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Leonie and Ignatz have sent me a live bird for my birthday. I have no earthly idea where they found it or how they were able to have it conveyed to me safely, but they managed it. Given the breezy nature of the accompanying letter, I doubt they know of my father’s new position as an extremely minor Empire lord. It is dishonorable to keep one’s friends in ignorance for one’s own convenience, but time drags by and I have yet to compose a suitable reply.
They write that the bird is called a shama thrush, but it doesn’t look like the common thrushes I have seen. I suppose there is some resemblance in its posture, which is energetic and upright. It is perhaps as large as a robin, but its silhouette is slimmer and more streamlined. Its tail is long and straight. It is a very handsome bird. Glossy black predominates, but its chest and belly are burnt orange. White peeks out from the underside of tail, and there is a white patch on its rump. I didn’t notice the white rump patch at first, as it is hidden when the creature is at rest and only visible when it spreads its wings. Its legs are straight and black, and its round eyes seem to sparkle with brave good cheer.
I do not understand why they sent this creature to me. Of course, they said that it is a gift, and given the persons involved I cannot ascribe malice to the gesture, but it sits in its cage and regards me all day. Its enclosure dominates one corner of my room, but I still worry that it is not enough. It hops from branch to branch inside the cage, and sometimes it drops to the floor of its enclosure, head tilting, presumably looking for grubs or worms. I have attempted to explain that the only grubs in Gloucester Hall are the ones in its porcelain dish, to no avail. It does not seem distressed by its situation—I have not seen it struggle against the bars of its cage—but still I worry.
I do not know what to do with it. I have let it out of its enclosure once or twice, to give it room to fly, but it flutters around, and relieves itself in inconvenient locations, and does little else. Coaxing it back into its cage is discouragingly easy—its food is in there—but I feel guilty as I latch the wire door. Leonie and Ignatz have made me into a jailer.
It sings during the day. Its voice is mellifluous and flows like a forest stream across smooth river stones. When I tried whistling back, it regarded me with curiosity, then puffed up its breast and repeated itself. I tried to imitate it, and we repeated the exchange several more times before it puffed itself again and turned its back on me. If we were engaged in a contest, I surely lost. If we were having a conversation, I was no doubt a disappointing conversational partner.
I wish I could see it in its natural home. I wish I could see Ignatz and Leonie, or any of my onetime classmates and friends. Compared to the Academy, Gloucester Hall is cold and empty. But I suppose if this bird can maintain its cheerful and friendly mien in a literal cage, I can certainly remain composed in my own house, with the company of my own father. There will be a meeting this afternoon to discuss the disposition of the Great Bridge of Myrddin. I must prepare. But first, I think, I will dare to wait a moment more. The bird has flown to the topmost perch in its cage, and it is singing.