Doleful

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When Johanna wakes that morning, it's to silence, as it often is. But there is no chatter from the streets below her when she closes her window. It's solemn.

Perhaps the queen has died. Perhaps the country has gone into mourning. Yet, Johanna doesn't believe the loss of a ruler caused the lifeless streets. Something twigs in her stomach and she nears her birdcage.

The larks inside never hummed a note before. At least in her lifetime. Johanna glances into their cage, closing an eye to see better. One of her birds fluttered its wing. Briefly, but it was noticeable. Johanna didn't see the other one. She turned away, pausing for the briefest of moments, and began on her way.

Her birdcage is getting cleaned today. Johanna reads at her windowsill, with her knees tucked under her chin until the maid knocks at the door. At Johanna's invitation, she enters. The maid sets her supplies aside and peers into the cage. Johanna watches as her expression turns from natural to confused then, allowing her eyebrows to drop, saddened.

"What's wrong?" Johanna asks, folding her hands behind her back. Maybe she's done something wrong. Forgot to feed the larks once. Or talked to them too often. There couldn't be any harm in speaking to one's pet. Could there?

"This happens, you know that," the maid says.

"What happens?" A drum beats against her chest.

The maid turns to leave the room. "I'll be right back. Stay there."

"Wait!"

As the maid steps outside her door, Johanna allows her head to linger outside the frame. She feels like a trapped thief as she steps outside. Lightly, but firmly. The last time she left her room was ages ago. Johanna couldn't count. It doesn't feel right. She retraces her step, finding the maid back at her door, rag folded between her fingers.

"What's that for?" Johanna questions, following the maid to the birdcage.

The maid doesn't answer, and Johanna doesn't pester as she reached into the cage. The seconds are tense before she pulls the rag back out, hiding a lump. Her movements are soft and careful as she tucks the rag firmer around the object.

"Please, ma'am," Johanna now whispers, "What are you doing?"

"I'm afraid, it's dead, miss."

"Dead?"

Then Johanna examines the strange shape closer.

A wing. A beak. A belly. A feather.

Her bird. Her lark.

"My . . ." Johanna's quivering lips can't make the next word out.

"Your bird, miss. I'm so sorry. I know you were rather attached."

Rather attached? Her birds, her larks, were the only creatures keeping her sane. They only had each other against a dark, confusing world. Trapped together. Her birds were her friends. Her partners-in-crime. Her everything.

Now, one was dead.

"You still have the other one," the maid says, "Judge Turpin'll probably let you have another."

Johanna doesn't want another bird. She wants her bird. She reaches a hand to touch its delicate feathers again, but the maid turns away from her.

"Afraid, you can't do that," the maid says, "Can't have you catching whatever these things carry."

She doesn't care. She wants her bird back.

When the maid disappears behind the door again, Johanna feels even more alone.