Bluebird and cherry blossom on a leg

The blossom came early to the terraces above Tressic this year, three weeks before the feast, and Mother would have had something to say about that. I have cut the first branches and set them in the blue jug by the kitchen window, where the light comes in off the salt flats. The bird came to them on the third morning. I did not hear it arrive. I only looked up from the bread and there it was, perched on the rim as though it had paid for the seat.

You will laugh, but the king's men have been asking after bluebirds. The old bird-warden at the palace died in the winter and the new one wants the flock counted, every pair in the province, and a ledger kept. I told the clerk we have no bluebirds here, only sparrows and the grey thrushes that eat the apricots. He wrote it down anyway. I think he wanted to see my face when I lied.

Here is the thing I have not told anyone. The bird has a torn brown feather in its tail, and it sits on the same low branch every evening at the hour the bells ring for the ferry. I have started leaving the back door open. I know it is foolish. A bird is a bird.

Come home before the petals drop. Bring the boy, and tell him the blue one is ours, not the king's. I will keep the jug full until you do.

Your loving sister, Maren