The day of Clarissa’s return dawned with an appropriate feeling of dread. I chewed on the ends of my hair. I needed a wash—the fever and exertion of the day before had left its mark. I heated up water in the big tub before the kitchen fire and had as quick a bath as I could manage.
When I felt sufficiently restored, I made a hurried breakfast from the ingredients the House provided for me and went through to the throne room to find the sorcerer. I steeled myself against the inevitable leap of joy my heart would give at the sight of him and determined to stay as angry as possible, to guard against it.
He was clad in a billowing black shirt, a black waistcoat embroidered in silver thread, breeches, and his impossibly shining tall boots—dressed up for this important meeting with his sister. He had something small and fiery in his hand and was playing a sleight-of-hand trick with it, flickering it over and under each of his fingers in turn so that it shimmered like a bright-finned fish.
“Porridge,” I said, plonking the plate down. “Need anything else?”
“No,” he said, without looking up. I hovered, though, wanting to say something but not knowing what.
“What happened to being more than you were made for?” The words burst out of me. “To thinking for yourself?”
The little fireball winked and shone between his fingers.
“I suppose I’m next, am I?” I pressed.
“I told you that you would not be.” He spoke quietly, not looking at me.
“Very reassuring. Did you bottle the heart like a jar of pickles, or is it magicked away somehow?”
He looked up at me, his strange eyes cold and pale. “My sister will be here again soon,” he said.
“Right, then. Want me to bake a cake for her?” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice; I was not sure he would even notice it.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said.
“You’ll be able to give her a nice surprise,” I said, the venom spilling out of me without my meaning it to. Every time I thought about him harvesting a heart, horror, disgust, anger, and jealousy rose up in my throat and threatened to choke me. The surge of emotion was almost enough to overpower my love, but not quite.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I suppose I will.”
Hands still shaking, I set his cutlery down and then turned to leave. He surprised me by speaking, and I stopped.
“I knew it would hurt you when I left yesterday,” he said. “I did what I could to mitigate it, but it seems like I have little control over the spell, as I suspected. The work I did the other night gave you some relief, though, I think.”
“Thank you,” I said, after a pause, taken aback.
“I will keep trying,” he said, surprising me again. “I will not be able to completely remove the pain, however, and if you travel too far from me, this new spell will not hold. I have to be fairly close to you in order to sustain it. The ... bond between us allows me to use it as a channel for such magics. At first, I did not think it would be possible, but it has grown easier for me throughout the day, I find, and I can hold it more loosely now.”
I pictured the spell like a fine, shimmering net cast over me, and the sorcerer holding the slender threads between his fingers. I wondered what his magic felt like to him, if it was something tangible he could hold and manipulate, like his endless parade of sorcerous toys. Like Da’s butcher’s knife, and the slabs of meat. “Anyway. It means that it is easier for me to work magic on you now that we already have a ...” he waved his hands vaguely. “Connection.”
I wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad. He seemed uncomfortable. We stared at each other.
“And what does this connection mean for you?” I asked.
He seemed startled. “I ... don’t know,” he said slowly. “But I am trying to find out.”
My mind was in a muddle. He had harvested a heart, but not mine. He had refused to harvest mine, in fact. He had left me but cast a spell to protect me while he was gone, as best he could. And when he found I had left the House, he had created a thousand plates to smash.
I knew he did not love me, despite what my embarrassingly ensorcelled heart tried to tell me in the dark watches of the night, but could he possiblylikeme? Or at least like having me around? I felt a stab of guilt, that I was thinking about how to leave him, and then an even sharper stab of anger at that guilt.
Of course I wanted to leave! Of course I wanted to go home! I had beenstolenfrom my home, whether he had meant to take me or not. And of course he would rather have me cooking and cleaning for him and, yes, providing some companionship and conversation, than have no one at all. I was Cornelius, but more useful. Protecting me as best as he could from the worst of the injuryhehad caused was the very least he could do.
And so I argued with myself, staring into his face and saying nothing, while he stared back and waited for me to speak.
“What are you doing, Sylvester?” I said at last.
“I don’t know,” he replied. He held my gaze, but the light in his eyes flickered a little.
“You said yourself it’s what you were made for,” I whispered. “Taking hearts. You are doing your duty, right? Finally? So why are you helping me?”
