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But he didn’t run away, either, although his eyes kept flicking from the sandwich to me to the door. Over and over. He was obviously frightened, but also hungry, but also frightened. . . . It was an impasse.
I decided to help him out and put the sandwich platter on the foot of the bed, pushing it as close to him as I could without getting up, which I somehow knew would spook him.
Then I sat back against the headboard and ate my own sandwich, because it smelled like heaven.
He watched me for a moment, eyes huge.
And then, faster than I would have expected—almost faster than I could see—he grabbed the remaining two sandwiches and fled, practically knocking Claire over in the process.
She’d been coming in the door with some laundry, and had to do an acrobatic maneuver to avoid getting mowed down. “What the—Hey! What are you—”
But the kid and his loot were already gone.
Claire stared after him for a moment, and then turned to me, astonishment on her features. “He’s walking!”
“He’s running around, stealing sandwiches,” I corrected. “Good ones, too.” I licked bacon grease off my fingers.
“He’s supposed to be in bed!”
“Put a platter of sandwiches beside it. He’ll never leave.”
Claire blinked, considering that. Then she put down the laundry basket and went out again. I heard her talking to Gessa, and I guess they sorted it out, because she was back a moment later. She started putting towels away while I hauled my stiff-as-fuck body out of bed.
“I’m surprised Bulsi risked coming in here,” she told me, from the bathroom. “He’s really skittish.”
“Bulsi? Is that his name?”
Claire nodded. “He woke up briefly yesterday. I managed to get some soup down him, and a little medicine, before he passed out again. He and Olga talked while I fed him.”
“Did he remember anything about those mystery words?”
Claire looked confused for a moment, and then shook her head. “He was barely conscious. They did a number on him, Dory!”
Yeah, I remembered. And felt my face flush in anger, which was stupid. The slavers didn’t care about wiping out whole villages of fey; how much less would they care about a single child?
“I don’t think he trusts anyone right now,” Claire said. “She was lucky to get his name. Although she isn’t too happy about it.”
“Olga isn’t?”
She nodded.
“Why not? What’s wrong with . . . What was it again?”
“Bulsi. It means wart.”
“What?”
Claire came out of the bathroom, having loaded me up with fresh-smelling towels. “Or lump or bump or protrusion. It’s what his owner called him. Anyway, it doesn’t matter; we’re not keeping it.”
“The name or the kid?”
“Don’t look at me like that,” she told me severely.
I’d hobbled over to the dresser for something to wear, so hadn’t been looking like anything. I glanced over my shoulder. “Like what?”
“I’m not adopting him! We can’t have any more houseguests, or this place is going to pop.”
Couldn’t argue with that.
