I can say without reservation these Blick markers were worth every cent.
They sat down on the bed. Door got Richard to hold the pigeon, while she attached a message to its leg, using a vivid blue rubber band that Richard had previously used to keep his electricity bills all in one place. Richard was not an enthusiastic holder of pigeons, even at the best of times. “I don’t see the point in this,” he explained. “I mean, it’s not a homing pigeon. It’s just a normal London pigeon. The kind that craps on Lord Nelson.”
“That’s right,” said Door. Her cheek was grazed, and her dirty reddish hair was tangled; tangled, but not matted. And her eyes . . . Richard realized that he could not tell what colour her eyes were. They were not blue, or green, or brown, or grey; they reminded him of fire opals: there were burning greens and blues, and even reds and yellows that vanished and glinted as she moved. She took the bird from him, gently, held it up, and looked it in the face. It tipped its head on one side and stared back at her with bead-black eyes. “Okay,” she said, and then she made a noise that sounded like the liquid burbling of pigeons. “Okay _Crrppllrr,_ you’re looking for the marquis de Carabas. You got that?”
The pigeon burbled liquidly back at her.
“Attagirl. Now, this is important, so you’d better–” The pigeon interrupted her with a rather impatient-sounding burble. “I’m sorry,” said Door. “You know what you’re doing, of course.” She took the bird to the window and let it go.
Richard had watched the whole routine with some amazement. “Do you know, it almost sounded like it understood you?” he said, as the bird shrank in the sky and vanished behind some rooftops.
“How about that,” said Door.