26
That night we put on a movie and stretched out on the couch, but it was just background noise.
All eyes were on Rimbaud, the undisputed star of the living room.
After a dramatic ceiling-level flyover that knocked down a picture frame, a vase, and two knickknacks—clearly satisfied with his captive audience—he finally settled.
He perched on a shelf, tucked his beak under one wing, and dozed off, breathing slow and steady. Half an hour later, he jolted awake—one twitch, a full stretch, a meticulous feather shake. His eyes locked on the counter.
“Looks sweet on the surface, but reeks of a trick… something tells me this drink’s a slick pick!”
He paused, making us hold our breath. Then he made his move: one flap, a soft landing by the Ritz. Peck, peck—crumbs everywhere—then his gaze slid to the shot glass of rum.
This was it.
He leaned over the rim, then jerked back half a step, woozy from the smell alone. He tilted his head, and I swear I caught a glint of mischief in that shiny eye. “One sip of rum, I’ll be seeing the moon… swap the desert for a tropical lagoon!”
He dipped his beak and took a sip.
When he lifted his head, he staggered sideways—exactly like I had earlier that afternoon at the Vellum. And I swear, his beak curved into something dangerously close to a crooked smile.
He belted: “The barrel was empty, but I’m still alive… just saw a camel catch a wave and dive!”
With a drunken flap, he launched himself straight onto the couch, landing squarely between us, strutting across the cushion like a sailor at the end of shore leave.
Tess scooped him up with gentle hands, perched him on her shoulder, and brushed her cheek against his feathers, instantly transforming into a pirate with her loyal sidekick. For one brief moment, they really did look like the perfect pair.
“You’re diabolical,” I muttered.
“Eeeexactly,” Tess purred, and the smile tugging at her lips was all the proof I needed—she was already plotting her next move.