Page 93 of A Flash of Golden Fire

He didn’t answer right away, as if he had to think on his assertion. The corners of my lips drew down.

“Yes. At least, to me, you are.”

Wait a second. That was some backhanded compliment nonsense.

I sighed, giving up my protests, because I really did want to tup Domingo and put on a show for Captain Martin. He had no idea what he was in for, and I only hoped that Domingo was as acrobatic and creative as the captain had implied.

“Fine.”

“If you really don’t want to…” he said, his voice low.

“I do want to. I just needed to know I was prettier,” I said with a saucy toss of my chin-length hair.

Captain Martin grinned and clapped his hands together. “Excellent.”

He rapped on the door with his knuckles.

“It’s Dinesh and Simon,” he said, and I understood that we were suddenly on a first-name basis with Domingo. I suppose that made sense as we were about to be very intimate with him.

“Pasa”, came a voice from inside the room.

Dinesh twisted the handle and pushed the door open. He moved into the dimly lit space and I followed.

We were greeted with a terrible high-pitched whistle that made us step back.

“Never mind. That’s just Esmaralda.”

“Pardon?” Captain Martin asked.

“My name is Esmaralda. Who the fuck are you?”

My breath caught, as I imagined we’d been found out. Not that we were doing anything illegal here. At least, I didn’t think we were.

“Esmaralda. Stop it. That’s enough.”

“Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you?” Another whistle, some clicking noises, and then: “My name is Esmaralda. Esmaraaaalda. Esmaraaaalda.”

“Never mind her; she’s a rude-assed cunt.”

“She’s a rude-assed cunt. She’s a rude-assed cunt.” The words were spoken in a precise replication of Domingo’s tones and cadence.

“Yes, you are, my darling, but I do love you so.”

I finally determined where the strange words were coming from. Not another person, as I’d supposed, but—quite unbelievably—from a diminutive black bird, with white marks and a small pointy black beak, perched on the corner of a desk, bobbing its tiny head in agitation.

“What the fuck is that?” Captain Martin asked.

“I beg your pardon?” Domingo asked, putting a hand to his chest in shock.

“I’m so sorry. I mean, is that bird saying those things?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. She’s a rude-assed cunt, my Esmaralda.”

“Rude-assed cunt,” the bird said again, this time in a woman’s voice with a slight French accent.

A man Carago had known had kept a parrot, and the brightly coloured bird had been able to repeat words and phrases, but not with the vocal perfection that Esmaralda possessed.

“Remarkable,” Captain Martin said, staring at the bird as if she were the second coming of Christ. “How does she do that?”