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Esther doesn’t really care where he sleeps.
In truth, she never had. The cage in the kitchen was a convenience and, at times, a punishment, but more often than not, Monty was given free roam of the house. He has quite a few favorite places to burrow into at night. High and out of the way and small. But when you suddenly have arms and legs, not wings and claws, and grow to be ten times the size you used to be, you start to find those sorts of places don’t really suit your needs anymore.
He took up residence on one of the sitting room couches. It’s lumpy and uncomfortable and probably got a few hundred years of dust in some of the cracks. Even still, there’s something about sleeping on the actual ground that feels antithetical to his entire being, like it goes against some lingering survival instinct and he can’t bring himself to do it, even as a human.
So, couch it is. Dust and lumps and all.
Monty sighs, rolls over, and stares up at the ceiling. The room is dim, but his eyes catch on a few small cracks in the plaster he can’t remember noticing before. Maybe those kinds of things are a side effect of Esther’s magic. The house could very well get its own kind of wrinkles the same as she did. Telltale signs of age starting to peek through the edges of the veneer.
Monty’s mind starts to wander as his eyes trace the cracks. He thinks about age and decay and remnants. He likes scavenging remnants of things, especially shiny ones. Esther would often praise him for unique and interesting finds and, as such, he had put great effort into getting good at taking notice when things were out of place or different from what they had been before. It might be part of the reason he took to astrology so quickly when he first perused the pages of Esther's tomes years ago. At its core, it was just complex pattern recognition and learning how to understand the adjustments.
He then let his thoughts wander to ghosts.
Ghosts were temperamental and temporary. Small blips that popped up throughout long spans of existence. Snags on life’s tapestry that refused to go flat against the iron of death. Pests, in their own way, kind of like bugs. Monty liked eating bugs but had to admit, he never really gave too much thought to ghosts on the whole. They were just another inedible part of the invisible, magic world.
But… But maybe that wasn’t true anymore. Maybe his feelings about ghosts could be... were... possibly... changing?
As he gets stuck on that train of thought, something under his skin immediately feels uncomfortable. Warm. Prickling. Itchy. Monty lets out a small, pathetic-sounding groan, wraps a quilted blanket around himself, and buries his head in a velvet throw pillow.
He was starting to learn that mammalian existence had all sorts of annoying temperaments set off by nonsense. Humans managed to be full of opinions and judgment and desires he’d never even considered in his previous form. Objectively he knew it was just biology, but there was something so surprisingly complex about working through these things in practice rather than theory.
Esther said a human form was necessary. Important. Key. It would allow him to do such a good things for her in ways a bird form never could. Would be vital to bringing about revenge and a return to balance in both their lives or whatever. So he nodded and listened and made plans because that’s his job as her familiar, after all.
But he didn’t expect to have to deal with such distractions like a constantly fluctuating body temperature…
Monty shifts around, before eventually sticking a foot out from under the blanket. It’s suddenly too warm. And too restricting. Like a trap of his own making. He wishes he had the convenience of feathers again. He wishes he could fly out a window.
Esther had called him a bird brain more than once in the past. Monty wonders if that could still be true, could he somehow still be stuck with his bird brain, even in this form.
He tries to think again about his directives: Stir up trouble. Cause unrest. And gather information all the while.
It made sense for Monty’s focus to be Edwin. The other one (Charlie? He was honestly only half listening when he’d introduced himself) was too unpredictable. Brash. Volatile. Like a supernova waiting to burst. Edwin at least seemed to have his own predetermined pattern. More akin to a constellation that could be mapped out.
He was definitely the safer bet.
But when Edwin took his book (bait, obviously) and offered Monty his own book in return (unexpected, truly), and then punctuated the whole exchange by giving Monty a cute, reserved little half smile, something about that tugged at him, like his whole existence was suddenly connected to the corner of Edwin’s mouth, pulled forward by that little twitch and over an edge into something entirely different.
Monty half-jogged back home after that. Edwin’s book clutched tightly in his arms. Full of a sudden energy he didn’t understand and couldn’t burn off by flying around in circles.
He read the entirety of the first book in one night. Went back later and got handed another. Then another. Edwin's library was as vast and varied as Esther's it seemed, if not moreso. They were always smart picks. Enjoyable and educational. Touching on new and different topics Monty had been only vaguely aware of. He found it all fascinating.
It was research, he told Esther, when she asked what the hell he was doing wasting his time sticking his nose in garbage from the earlier part of the last century. Although not untrue in any way, Monty had a feeling she had her own opinions about that development, even if she didn’t push the question further. She’s always been especially perceptive.
But that’s fine, she can know about their little book exchange and he can know she knows because it doesn’t upset anything about his part in her (...their?) plan. If anything, he’s stumbled upon the best opening he could possibly have. A routine excuse to see Edwin again. To stir up trouble. Cause unrest. And gather information all the while. She should honestly give him a gold star for a job well done. Suspicious body temperature fluctuations not withstanding.
Monty rolls back over on his back, sucks air into his lungs, and exhales a long sigh. Unprompted, Edwin’s little smile enters his thoughts again. Pecking at his subconscious.
Maybe… maybe he could figure out a way to get Edwin to make other facial expressions too. Some shiny, new ones he could add to the tiny collection in his head. Little treasures to collect and keep. Separate from Esther and everything else. Something just for him.
That would be so… nice.
Monty feels the warmth under his skin spread, from his face to his neck to his ears. Something inside of him pangs. It makes his chest hurt.
He brings his hands up to his face and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.
He groans again.
Aaarg.
Stupid bird brain.