I eat a prawn slowly as I look around at how much there is to do. I can’t leave him here unsupervised, but if I don’t help, it’ll be noon before he’s finished.
When I turn to look at him, his bowl is already empty. He leans against the kitchen wall, eyes closed and ringed with exhaustion. The fresh rags cling to his broad shoulders and his black hair is tangled and wet, drying in loose waves. How long had it been before this since Harfor fed him?
I have more right to hate this witch than anyone else alive, but I clench my teeth in annoyance all the same. Was the enchantment not torture enough? They had to starve and beat and dehydrate him, too?
For whatpurpose? They should have just killed him, or let me do it.
I consider giving him some of my food, to keep his strength up. But he’s gotten enough to survive. And I can’t afford to let any softness into my heart.
“We need to scrape everything on the platters into that bin,” I say, pointing to the scrap bucket in the corner. He walks slowly across the floor and picks up the first plate, covered with tiny bones and a fish head. I keep eating as he grabs a knife and uses it to brush the plate clean, metal scraping on ceramic.
When he finishes the witch drops it on the counter so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. The next plate he grabs still has a fork on it, and he dumps that into the scrap bucket.
“Pick that up.”
“Andthere’sthe command,” he mutters, like he’s not already being treated better than he deserves. He reaches in and grabs a fish-spine he’s just scraped off, turning to me with exhausted fury in his eyes.
“Idiot,” I growl under my breath. “I meant the fork, witch, not the food. Only food waste goes in the scrap bin.”
He drops the spine, yanks out the fork, and throws it on the counter. It skitters across the stone.
A few orders won’t kill him, or even do much. He isn’t being drained to power a Hellion or our borders, so the strain on his life is small compared to the Enchanted I’m used to seeing. I still don’t ever want to use that kind of power if I don’t have to, but it’s hard to watch every word I say.
I go to grab the plates off the table. As I return to the kitchen with the third and final chin-high stack of them in my hands, he scrapes the last cooking dish clean. I have to admit I’m a little surprised he’s helping so much without me forcing every bit of effort. I’d have expected him to think a king was above such work. Certainly, the God-Emperor or the Exalted would never stoop to such levels.
Just the thought of it makes me snort, though it’s blasphemous to even imagine. The witches’ gaze cuts sharply to me but I don’t explain. I don’t care if he thinks I was laughing at him.
In the corner there’s a metal freshwater reservoir, nearly as tall as I am, with a tap in the side. I pick up the bucket beside it and shove it into the witch’s hands.
“Fill this, turn off the tap, and put the water on the counter,” I say, and then, realizing it was an order again: “Damn.”
The witch snorts, lips curled down.
The reservoir hisses as he turns the tap, and then water gushes out like a torrent. He closes the knob, then turns to the counter, where the stacks of scraped platters wait to be washed.
He jerks the bucket toward it, sloshing a gallon of water out over the wood and the dishes there.
Water drips off the plates and splatters against the wall. A shiny puddle floods the dark stone floor like a mirror. I grip my hands into tight fists and take a deep breath. The witch stares defiantly at me, chin raised, waiting for my response.
When I told him to put the water on the table, I’d obviously meant for it to stay in the bucket.
“You do realize you’ve just made more work for yourself?”
He shrugs, one shoulder jerking up, as if to say he doesn’t care. There’s the faintest hint of a smirk on his face.
“I did as you commanded,imperialist.”
Never in my life have I had to fight so hard against the urge to smack somebody in the face. And I’ve never had to resist the urge to use enchantment. I could make him mop the spill with his clothes. I could make him do anything I wanted, no matter how much it hurt him.
“If youpreferI stop trying to spare you, then by all means, be a disobedient prick.”
“There’s no need to pretend,” he says, his voice like cold silk. “I don’t know what turned you into a traitor, but we both hate each other.”
“Traitor?” I hiss, taking a step towards him and glaring up into his golden eyes.
“How did you survive, imperialist?” he says tauntingly. “Why did they send you here? For what crime?”
“Shut up,” I snap, shoulders raised nearly up to my ears. I run my left hand through my hair and turn, exhaling hard. I commanded him again. “Fuck.Talk if you want. I don’t give a shit.”
