LITTLE LUKE COUGHED AND WAILED FROM DARK until dawn, a wretched cry as thin and cutting as the new moon. My mother and Tanwen and my father and I and even Serle tried to comfort him, but it made no difference.
My father says it’s likely half the children in the kingdom cried last night to warn us that King Richard is dying.
“Babies can tell great births and deaths before they happen,” he said. “Sometimes they rise and bubble, as they’ve never done before; sometimes they sink deep into themselves.”
But Serle thinks Luke cried because it’s such strange weather, hot and damp. “On days like this, we all feel wrong with ourselves,” he said. “Even the dogs have their tails between their legs.”
“Nonsense!” said Tanwen. “A baby cares only for one thing, and that’s himself. What’s wrong with Luke is somewhere inside him. Something he ate yesterday.”
My mother didn’t say what she thought, but I could see she was remembering how baby Mark began to wail one night early last year. No one knew why, and no one could stop him. None of Johanna’s medicines made any difference, he just wasted away.
So no one got much sleep last night except for Nain, and that’s the advantage of being deaf. Maybe this is what Merlin meant when he told me that everything contains its opposite.
This morning, though, our cook Slim cheered us all up at dinner by serving a surprising pie. The pastry was shaped like our own dovecote, and there was a feather sticking out of the top of it.
Slim bowed to my father and set the pie on the table in front of him. “Sir John,” he said, “do me the honor.”
Well, when my father cut open the crust, there was a great commotion inside the pie. My mother and Sian squealed and stood up. Then a pink-eyed pigeon poked out its head and flapped its wings.
We were all showered with bits of crust, and the pigeon flew up to the gallery. Everyone clapped, and then Ruth, who helps Slim in the kitchen, carried in the real pie.