Alouette, je te plumerai.
Jet-black feathers press tighter into the cramped space between a towering, derelict grandfather clock and the edge of a dusty grey sheet covering the marble bust of a long-dead ancestor. A soft susurrus of sable wings gives some small comfort.
Je te plumerai la tête.
The crisp crackle of secrets clamours on the stairs, accompanied by heavy, uneven footfalls. The muffled singing doesn't cease, a thick and broken voice worming its way through the cluttered hiding place.
Et la tête! Et la tête!
Any quiet breath might set the fabric rustling. Flight is impossible, given the confined space and the bare patches of plumage recently shed. Pinpricks of sound light from touches of talons over gleaming wooden floors.
Alouette! Alouette!
She found him. Tightly rolled whorls of paper burst from violaceous lips, a storm of scraps pelting the cowering corbeau as Lillian tears his cover away. Lightning-fast, her fingers close a cage of flesh around his fragile body, already prying his beak open. Régaler.
A-a-a-ah.