Sometimes the sacrificial bird would just disappear before I packed up my watch for the evening, but Abigail didn't hesitate for a second when she found the empty altar. She just plucked a new bird from the darkness of her coat and left it with a prayer and a smile.
There was regularity to the disappearances. After the bettered bird got about as big as a raven, it wasn't replaced with a new one. It just disappeared. I never saw what took them.
But Abigail's pockets generated an endless supply of the little dead birds, and nothing would stop the process. Not rain. Not snow. Something would always come to eat and die for Abigail's cause.