Day Two: Two Turtle Doves

It began, as these things often did, with an email.

Your order is out for delivery!

Estimated arrival: between 7:00 AM and 10:00 PM.

(Live animals must be received in person.)

Jane stared at the screen over her morning coffee, the partridge already performing its daily campaign of terror against the curtains. It had developed a habit of perching atop the Wi-Fi router—something about the blinking light offended it—and shrieking at every device connection.

Her sketchbook was open beside her cup, a half-finished illustration of a robin wearing earmuffs staring up from the page—the sort of detail that made children giggle and adults secretly wish for snow. She was supposed to be finishing the manuscript for her next picture book, *A Hedgehog’s Winter Wish*, but concentration had become an endangered thing in their house.

“Stephen,” she called, “are we… expecting more birds?”

From the bathroom came the sound of an electric toothbrush and a muffled, “Define *expecting*.”

“Do not,” she said, “hide behind semantics.”

He appeared moments later, towel around his neck, hair damp and hopeful. “All right,” he admitted, “there may be turtle doves involved.”

Jane’s eyebrow rose—the one that had ended arguments, negotiations, and once an entire dinner party. “Actual ones?”

He hesitated. “They’re… sort of doves.”

The doorbell rang.

The box was disappointingly large. Someone had scrawled FRAGILE – LOVE INSIDE in bubble letters across the top. When Stephen opened it, the smell hit first: sharp and chemical, like the inside of an art classroom. Then came the rustle—two grey pigeons blinked up at them, uncertain and faintly mortified, their feathers tinted in streaky patches of white.

“They’re pigeons,” Jane said flatly.

“Turtle-dove adjacent,” Stephen corrected.

“Did you… paint them?”

“I didn’t paint them,” he said, mildly wounded. “I outsourced that part.”

He produced a crumpled receipt from something called *Authentic Gifts Co.*, beneath which was printed:

Two Turtle Doves (themed).

Eco-safe paint. Mostly non-toxic.

The birds shifted, leaving ghostly streaks of white on the cardboard floor. One sneezed, which seemed ominous.

Jane exhaled. “Stephen. Why?”

“It’s symbolic,” he said again, less confidently than yesterday. “Peace. Love. Fidelity.”

She gestured toward the partridge, which was currently dismantling the houseplant. “We are not exactly radiating fidelity.”

At her feet, Roo the Cockapoo gave a low whuff of agreement before flopping over with a sigh. Roo, predictably, was on her back—clocking in early as usual.

The pigeons chose that moment to escape. One flew straight into the window with a wet slap, leaving a ghostly feather-print. The other landed on the sofa, looked around with bureaucratic boredom, and began to preen, smearing white streaks on the upholstery.

Stephen made a noise halfway between panic and optimism. “They’ll settle in,” he said, advancing with a tea towel.

“They’re pigeons,” Jane repeated, as if it were a diagnosis.

He lunged, missed, and crashed into the coffee table, which groaned under the weight of the pear tree’s soil pot. The pigeons took off again, this time in formation, circling the living room like aircraft waiting to land. The partridge, incensed by this airspace violation, joined the fray. Roo barked once, thrilled by the aerial entertainment.

Within seconds, the flat was a warzone: feathers, shrieks, and one long, despairing scream from Jane as a streak of paint decorated her sleeve.

“Eco-safe!” Stephen yelled over the chaos.

“I don’t care if it’s gluten-free!” she shouted back.

Roo trotted into the centre of the madness, tail wagging with managerial pride, as though supervising a live rehearsal for one of Jane’s bedtime stories. A feather drifted down and landed on her nose. She sneezed, blinked, and gave them a look that suggested even she thought this was getting ridiculous.

The pigeons finally landed—one on the pelmet, one on the pear tree, which sagged in resignation. The partridge sat atop the television, vibrating with outrage. The room looked like an avant-garde snow globe.

Feathers settled like snow. Roo sighed deeply and resumed her belly-up position as Jane, breathing hard, surveyed the wreckage.

“This is madness,” she said at last.

“It’s only temporary,” Stephen said, because that’s what he always said. “It’s a theme. It’s… continuity.”

“Continuity of what? Chaos?”

“Of effort,” he said quietly. “Of meaning.”

She paused. Beneath the irritation, there was something tender in the way he said it, like he was trying to patch a leak neither of them wanted to name.

Jane sat on the sofa, avoiding a smear of white paint, and looked at her sketchbook on the coffee table. The half-finished robin still stared up at her, all hope and earmuffs. She thought about deadlines and art notes and how all her stories lately seemed to involve someone trying a little too hard. Maybe that was her genre now. Maybe it was theirs.

“I’m just trying to do something memorable,” he said.

She softened. “Darling, you could have bought a card.”

He laughed—relieved, sheepish—and reached to brush a streak of paint from her cheek. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fun?” she said, but her lips twitched.

The partridge screamed from the living room. The pigeons cooed ominously from the bath. Roo thumped her tail, sensing victory in chaos. Jane sighed, long and theatrical, then poured two glasses of wine, though it was barely noon.

“Merry Day Two,” she said, handing him one.

Stephen raised his glass. “To progress.”

Outside, a single feather drifted from the open window, carried away on the winter air like a small, ridiculous omen.

By evening, the smell of soap and feathers lingered in the flat. The pigeons dozed in the bathtub, the partridge sulked in the hallway, and Roo snored gently between them on the rug, her paws twitching in some happy dream. Jane sketched absent-mindedly, drawing two lopsided pigeons holding hands beneath a crooked halo of snow. Stephen glanced over her shoulder, smiling faintly.

“Peace and love?” he asked.

“Continuity,” she said. “Of something.”

He nodded. Roo rolled onto her back again—their small, furry proof that even chaos could be gentle in the right light.