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December 30, nine in the morning. Overcast.
On this fine day for sleeping, Traynor was slapped awake by a blow from who knew where.
The slap neither hurt nor carried much force. It did not feel like a human hand, but like a bird's feathers. Eyes closed, Traynor pictured the parrot he had bought last week specifically to pursue a noblewoman who loved keeping birds.
The parrot was a fine specimen, with gorgeous plumage and considerable intelligence. Its only flaw was that everything it learned to say came from Hunters.
The fifth time the parrot said, "Who the hell do you think you are?" to him, Traynor had finally lost patience and put a pot on the stove, intending to cook it and feed it to a cat. Then its ghastly screaming had stirred his compassion (annoyed him), and he had tossed it into the garden to fend for itself.
Wondering how the wretched creature had not frozen to death, Traynor refused to open his eyes even if it killed him. In one smooth motion, he rolled over, pulled up the covers, and buried his head beneath his pillow. But the slapping bird doggedly followed him, pecking away at his bedside table.
The Viscount was determined to ignore the bird. A few minutes later, the tapping stopped, and Traynor finally relaxed. But mere seconds later, a strange, indescribable sensation suddenly came over him. Puzzled, he lifted half the pillow covering his head and found himself staring straight into the eyes of an owl standing at his bedside.
His reflection appeared in the owl's orange eyes. Traynor felt he could see a very mysterious emotion on the bird's face. He casually ruffled its fluffy feathers, preparing to call Turing over and ask where it had flown in from.
The owl