He feels... assaulted, almost. By the compliments. Instinctively mentally jerking away from them, as though they might burn him if thought about too long. Sarah doesn't give many compliments, and that's fine with him. He doesn't need them, doesn't thrive off them like Herbert does.

But Alfred's fingers running through his hair like this feels nice, and he relaxes a little under the touch. "We have a flock of crows in one of the trees in the yard. A murder of crows, I suppose, is the proper term. I'll see if they haven't dropped some feathers lately. If you would like some."