She’s alone in the house apart from Rook, yet from downstairs comes a noise she can’t quite place, a creak or an echo. She strains to listen. The sound is like a swollen door opening. She sits up, suddenly alert: it can only be Rook. Rook cawing from the hallway, his caw cracked and wavering, his throat dry from disuse. Sure enough, he’s there, waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, pacing to and fro, bowing and calling. She feels a rush of pleasure; his greeting is for her. Sinking down on the bottom stair, she watches the now familiar origami positioning of the fold of his wings, the angle of his neck outstretched, the lowering and raising of his head as he struts and bows in front of her. Eventually his movements slow to a halt and he fluffs his feathers, regarding her, head at a sideways tilt. His white lid blinks slowly; it’s her turn to be polite. She rises and inclines her head in return. ‘Morning, Rook.’ She dips her head again before following Rook’s swagger and bounce, the leathery flap of his wings, along the hallway to the kitchen, drumming her fingers along the banister rails as she goes.
