Meg’s parents despaired at their daughter’s despair.

Even Meg’s father Arthur, who had liked dogs more than birds until meeting Princess, could not hold back tears.

Pegeen and Arthur discussed what to do with the little bird’s mortal remains, and they tried very hard to include Meg in the conversation, but their daughter would say not a word.

So they came up with a plan.

They would wrap Princess in a soft silk scarf, tuck her feathery body into the carved wood Moroccan magic box that Meg had given to her father for his birthday – a box that, once closed, could only be reopened by one who knew the secret – and after work, the whole family would drive north to the mountains, find a perfect spot in a sunny glade, and bury Princess there.

“Is that all right with you?” Pegeen asked her daughter.

Meg did not react.

Her mother shook her head sadly, wrapped the tiny bird in the beautiful silk shroud, and handed it to Arthur, who gently tucked the bird into the Moroccan magic box, shut the lid, locked the box, and put it on the mantelpiece over the fireplace to wait there until later in the day, when they would leave the city to find a suitable burial ground.