On the seventh morning, Jiang refused the fish.
Aylin turned the rainfish so its silver belly caught the nursery light. Jiang had swallowed everything she put near him for six mornings, including one fish that struck his beak while he was still working on the previous tail.
Now the smell made his throat close.
"You are the first patient I have seen become less cooperative after eating," Aylin said.
Pava crouched on the other side of him. "He has been saving his strength for the argument."
Jiang pecked neither woman. The effort seemed excessive.
Old feathers surrounded him in white and black drifts. Each time he shifted, more released from his breast and back. The new pins underneath pressed together like dark brush bristles, soft at their tips and sore where they entered bare skin.
His body looked twice its usual size and felt half as useful.
Pava touched a loose feather without pulling. "The old coat has stopped belonging to him. The new one is not ready to do the job."
