Duchess fluttered to the landing board mounted to the top of the loft. Instead of entering the loft through the alarm curtain, she cocked her head and watched the soldiers approach.

As Susan stepped to the landing, she noticed the red canister attached to the pigeon’s leg and stopped.

“Why won’t it go inside?” a soldier asked as he reached Susan.

She hesitated, believing it had to be a mistake. It can’t be Duchess. She didn’t have a canister when she flew away. But as she stared up at the pigeon, its feathers like bloomed garden flowers, she knew it could be no other.

The soldier, appearing to become impatient, approached the landing.

“Don’t touch her,” Susan said. “She’ll go in on her own.”

The soldier turned his back to her and stood on his toes. He reached, his fingers like claws, and grazed the bird’s wing.

Duchess tilted her head, then gave a hard peck.

“Ouch!” He pulled back his hand. “Bloody bird bit me.”

“Leave her alone!” Susan shouted.

The second soldier maneuvered to the opposite side of the landing. Working as a team, they closed in. Duchess ruffled her feathers.

Susan struggled with what to do. She wanted to retrieve Bertie’s walking stick to fend them off. Instead, she stepped behind the soldiers and waved her arms. Shoo!

Duchess fluffed up her feathers. Blinked. As a soldier’s hand swiped toward her legs, she stretched her wings and flew.

“Bollocks!” the soldier said.

Duchess darted. She swooped left, then right, and disappeared behind the cottage.

“Now look what you’ve done.” Susan pressed her hands to her waist. “You scared her off.”

The soldiers looked at each other, then ran toward the cottage.

Bertie shook his head as the soldiers passed by the porch.

The soldiers disappeared around the corner, near a row of dormant rosebushes. Seconds later, Duchess soared over the roof, dove sharply, and landed on the porch rail.

Bertie tried to shuffle toward the pigeon. But his knees wobbled and gave out. He clung to the porch rail, as if it were a life preserver.

Susan ran. She was only twenty yards from the cottage, but she already heard the soldiers approaching. They had cut through the garden and were barreling toward the front. They’d reach Duchess first. The thought of them touching her pigeon sent off a flare of anger. She lowered her head and forced her legs to move faster, all the while hoping the soldiers would stumble.

She reached the porch at precisely the same moment as the soldiers. But it didn’t matter. Duchess was gone. And Bertie, strained from standing, had fallen into his chair.

“Where’d it go?” a soldier asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Tweedledee and Tweedledum,” Bertie muttered.

“Sorry?” The soldier removed his cap.