Ruth Langan - Blackthorne

Their voices carried on the breeze. The boy’s soft, musical; hers low, cultured, with a gentle laugh that touched a chord deep inside him.

“It is a baby bird. See, his mother hovers nearby, scolding us. She was probably giving him a flying lesson when he fell to the ground.”

“May I keep him?”

“Oh no, Liat. That wouldn’t be right. He needs his mother. She’s the only one who can properly feed him and teach him the things he needs to learn to survive on his own.”

“May I hold him?”

“No, dear. His poor mother is nearly mad with worry. Listen to her heartbreaking cries.”

The boy glanced up at the bird that was circling their heads.

“Let’s leave him now, so his mother can sit beside him and satisfy herself that he’s unharmed. Come. I’ll race you to that rock.” Olivia caught up the hem of her skirt and started running.

Liat followed suit.

Olivia slowed her pace to give her young charge a chance to pass her. He touched a hand to the stone and turned to her in triumph. “I beat you.”

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