Written for Lisa, over at Fief Goldenlake. The plot was her concept.

Tansy rises early, taking care to fold the bedsheets in half so her still-sleeping husband won't slip into another cloth-tangled nightmare. She watches over him as she dresses, but his face is calm and peaceful, and there are no signs that his mind remains in that pox-rotted shed.

She would like to lie abed a while longer herself, but the new babe has put an ache in her back, and she doesn't want to wake Herun by fidgeting. Instead, she goes about fixing the ache in her heart left by the old babe, padding downstairs to the kitchen because she finds keeping busy is the best way to cope. There is no cook present; the Lofts household is still all topsy-turvy, and it will be a few days yet before Tansy will be able to bring herself to right it. She braces her hands on the counter-top, and closes her eyes for a moment. She will right it, but it is all so hard, and Father Ammon did a sarden good job of soiling the family name.

That isn't a thought for this hour, though. She squares her shoulders. Back in Mutt Piddle Lane, she hadn't thought to dream of having a cook, and now look where she is.

Tansy reaches for the bread loaf with hands that no longer tremble, and cuts off a large chunk, making sure she leaves a slice for Herun if he should fancy it before she has a chance to get some more. It is hard to go to the baker - any baker - without feeling sick to her stomach now, though.

She wipes her face with her hand, brushing away the few tears that have fallen, and heads up the servants' stairs to the outside.

It looks set to be a fine May day, as much as she cares for weather now. A dry morn means more birds are likely to be hanging around, though none are in sight right then. She wishes Beka were near, Beka who draws pigeons to her like rats to scummer.

"Come on, Tansy, you looby," she mutters to herself, as yet unable to help the few words of slang which creep unconsciously into her speech. She no longer scolds herself for it if it happens when she is by herself.

No birds are going to come if she has nothing to offer them. She breaks the bread, crumbles it in her hand, and throws out a few pieces. As if it has been waiting for her to do so, a pigeon flutters to the ground from a nearby roof.

She tries to steady herself, though she hates the way the birds move quicker than Rats scurrying away from Beka's Dogs. In a moment, the pigeon has been joined by another - this one a soft grey colour.

Try as she might, she cannot hear the burdens they carry. She has no way of knowing what manner of ghosts these birds have been saddled with - or if they are free. She knows it is better this way, that hearing voices like her dear Rolond's would have made a cracknob out of her by now.

Another handful of crumbs brings yet more pigeons, and the tears are streaming down her face now, as she fancies one of them looks like Mistress Fletcher's sweet young daughter. As much as a pigeon can resemble a girl, that is. She shakes her head, knowing how ridiculous she is being, and feeling a glimmer of relief that there was nobody to speak the thought aloud to.

Hands close around her upper arms. She shrieks as her dropped handful causes crumbs to scatter and the pigeons to crowd in on her.

"Shush, love," Herun murmurs, pulling her into his warm embrace. He has dressed in a hurry, she finds, putting on only the clothes he absolutely had to. With her head against his chest, she can hear how his heart still races, and realises her absence from the bedroom has frightened him.

"I had to feed them," she says, waving her hand out at the assembled birds. "For all the mamas who don't know what they do - who don't know it's their little boy on the back of a bird."

Herun stares out at the birds, and she chances a peek up at his face. Afraid he thinks her daft, she scrubs at her eyes to stop the tears. She'll have to do it when he isn't around, that's all. "We'll buy more bread later," he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "So we can feed them tomorrow."

Tansy doesn't miss the stress on 'we', and she gives him a watery smile, her throat choked up with how much she loves him. He begins to lead her inside, since her hands are empty of bread now, but she pauses a while, her eyes tracking over each individual pigeon.

There is no sign of the white bird with blackened feathers, the one that bore their son.

She lets Herun guide her into the house.