The shower of flaming arrows had slowed, leaving charred patches of stone. She picked her way across the courtyard towards the kitchen, skirting boulders and taking care to avoid the smouldering piles of ashes as the last of the arrows burned down. ‘Please!’ a voice nearby said, and Tommy turned to see the small, round figure of the physician. He appeared to be pleading with the pigeon, who was perched on a low wall. ‘Certainly not,’ the bird was saying in a cross voice. ‘Your constant demand for my droppings is an insult to my skill and training.’ ‘But a guard in one of the watchtowers has suffered a nasty burn,’ the physician argued. ‘I need to mix your droppings with some grated cucumber to make a cure.’ The pigeon groaned. ‘Very well. If you must.’ Tommy hurried on, knowing how the pigeon disliked people watching when he gave his droppings. She entered the kitchen to find Mrs Moon standing by the enormous fireplace, stirring a large pot of soup.
