Still bald

Quill scanned the street, sniffing for stories.

“You’re still a pirate,” the owl on his shoulder said.

With a flick of a lacy sleeve, Quill shook out a hand and touched his perfectly smooth scalp. “You’re still an owl.”

The owl stayed silent.

Harp music bounced off the cobblestone streets. A voice warbled along, dodging just so in between the notes, like a dancer weaving in between the raindrops of a storm.

“That sounds like stories to me,” Quill said.

Percy closed his eyes and muttered.

“What?”

“I said it sounds like the tittering of a drunken fool to me.”

“Right. Like I said, stories.”

The owl unshuttered his eyes. “I’ll be waiting on the roof this time.”

“Eavesdropping from the eaves this fine eve?”

The white flash of feathers silently departed Quill’s shoulder, landing just above the open window from which the music still poured. He looked up at the battered door, which had once been green, and perhaps could still be called green because some traces of paint still remained, but mostly was simply remembered as green by those who had been in and out of the building for decades.

He read the sign aloud. “The Dormant Door.”

“A ridiculous name,” Percy said.

“Said the talking owl.” Quill pushed the door and walked inside.