Page 10 of Inkpot Gods

“See to it that you do,” he’d replied, and gone about his business comfortable in his belief that Floretta—something had to be done about that name; it couldn’t be allowed to stand longer than was absolutely necessary, would need to be replaced as soon as he understood her nature well enough to give her something better—was soon to be brought properly to heel. Her power, whatever its source, would be bent under his hand, and the world would be all the better for it.

With time, he might come to understand what Miss Cottingsly meant by “a touch of the otherworldly.” It could be almost anything. Perhaps she was inclined toward a season, and risked being called at their next coronation. Perhaps she was tied to some lesser natural force. Whatever the source of the strangeness his housekeeper perceived, he would claim it, tame it, and turn it toward useful ends.

Footsteps on the stairs snap him back into the present, and he looks toward the door, waiting for the moment when his great-niece appears. She’s wearing a grubby dress little different from the one she had on yesterday, but her hair has been properly brushed and pinned back: there may be hope for her yet.

She looks nervous, verging on terrified, like she can’t imagine anything good will come of her sitting down to breakfast. He watches her in silence, still waiting.

She comes closer, almost tiptoeing, and stops some feet from the table to drop an unsteady curtsey. He nods in response, a slight dip of his chin, acknowledging her manners. A dog will never learn not to bite if it isn’t rewarded for its good behavior, and he would prefer a well-trained dog to a biting one. It’s only reasonable.

“Good morning, Uncle John,” she says, and he adds her backwoods accent to the list of things he’ll need to have changed about her. Really, that priest did her no favors by instilling so many things in her that he’ll be forced to unmake and redo. He’ll need to send someone to show the priest the error of his ways, as soon as he’s certain he’ll be keeping the girl. (He’s already more than halfway sure. For all his flaws, he did love his niece, and he never gives up on something he’s decided he owns. He owns her now. She’s staying with him.)

“Do you always sleep so late into the day?” he asks.

“No, sir,” she replies, with respectable politeness. “The bed was strange and very soft, and the journey yesterday was very tiring. I slept longer than I intended, and more deeply than I think I ever have before. I apologize for my tardiness.”

“How can you tell that you were tardy?”

“Your eggs, sir.”

He frowns, and she sees the question in that expression, because she continues:

“Their tops have hardened, and the whites are all cloudy and gunky-looking. That only happens when eggs have been sitting out for longer than they ought to be. And your coffee isn’t steaming.”

John blinks, glancing to his cup. “Perhaps I prefer my coffee cold.”

“Perhaps,” she says, in a tone that makes it clear she knows he doesn’t. She looks around and, finding no serving dishes, takes a seat in front of the other place setting.

John picks up a small bell from beside his own plate, ringing it lightly. Miss Cottingsly appears in the doorway as if by magic, carrying a covered tray which she moves to place in front of Floretta before turning to go.

“Miss Cottingsly,” says John.

She stops, turning back to face him. “Yes, sir?”

“I need fresh eggs and another cup of coffee. I’m afraid I was distracted, and allowed my breakfast to cool.”

She sniffs, but doesn’t comment on what that distraction could have been, only returns to the table and removes his plate. “Right away, sir.”

“Thank you, Miss Cottingsly.”

She bobs, then slips away, carrying his rejected breakfast with her.

Floretta watches this play out with enormous eyes. She’s never seen anyone speak so dismissively to another adult, and she wouldn’t have imagined the terrifying Miss Cottingsly taking orders so unflinchingly. She doesn’t move to uncover her tray, only remains still, like she’s afraid of being noticed.

“Well, eat,” says her uncle, in a tone he probably considers encouraging, but which really comes across more as an order. She removes the cover from her tray, revealing eggs and toast and a slice of ham, pink as a sunrise and glistening with fat. Her mouth starts to water at once, and it’s all she can do not to lunge for her silverware and begin shoveling food into her mouth.

“Eat,” repeats her uncle. Agonizingly slow, she picks up knife and fork and begins carefully cutting into her meal. Every cut is a stab at her hunger, a line drawn across the ravenous need to be fulfilled.

The food tastes as good as it looked. She forces herself to chew slowly, swallowing only when she’s certain she won’t choke. Her uncle John watches her the whole time, measuring her motions with his eyes, taking note of her manners, and the deficiencies therein. She’s midway through her plate when Miss Cottingsly returns with a fresh plate to set in front of him. She, too, takes note of Floretta, the stiffness of her motions, the care with which she chews. Meeting John’s eyes, she gives a small, approving nod, then pours him a fresh cup of coffee.

“That will be all, for now,” he says, and she bobs a curtsey before slipping from the room, leaving the pair of them alone.

Floretta’s breakfast is almost gone. She sits back in her chair as John begins to eat, watching him cut into his food with smoothly practiced motions. It’s not until he’s taken the first bites that he looks to her and tilts his head to the side, frowning.

“What am I to do with you?” he asks.

“Put me back where you found me?” she replies, hopefully. And for a moment, she thinks he might: for a moment, she wonders if he might not realize his mistake and let her go. It’s a long-enough moment to let the image of herself stepping out of his carriage like a queen blossom behind her eyes, her dream-self filled with the knowledge of far-off Boston, the sophistication of a girl who’s seen the city. She could go home, but she would never be the same again. She has already been transformed.

“No,” he says, as the pause is ending. “I don’t think so. But that was a good attempt at changing my mind. You may make another tomorrow, if you’d like. No more today. I won’t abide insurrection in my own home, and that means you’ll limit your attempts to influence my decisions. Do we have an understanding?”