The Saqr,” Abigail said. “You know they’ve been called the hunting dogs of the skies. That one is quite the champion at gamehawking.”
“Uh-huh, yeah.” Raelle nodded, watching Abigail appreciate the bird. Raelle could see Abigail as a great huntress, akin to that of the goddess Artemis, and nodded again. “Is that the one?”
Abigail did not nod along. Instead, she chuckled. “My other dad’s, Fermin.”
Raelle groaned. “Did all your folks just pick every raptor?”
“No,” Abigail responded coolly. “Anton’s got a humble nightingale.”
Raelle shuffled impatiently, realizing that song birds were also a viable option. “Can I get a hint?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re so unfair.”
Abigail grinned. “Just admit defeat, Shitbird.”
Raelle steadied herself by Abigail’s side, convincing the taller girl to lower her chin. “How about, if you can’t guess my bir—”
“Bowerbird,” Abigail chimed.
“Fuck.” Raelle retreated grumpily, causing Abigail to laugh.
“Your family is obvious, Collar,” Abigail said. “You have a single token bird that’s passed down through generations, from mother to daughter, to represent the whole family line unlike—”
Raelle waved Abigail off. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m no illustrious Bellweather.”
Abigail placed a palm over her chest and gasped audibly, pretending to be offended at the comment.
“Bells, please.” Raelle begged, looking the other way as to not fall over laughing.
Raelle crossed her arms and concentrated as her eyes scanned through the aviary once more.
Abigail’s bird was here. Somewhere. Raelle thought hard. Abigail’s bird was not one of power or strength. It wasn’t cunning or silent. And if it wasn’t one of beauty… Raelle peeked over at Abigail. Abigail looked calm, fond and comfortable of where she was. Her eyes were bright and alert. Full of life. Abigail looked happy, despite the circumstances. Despite the war.
Raelle thought about their relationship, how they had started and what they’ve grown into now. Raelle had been wrong about the Bellweather. Abigail wasn’t vapid or so full of herself. Abigail had heart, as big as Raelle’s own. And Abigail had shown her this throughout their year. They’d come a long way from Circe’s and they had gone well beyond. Beyond the wall, beyond the ocean. Beyond life itself, into death, linked hand in hand. Raelle knew Abigail differently now. So perhaps Raelle had been approaching this whole thing all wrong.
“Show me,” Raelle said at last. Show me who you are.
Abigail took a moment to register what Raelle said, and when she did, she beamed. Abigail turned, and called for her bird in a song. And it came flying toward her. Raelle watched as a tiny mango-colored lovebird with beady eyes perched perfectly on Abigail’s finger.
“Hello, Love,” Abigail cooed at the fuzzy mango, and in return, the bird nuzzled its beak into Abigail’s cheek.
“That?” Raelle bluntly pointed. “That’s your bird?” It was tiny. Small enough to hide in Raelle’s palm.
“Well, don’t act so surprised,” Abigail said as she transferred the bird onto her shoulder. Abigail then searched her pocket for the bird treats she had stashed away.
“It’s a lovebird,” Raelle whispered to herself, still fixed to the sight of it.
“Uh, yeah.” Abigail nodded as she sorted small raspberries in her hands. “We know.”
A smile found its way to Raelle’s lips. “Well what’s the story here?”
Abigail smiled at the question. She fed her bird the fruit as she recollected, “A summer before conscription. I found her alone on the ground. She was just lying there, waiting to die. So I took her home, looked after her as best as I could. And when she was singing again, she refused to leave, so I kept her.”
The story warmed Raelle’s heart, but her mind remained skeptical. “But it’s a lovebird.”
“Yep,” Abigail agreed.
“And you only have one?”
“Yep.”
“That’s sad, isn’t it?”
Abigail paused. “What do you mean?”
“Shouldn’t she be dead without a mate?”
Abigail faked offense. “How dare you.”
Raelle chuckled. “No really. I thought that was their whole thing. That you need them in pairs.”
“Common misconception,” Abigail said. “I mean, they do experience a great sadness when they’ve lost a mate, but what they really need in order to flourish is attention, care, love… you know, like the rest of us.” Abigail made kissing sounds toward her bird and it responded in kind.
“So you’re her mate,” Raelle joked.
Abigail made a face, but she didn’t deny it. “Well, she must have lost her pair by the time I found her. And since I was the only one to nurse her, it does make me her flock.” Abigail stroked the bird’s foot. “We have something special, don’t we, Love?” The bird bounced to Abigail’s words.
“Tell me about your Love,” Raelle said. Abigail chuckled at the phrasing.
“She’s stubborn and fools around more often than I like.” Abigail gave the bird another piece of fruit. “But she’s one of mine. And she cheers me up.”
“May I?” Raelle asked the bird, offering her finger up to it. The lovebird reached its foot out, grabbing the tip of Raelle’s finger. Raelle gently shook the bird’s grip. “Nice to meet you,” Raelle said. The lovebird made kissy sounds at her.
“She’s usually not that friendly,” Abigail said as she watched them interact. “I guess other people don’t normally ask her what she wants.” Abigail seemed pleased over Raelle and the lovebird getting along. The bird then released Raelle’s finger and began climbing up the side of Abigail’s head.
“She seems sweet,” said Raelle.
“That’s only because she likes you,” said Abigail. The mango bird was now sitting atop Abigail’s head. Raelle giggled.
“She thinks it’s her job to ride me,” Abigail joked.
Suddenly, Raelle realized: Just like the little lovebird, Raelle had once lost a love that sent her sinking, waiting for death. And like the little lovebird, it had been Abigail who’d given her the love she needed to survive.
“What a shitbird,” Raelle responded.