There were no windows, but when I stretched and yawned, there was suddenly light, as if the House had been watching and waiting for me to wake, which was an unsettling thought. I couldn’t tell where the light was coming from, exactly; it was diffuse and mild, seemingly coming from everywhere all at once, as if the black stuff had decided to glow. I suppose the House had thought that lighting one of the magical chandeliers for me would be too much of a shock at the start of the day, which I appreciated.
I noticed an extra blanket had appeared across my knees, an enormous, thick, black fur, and my feet were toasty warm.
Cornelius was still asleep, or mostly asleep—little fingernails of light showed beneath his eyelids—and when I stirred, he started a half-hearted purr that clicked in and out, like a fire sputtering in the grate.
I swung my feet onto the floor, which was warm and uncomfortably fleshlike—it would take me a while to get used to that—and washed up in the basin. Cornelius snorted and complained a little at the splashing noise, but then roused himself and stretched, lengthening his tail and legs, and even his ears and whiskers, and then letting himself settle comfortably back into shape.
“What does he do for breakfast?” I asked when I was clean.
“Usually leftovers from the night before,” said Cornelius.
“Off those dirty plates!”
“Yes. He’s not too fussy.”
He lived like a pig, it sounded like.
“And who makes those meals in the first place?”
“The House, I suppose? Probably in the same way it makes my mice. They don’t taste all that good. I don’t even like to lick the plates.”
“The meals looked pretty fancy.”
“Oh, theylookfancy, all right,” said Cornelius darkly.
I sighed. “I suppose I’d better make His Nibs some breakfast, then,” I said. “Since I’ve apparently volunteered to be the maid-of-all-work about the place.”
I dressed in my fine, new clothes, marveling again at the intricacy of the stitches and the richness of the cloth.
They seemed to have sprouted new clusters of embroidery overnight. I also spotted that the neckline seemed noticeably lower than it had the day before—still modest, by most standards, but exposing more skin than I was used to in that area. I gave the House a sideways glance for that one. Was it going to tinker with my garments every day?
“Listen,” I said out loud. “These are very nice, thank you, but they’re a bit on the fancy side. I’m a butcher’s daughter. I’m sure I look ridiculous. All I need is something serviceable and an apron to tie over the top, and I’ll be set.”
A small movement at the edge of my vision made me glance sideways to the bedpost, where a black lace apron had apparently hung itself. I couldn’t have imagined a more impractical garment, but I rolled my eyes and put it on.
When I judged myself ready, I opened my chamber door and had the impression that the House had gathered itself together in order to look like a respectable, normal dwelling. There was that sense of movement suddenly stilled.
I stepped out carefully and made my way to where I thought the kitchen probably was, based on my memories from the day before. The House undulated a little underfoot, guiding my feet one way or the other when I lost my way. It was being gentle with me, I thought, trying to help but not startle me.
I did find the kitchen, and I am ashamed to say that, on that first morning, I barely thought about the village and my Da at all, even as I cooked the little cakes that were Da’s favorites and floured the potato wedges for breakfast just as he liked them.
It was just a relief to have the pain dulled at last, and to be near the object of my tortured, involuntary love, and I reveled in it rather than think about it too deeply.
As well as the cakes and potatoes, I made the sorcerer eggs and bacon, fried mushrooms, and tomatoes. Everything appeared at my fingertips when I needed it: butter, milk, anything I might want, and good stuff too, not rubbish. My initial reservations about eating magical food melted away soon enough when I got a whiff of it all, although I wondered what it what it would do to my body if I ate it day in and day out.
The House seemed enthusiastic about breakfast. The fire roared and sputtered, the eggs danced in the pan, and the bacon rashers curled in on themselves like so many bashful girls hiding their faces. There was even coffee, so dark and rich smelling that I felt I could have dyed my hair black with it.
I gave Cornelius a piece or two of bacon, and the way he went at them, you would have sworn they were still alive.
“I’ll give you more in a minute,” I said. “Let me take this tray up first. Will he be in the throne room this morning? Or in his bedchamber?”
I imagined him in bed and felt my whole body flush. The pain and almost irresistible tugging was much better, being this close, but it seemed to flare up when I pictured things like that. I wasn’t proud of it.
“I don’t know if he has one, I told you,” said Cornelius.
“You don’t ever want to sleep on his feet, like you did on mine?”
“No. He’s never wanted me to, I suppose. I’m not sure why he brought me here in the first place. Maybe he thought I would amuse him. I was outside the walls, being a perfectly respectable alley cat, and then I was in here. Haven’t been out since. Haven’t been able to.”
