When Clara uncovered Albert's cage this morning he was not well. Then, as birds do, he failed quickly and died in the middle of the morning, in the shoebox set up for his comfort, with a spray of millet and his beloved mirror.
Clara kept vigil beside him until he was gone, then turned immediately to her music.
Just last night at dinner the Composer had remarked on how much Albert had to say. That was always true. And always such beautiful feathers.