“Have you tried?”Was I trapped here, too?
“Once or twice. But what’s the point, really? It’s warm in here, and dry, and I get regular meals.”
“Does he play with you?”
“He did a little, at first. He made fireballs for me to chase, but they singed my whiskers when I got too close. He never got the hang of it, really. Eventually, he gave up.” Cornelius gave his whiskers a quick wash. “It’s not a bad life.”
“All right.” I piled a tray high with breakfast and silverware. The House produced a bowl of exotic fruit that I did not recognize, as if dropping a hint, and so I popped a couple of pieces on there, along with a paring knife, just in case.
My heart thudded as I walked back down the black corridor. I was on my way to see the sorcerer again, and I could barely stand the anticipation. Again, the House guided my feet, and I found myself at the throne room door within seconds.
As far as I could tell, the sorcerer hadn’t stirred since the day before. He was still slouched across the throne, legs drawn up, staring at the ceiling.
What was left of my heart gave a joyful leap upon seeing him, and I was disgusted with myself. He did at least turn his head when I came in this time, just the slightest bit.
“What?” he said ungraciously.
“Breakfast,” I said.
“Oh.” He heaved himself up on one elbow and looked about, as if it were perfectly normal for him to have a servant bringing him breakfast in the morning. “Put it anywhere.”
As if there was anywhere to put it. The floor was still littered with filthy plates. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but instead I picked my way through the mess like a frog jumping lily pad to lily pad, and found a spot of bare, black floor on which to lay the meal, since there was no table.
This was closer than I had been to him yet, and my stupid, cursed heart yearned in my chest. I imagined that I felt his warmth and smelled his scent—a faint spice, unfamiliar and inviting.
Despite myself, I wondered what he thought of the new clothes the House had provided for me and how I looked in them. I hoped desperately that they didn’t look like a fancy cozy on a stout little teakettle.
“You can go,” he said airily, waving his hand.
I supposed he would eat the meal, eventually, although I was sorry to miss the look on his face when he got a taste of Da’s potato wedges.
I reached for one of those dirty plates, then another, and started to stack them on my arm. The sorcerer pinched the skin between his eyebrows, as if the chinking and clinking were giving him a headache, but I didn’t care.
It served him right for living in a pigsty and for dragging me all the way here to clean up after him, even if he didn’t seem to realize he had done it. I thought with a pang of Da, at home, who never drank so much as a cup of tea without rinsing his mug and putting it away. “My Mam brought me up right,” he would always say with a wink.
I half thought the sorcerer was going to say something as I collected the dishes—tell me to be quiet, perhaps—but he must have seen the no-nonsense expression on my face. He watched as I gathered up as many plates as I could carry, which was a decent amount. I had pride in the strength of my arms.
“Have you seen the cat today?” he said at last, startling me so that I nearly dropped everything. I turned to face him.
“He’s in the kitchen.”
“Oh. All right. I hadn’t seen him for a while.”
“He’s there. He showed me around.”
“So, you’re finding everything all right, then.”
Oddly, the sorcerer seemed to be trying tomake conversation. It was like hearing an eagle try to cluck. He stared at me, and I stared at him right back, feeling what was left of my heart fluttering in my chest, and wondering if he was beginning to remember who I was.
Somehow, it would be even worse if he had snagged a piece of my heart by accident rather than design, like stepping on a toilet rag and dragging it out of the privy with you, stuck to your boot. I waited, but he showed no signs of recognition, just continued to stare.
What was he thinking? I wanted to flush and turn away, feeling every imperfection of my face writ large upon it, but resentment rose in my gullet. Why should I feel ashamed and look at my feet, when he was the one who had dragged me here? If he wanted to stare and judge, so be it.
“More or less,” I said. “Most things seem to stay where I put them.”
“I built the place when I first came of age,” he told me, “but it has rather taken on a life of its own.”
“Came of age?”
