Petruccio grinned in delight as he returned to his room, looking fondly at the feathers in his hands and setting them gently down on the table at his bedside. He cleared away all of the medicines the last doctor had left behind and arranged the feathers according to their size. Soon, he thought to himself, he would finally have enough for what he'd had in mind ever since he'd overheard his mother speaking with that artist. Soon he would be able to fashion himself wings, he would be able to fly like the artist had spoken of while showing Maria pictures of something Petruccio could not see.

He would be able to fly away from his sick-bed; it would no longer matter whether his legs had the strength to walk, his wings would carry him over the rooftops like his brothers, they would take him all over the world like his father. He imagined seeing all of the places his father spoke of whenever he returned from a long trip away from home, he imagined being free from the illness which kept him shackled to the doctors with their frightening masks and foul tasting remedies.

Petruccio giggled and took out the other feathers he'd managed to collect, sketching the designs for his wings in his mind and arranging the feathers in a way the corresponded with this. He would have to find a material to hold them all together soon, as he was contemplating this he heard his door creaking open and his mother's voice announcing that she was entering. Quickly he swept the feathers into a small, neat pile, not wanting to reveal just yet what he was planning.

Maria smiled at her son, looking at his small fingers pressed carefully over the feathers he'd taken to collecting. She sat at his side and kissed his forehead "What are you doing amore mio?" she whispered with a grin, hearing her son's laugh.

"Niente" he replied, snuggling into her side and closing his eyes. Someday, when he returned from the adventures his wings would take him on, he would bring her back beautiful treasures, treasures fit for the best mother in the world.