I suppose this was the point where my underlying uneasiness over several aspects of Gramarye began to move onto a more conscious level. Nothing definite, just a vague sense of disquiet over a culmination of things, none of which I could pinpoint precisely to say: "Hey, this is totally bizarre." If any of these had been bad, or at least were completely inexplicable, then I'd have been a mite anxious. You see, it was just possible that the bird's wing had been locked into a grotesque position the day before and had worked itself free overnight (again the old brain reasoning where there wasn't much reason). And the rest—well, what was the rest? Good music, glorious lovemaking (true recollection of the previous night's experience had already dimmed), a crack in the stone lintel that hadn't been a crack at all. Certainly there were good vibes from the place, particularly from the round room, but what did that mean in itself? We were in love and this was our first proper home. The curved walls of the round room caught the sun's rays so that a serene warmth literally exuded from them. There really was no more than that. And yet. And yet . . .
The mistle thrush was now perched on Midge's hand and trilling happily. Doubts were eased aside as Midge's joy touched me. Her eyes were vibrant with contained excitement as she spoke soothingly to the small creature, who answered her in kind. She slowly raised her hand so that the thrush was level with her face, then blew a soft breath toward it, ruffling feathers only slightly, causing the bird to blink.
I watched entranced as Midge smoothly walked to the door, her bare feet silent on the quarry tiles. She turned her head toward me and whispered, "Mike . . ."
Equally cautious, I went to the door and drew back the bolts, making as little noise as possible. The bird seemed oblivious to me. Twisting the key in the lock, I quietly pulled open the door and Midge moved forward to stand on the step.
Lifting her hand high, she said, "Off you go. Find your family and say hello from me."
The thrush appeared reluctant to leave, but Midge dipped her hand so that the bird's wings fluttered and it was airborne. It soared high above the garden, calling fiercely and swooping down over Midge's head. The thrush skimmed across the flowerbeds, then rose once more into the air heading back into the woods from where it had been rescued.
Midge clapped her hands in delight and I stood next to her on the step, an arm around her shoulders, wearing a grin and cheering the bird on. When it was gone I hugged Midge and mussed her hair.
"Did you really do that?" I asked.
"It was his idea to climb onto my hand."
"I meant its wing . . ."
She shook her head, eyes still full of shining. "He did that all by himself. It was his own magic."
The word "magic" again, the second time she'd unselfconsciously used it since we'd moved in. I opened my mouth to speak when the doorstep was abruptly besieged by other birds, all noisily demanding breakfast. We ducked inside, away from the squawking, Midge making for the wrapped loaf on the table and taking out a handful of slices.
"Okay, you guys," she called, returning to the doorway, "there's plenty for all, so little ones first."
They refused to form a queue, but not even the smallest sparrow was intimidated by any of the big chiefs: they rushed together in a mad mêlée of feathers and screeching, the nimblest fleeing the throng with prizes in beaks.
I left Midge to the feeding of the multitude and went upstairs to shave, my thoughts dogged by the thrush's "miraculous" recovery. The wing had to have unlocked itself, there really was no other explanation. I was back downstairs again within ten minutes, and muesli and toast with strong coffee was there on the table waiting for me, a single rose, freshly picked from the garden, in a tiny china vase brightening the breakfast setting. Brightening the room considerably more was Midge's beaming face.
There were still one or two birds loitering around the doorstep as if daring one another to venture in, but the majority had disbanded to fly off and do whatever it is birds do all day.
As I buttered toast, I said, "I still can't figure it out. That bird looked pretty sick to me yesterday."
Midge sipped coffee before replying. "What does it matter? His wing healed, that's the main thing, so why worry over how?"
And she meant it. In fact, I got the impression that she didn't want the cure questioned, that she had no wish to delve any further. I shrugged, prepared to let it go, having semi-accepted my own "unlocked bones" theory anyway. Flimsy, but it would suffice.
"Plans for today?" Midge inquired, the subject already dismissed from her mind. She looked small and childlike in my oversized converted shirt.
"Uh, some investigations first," I told her, and she raised her eybrows. "I heard noises coming from the loft last night."
"You thought there were birds nesting in the eaves."
"Yeah, that was yesterday afternoon. This was something moving around in the middle of the night when all good little birds are sound asleep."
She was slightly alarmed. "D'you have any idea what it could be?"
"Not really, but I'm sure as hell gonna find out this morning, in daylight. I don't want to lie in the dark with my imagination running loose again."
"You should have woken me."
"I didn't like to disturb you." I munched toast.
Midge came around to my side of the table and pushed herself onto my lap, making me scrape back the chair to accommodate her. She pecked my forehead.
"Want me to come up to the loft with you?" she asked, and I didn't miss the trace of mockery in her tone.
"And have you get hysterical if we find mice?" I shook my head and added stout-heartedly, "I'll go it alone, thank you." Things never seemed quite so threatening in daylight.
"You know mice don't frighten me. Still, there's a lot of scrubbing and cleaning to be done, so the sooner I make a start the better. I think O'Malley's men created more mess than they shifted."
"Aah, they were pretty good, considering. They certainly put the cottage back in shape, even though we've got a fair amount of painting and decorating to do ourselves. Less than I imagined on our first recce, though. Any ideas on how you'd like the round room done? That's the important one."
She frowned. "I like it exactly as it is. I don't think we should change anything."
"Up to you. It's in good condition, I'll admit that. Maybe Flora had the room redecorated just before she, uh, she passed on."
"We'll need curtains, perhaps white or beige—all the color we need comes from the sun. Have you noticed how the walls change throughout the day?"
"Yeah, from bright white-yellow in the morning to fiery gold at sunset. Then that warm red just after the sun's gone. They've got a life of their own, like that big rock in Australia that's always changing color."
"Ayers Rock. They say it has mystical qualities . . ."
"Who say?"
"The aborigines."
"The aborigines have seen the round room?"
My nose took its usual tweaking (I swear it was a different shape before I met Midge).
"What do I have to do to get a serious conversation out of you nowadays?" she said, pouting.
"Talk about me?" I suggested, gingerly remolding my released nose.
"Boring," she droned.
My hand was up inside the nightshirt and fingers poised around the side of her lower ribs before she had a chance to move. "Boring?" I asked.
"No, Mike! You know I can't stand that!"
I nodded and squeezed, sudden and hard, rigid fingers finding those ticklish zones between ribs. With a shriek she leapt two or three inches off my lap, but my other hand held her down again.
"Boring?" I repeated with a pleasant smile.
"Mike, please, you know—"
My fingers twitched spasmodically, showing no mercy, and she jumped again to land squirming in my lap, hiccuping with her own laughter as I kept probing.