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‘Which you’ll be blamed for.’

‘Obviously. But it’s worse than that. I really, really hurt Angela. She told me to go, but the look on her face when I did . . . and she hasn’t answered a single call or message since. I think I really, really screwed things up, Imogen.’

‘Then you’d better figure out a way to unscrew things, hadn’t you, Ryan?’

‘I wish it were that easy.’

‘If you’re really not going to let me curse the bitch . . .’

‘I’m not. Not worth the bad energy for yourself.’

‘Well, then I have some time. Want to keep talking a bit?’

‘Yeah. That’d be good. Thanks, Moggy.’

‘You know you don’t have to keep calling me that.’ He was pretty sure he could hear her rolling her eyes. ‘It’s not like we’re kids anymore.’

‘Yeah, but it amuses me.’

‘Whatever, Ry-no.’

He grinned at the old nickname, leaning back against the kitchen counter while his sister chattered away.

With his attention on his sister he didn’t hear the flutter of wings, or the scrabble of claws on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t until he’d finished, closed the window and headed into the living room that he realised anything was wrong.

‘Mallow? Where are you?’ He leaned down to peer under the coffee table and sofa. ‘Chicken-butt?’ He whistled for her and waited for a response. ‘Mallow?’ His heart sped up and his breath started to come faster. He checked the hall, hoping she’d wandered out to attack shoelaces again, but she wasn’t there.

No! The realisation sent a shiver of cold through him. He’d had the kitchen window open. But there was no way she could have gotten out of there, could she? He’d only turned away from it for a few moments — not more than a minute or two — and she wasn’t flying properly anyway. Yeah, before Yvette had knocked her off the top of her cage, she’d been fluttering a bit, trying out her wings, but she certainly couldn’t fly. He didn’t think.

On autopilot he strode to the kitchen and unlocked the back door. ‘Mallow?’ He looked around the garden, feeling like a total idiot. But there, in the conifer — was that a flash of pink?

‘Chicken-butt?’ A squawk and cackle of laughter answered his question. Shit. ‘Come on, sweetie, come on down. Please?’ She was higher than he could reach, and he didn’t want to risk looking away to find something to climb on — not when she’d already proven how fast and sneaky she could be. Keeping one eye on her, he levered himself up onto the fence, the freezing wood biting through his socks and into his toes. He had to get her back indoors: her feathers were still patchy in places, and there was no way she could handle a British winter for long. ‘Come on, Mallow. Please come here. Please. I’ll give you your favourite biscuits . . . not just a bit either, you can have a whole one.’ She bobbed up and down, cackling at him, making him nervous. ‘A bowl. You can have a whole bowl full of gingerbread if you just come down now.’

He reached up to her, stretching on the icy fence to reach her. He was still too low, so he stretched even more, balancing precariously. The inevitable happened — his foot slipped and he crashed against the fence, making it rattle loudly. Mallow shot off her perch, fluttering as she squealed in alarm. The wind blew at exactly the wrong moment, lifting her up and giving her the height he really didn’t want her to gain at that moment. She whistled, zooming overhead. ‘Mallow, no! Come back! Please, Chicken-butt . . . come back!’

He tracked her for as long as he could as she soared in the vague direction of the village centre. When she dropped out of sight, he raced into the house, jammed his feet into the first shoes he saw and grabbed his coat and keys. When he found her, he’d need to be able to keep her warm — and he was going to find her. He couldn’t even consider any other outcome.

He didn’t know what he expected, but he’d hoped that he’d see another flash of pink, or that she’d realise she wasn’t safe and would be glad to see him. He had to find her — he just had to.

But she wasn’t there. He couldn’t see her.

Panic seized him, gripping at his throat and making the icy air burn even more as he ran through the village, calling desperately. He ignored the stares of people going about their normal lives while he felt like his was falling apart. He didn’t care — he’d already lost Angela, and he really, really couldn’t lose Mallow. He had to find her before something terrible happened to her — there were countless awful things that could happen. Even if she didn’t freeze, there were cats, electric cables, the pond, not to mention cars and probably birds of prey.

After what felt like hours of searching, but was probably only minutes, he found himself at the base of the wishing tree. He stared at the tree and prayed, pleaded and wished for help to anyone or anything that might be listening, begging to see that flash of pink, or hear that rude cackle. Please, oh please let her be OK, and please, please help him to find her — or for her to find him. Or for someone to find her and warm her up. He already knew cockatoos’ body temperatures ran higher than humans, and it was cold for him, which meant it was freezing for her — especially without her cute jumpers.

He stared up at the miserable sky that was dark and heavy with snow, and fought to keep from crying. He didn’t have time for that.

Something nudged his foot, and he looked down. It was a bright red, shiny bauble the size of his fist. For a moment, he stared at the shiny sphere, thinking how much Mallow would probably like it, and regretting not getting a full-sized tree for the cottage. When he looked up, he spotted another bauble lying a few feet away. A strange clicking noise on the other side of the tree caught his attention, and he walked around to see another bright bauble — this time gold — bounce across the cobbles.

The tree rustled in the breeze, and another bauble bounced down the branches as he watched. One branch bounced a lot more than the others — rustling drew his attention halfway up the tree, as another bauble dropped and ping-ponged towards his feet.

‘Mallow?’ He held his breath, waiting for a response. ‘Chicken-butt?’ After long, painful seconds, the tree moved again and another ornament bounced down the branches. This time he was ready and listening closely, so he heard the soft ‘whoop!’, and spotted the pink head that peered out of the hole where the purple bauble had been.

He breathed a huge sigh of relief. This time he wasn’t going to give her a chance to escape again, and he locked his eyes on the spot where he’d last seen her as he started to climb. The branches were sturdy and his trainers had enough grip so he could clamber high enough up the tree. His balance was wobbly when he finally reached the right spot, and he parted the branches to peer at a disappearing pink tail.

‘Mallow.’ He clucked to her gently. ‘Come here, Chicken-butt. Come on. Come see what I’ve got for you . . . lots of treats waiting for you back at home, where it’s warm and safe. Come on, baldy-butt.’

‘Boo!’ Mallow peeked around the trunk and cackled maniacally at him.

‘Yes, yes, very funny. Now come here.’ He flicked his fingers at her, wishing he’d actually brought some treats with him.

Slowly, almost suspiciously, she edged towards him, one dinosaur foot creeping over the other. Within a few seconds she was close enough that he could probably reach out and grab her — but he forced himself to wait patiently, worried that if he tried to grab her and missed he’d lose his chance. A few seconds later she rubbed her head against his fingers, and he gave her the itches she wanted. Slowly, carefully, he slid his fingers further down her back, until he could cover her wings, and then pull her towards him.

As soon as he could, he scooped her up and cradled her against his chest where she nibbled at his coat. He wedged himself more tightly against the tree to unzip his coat and shove her inside, securing her against his chest before he climbed down.

He knocked off a couple of the ornaments on his descent, and stooped to pick them up when he was back on the ground. Quickly he rehung the shiny baubles, but hesitated over the red envelope that had been knotted to the tree. He looked around, feeling guilty, even though he didn’t really know why. He slid open the envelope and read the message inside. Smiling, he read it a second time: a games console for her little brother was the only thing Becky, aged seven, wanted to ask Santa for. Not what he’d expected. Thinking, he tucked the card back into the envelope and reached for the next one, curious to see what that wish would be.