The Canary on the Terrace
It was a cold morning. The first truly cold morning of that autumn.
Dad stepped out onto the terrace with Siena in his arms. Siena was wrapped in her blanket, with only her nose peeking out. Kiwi bounced out after them. Mango stayed inside, on the rug. Mango did not like the cold.
The terrace was quiet. There was frost on the railing. Dad looked at the sky. Kiwi sniffed the flowerpots.
But Siena looked down.
Her little eyes stopped on something on the wooden floor. Right next to the trapdoor. Something small. Small and yellow.
“Ah,” said Siena.
Dad looked where she was looking.
A canary. Yellow all over, like a little lemon. It wasn't moving. Its feathers were puffed up against the cold.
“Look what you've found,” Dad whispered.
Kiwi wagged his tail. Dad picked up the canary in his palm. Gently, gently. Then he laid her beside Siena, in the warm blanket.
Siena breathed. Haah. Haah.
Her small warm breath drifted over the yellow feathers. Haah. Haah.
And the canary blinked. Once. Twice.
“Tee-ree-ree,” the canary sang. Very, very softly.
Mom came to the door. Mango came too, grumpy, to see what all the fuss was about.
The canary shook out her feathers. She looked at Dad. She looked at Mom. Then she looked for a long, long time at Siena.
“My name is Lemony,” said the canary. “You saw me. You warmed my wings. Now I want to show you something. A lovely place.”
And she looked for a long while at the trapdoor in the floor.
Far away, beyond the hills, seventeen towers were waiting.
Tower by tower, the town of Siena fell asleep.
Goodnight, Siena.