Page 32 - LonnyQuicke

Knew they’d start to lay a few more now spring’s properly here.
“Clever girl, Layla. Clever girl.” I hold her to my chest, wings tucked tight. Her feathers make her look fat and sturdy, but when you’ve got her in your hands you can feel her narrow bones. I kiss the top of her head. She rumbles a quiet cluck.
“Good girl.” I put her on the ground and she’s off to find the others.
I pick up the warm egg, put it safe in my basket, and start on sweeping up the floor.
We must’ve got nearly to Farstoke earlier. “Farstoke.” I say it out loud.
It sits in my throat.
It sucks out my breath.
I pull out the old straw from the laying boxes and shove it into the bucket for compost. Take the scraper out of my pocket and work the dried chicken gunk off the perch.
Farstoke. It’s got a clock tower in the centre and four city gates. Each gate is topped with a statue.
The Northgate has a stag in full antler. I’ve got a photograph of it. With my mother standing underneath. Smiling in the sunshine.
I’ve got other photographs, too.
I put fistfuls of fresh straw into the laying boxes, then gather up the broom and the bucket and the basket and the sack. I take them all out into the run. The chickens peck and fuss and bicker.
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