Thanks, both of you! This is another long one... I swear the next one won't be long. :)

Chapter five: New bird on the block

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There's something cosy about our rooms at the inn. They're warm, and you can redecorate them slightly; it's 10g for me to rearrange the room, and you can put posters on the wall, pictures on your chests of drawers, you can change your sheets, whatever. But

Most of it's your responsibility to clean it out, bring your own covers, y'know? I will make their bed, and okay, I will put on the sheets, and yeah, I'll iron your shirts, but seriously, you'll bring the stuff and if you mess it up, you'll tidy it up again.

You agree to our rules; y'know, the obvious stuff, like pay every month – no trashing the place – no animals in the inn. I know it's harsh, but it's a rule – we weren't saying you can't keep them outside or whatever – just inside the inn. Because agreeing to stay at our inn, you're agreeing to the rules, and agreeing to the rules means you're agreeing to become a temporary member of our family. And families help each other out. But occasionally, you make allowances.

'Clifford?' I asked, as I carried his boxes up to his room.

'No… it's Cliff,' he mumbled. It wasn't my fault; it was what he told my papa he was called over the phone. I turned the key into a warm green handpainted door and twisted the golden knob.

'This is yours,' I told him brightly. I smiled. It was our best room, in my opinion; with the glossy wood panels and the adorably small fireplace; the mahogany wardrobe; the window where sun would filter through; the billowing white curtains; soft lime green bedcovers. I beckoned him to come over.

'This is the laundry chute,' I said absent mindedly, as I peered into the little door. I demonstrated by putting my dirty apron down the chute. I felt a bit bare in just my yellow silk blouse and jeans, for some reason. 'See? Just put your laundry in and Bob's your uncle. Though I'm sure Bob's not your uncle, haha.'

'W-Why are there two chutes?' he asked timidly. He looked like a sensitive type that they talked about in gushy giggly magazines. The type Popuri read. The type I never. I knew loads of girls would be cuckoo over him, since he was the type that had got soppy eyes in a boy band, though he was a bit scruffy for that.

'Oh, that? That's not a chute,' I replied, walking over to it, and opening the little door. 'That, m'boy, is the chute for when you're too ill to come downstairs to get your dinner and breakfast. Instead, I pop it in here, push the lever, and it turns up in here. Nice little invention, no?'

He was a bit silent. I giggled. 'Betcha never had a girl who you just met in your bedroom, huh?'

No laugh, no smile forming on his broad jaw. He looked very masculine, as well as very sensitive. Oh gosh, girls were going to be screaming over him. Not me though. Never Ann. Not tomboy Ann, the one who's still happy running in the mud, nu'uh. I pondered about this – not many people truly knew me, they all thought I was into sports, not cooking. They didn't know I liked cooking. My eyes widened. It's not really a big deal, I guess, but when something's your greatest passion, you generally want it to be known, right?

'Well, I have to help you unpack. Which, in other words, means I have to get to know you in fifteen minutes,' I declared, slamming a box on the bed, and stripping off the sellotape. He sat down on the next near me, and began clutching a box defensively – it was moving, ever so slightly. I didn't notice this; I opened a box filled to the brim with brightly coloured book covers. I gasped happily.

'You cook?' I asked enthusiastically, nodding over at a cookbook.

'… Well… nah, I don't… but whenever I go somewhere, I like to tell the cook my favourite dishes – so – so maybe they'll make it for me someday,' he explained, his gaze not meeting mine. 'I like good food. All food really, as long as it's good quality and made by the hands of a man I trust.'

'Good food I know. My papa? He's a good cook if I ever saw one. And he's way more trustworthy than me, so it's okay if you have a bad impression of me, he's alright. I – I cook a little,' I added quietly.

'Do you? Aren't you like – the waitress around here?' He asked doubtfully.

'Well yeah. No one knows I cook, actually; I wonder if there's anyway I can, y'know, let them know…' I ripped off some sellotape slowly, and thoughtfully. I placed some clothes neatly in a pile.

'Is there a cooking contest somewhere? We always had one in our town,' he replied, still holding the box close to him.

'Yeah – but papa wins that every year! And I don't know if I'm good or not – maybe one day you can try out my cooking, huh?' I asked, placing some books on a shelf.

'I'd love to,' he replied, grinning. I was pleased that he had started talking less shyly. It was probably the only gift I had – I could make people warm up to me easily. I smiled back at him.

I threw a few chunks of wood on the already lit fire, and listened to the fire crackle aggressively. I wondered what Cliff had been doing on the Starry Night festival, or if he celebrated it at all.

I could've asked it, but I didn't. Instead I grabbed the box Cliff had been keeping close to him, giggling while he protested – and swiped off the sellotape. He looked stricken. 'Don't worry, I'm sure I've seen much worse in lodger's bags than a … bird?!'

I found myself face to face with a pair of wide golden and brown eyes, blinking, calm. It ruffled its beautiful copper feathers, and shuffled the brilliantly yellow feet.

'Why is there a chicken in here?' I asked, outraged. I felt my cheeks going pink. I, too, found the no animals rule cruel. But rules were rules. He knew the rules. Why break them? It was such a vicious looking animal at that, as well.

'He – it's – a falcon,' he whispered. I began to feel bad, and my muscles were loosening.

'But – rules are rules … no animals… you can keep it – him – outside,' I replied, trying to keep my firm tone. My eyes were sliding over to look at the "chicken". He was a magnificent bird of prey, in a cage, blinking curiously at me. He didn't look fierce, not like most falcons. His large eyes gave him a sympathetic look, but his rugged feathers told otherwise.

'He's beautiful,' I said softly. Me? Ann, disregarding rules ever so slightly? I was a very rule-abiding person, and here I was, instead of shooing the bird out the window, cooing at it? I glanced at Cliff. He read my expression.

'His name's Cain. Found him as a baby; his wing seemed broken, and he was tiny. He had fallen out of his nest, I think – I didn't think he'd live. He was a bit of a runt,' he replied, quietly. 'But look at him now.'

'Yeah,' I breathed. I could feel my heart beating. 'But still… they're rules,' I added, still looking at the bird.

He nodded. 'I'm sorry.'

'No – don't be… this is going to get me in a lot of trouble if I get found out – but I'm going to help you keep this bird in this inn, okay?' I said on impulse, shocking myself. I stared at the glowing fire, and nodded. I wasn't going to take anything back. He smiled gratefully.

'Well, hurry up! Put the cage under the bed, and dinner's at seven, and you'd best be up tomorrow by eight – breakfast's at nine. And call me if you need anything… Cliff.'