I frowned, a snarl of confusion twisting through me as I watched his movements, until I finally couldn’t keep quiet anymore.
“What kind of prince makes his own bread?”
His head came up.
And he smiled.
Prince Krystian smiled—as if he’d just heard the voice of his brother, or an old friend, interrupt him whilst he was doing something pleasant.
My heart skipped a beat.
“A hungry one,” he chuckled, brushing his hair away from his brow with his wrist, and starting to knead again. “That loaf in the oven will be ready in about ten minutes, and this one will need to rise…” He flipped it over and it came crack down on the table again. “What did you find?”
I couldn’t move or speak for a moment—until I shook myself, limped up to a neighboring table, and slapped the book down onto it.
“This book is wrong,” I stated.
He smirked as he kneaded. I caught sight of that scar on his lip again…
“Wrong about what?” he asked.
I looked steadily at him.
“Merlin.”
He instantly frowned—and paused. He turned partially toward me.
“Merlin,” he repeated. “The Wizard of Kings—the heart of Albain, the guardian of Calesvol?” He grabbed the dough and lifted it to toss it over again. “What is it wrong about?”
“He isn’t dead.”
Krystian stopped.
The dough hit the table with a thud.
He faced me, his frown deepening, and put a flour-covered hand on his hip. He raised his eyebrows.
“Not dead,” he said. “And how do you know that?”
“I have seen him,” I answered—a cold chill traveling through me.
“You’ve seen him?” He canted his head. “Where? When?”
“Only days ago,” I said. “In the woods outside this castle.”
Krystian’s eyes narrowed sharply.
“How do you know it was Merlin?”
“He told me his name,” I replied.
“Anyone could lie to you,” he countered. I shook my head.
“No,” I stated.
His frown changed.
“What do you mean?”
I bit the inside of my cheek. But he only waited.
“He…” I started, trying to form the right words. I took a deep, unsteady breath. “He was not an ordinary man. He was…terrifying. With old eyes, but a young face. And his merely standing there made it so I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—my entire body felt like it was being stretched on a rack, or crushed underneath a mountain of stone...”
“What did he say?” Krystian pressed, tilting toward me.
I hesitated, my hand closing to a fist as it rested on the table.
“He asked me who I was, and he told me who he was,” I answered quietly. “He told me that he’d been sleeping, but now the sword has been pulled from the stone, and he is going to deal with Mordred. And that I…” My throat suddenly closed, and I had to force it open. “I had less than a fortnight to live.”
Krystian’s eyebrows drew together for a moment. He said nothing. My shaking hand reached out to uneasily rub the binding of the book.
“And you’re sure it was Merlin,” Krystian finally said. “Not a spirit or some kind of spell?”
“I know he isn’t dead,” I answered softly. “Mordred told me himself.”
“Mordred,” Krystian suddenly hissed, his nose snarling. “You’ve seen Mordred?”
“Only once,” I said. “At my master’s house, on the eve of my coming here. It was he who asked me to perform this curse.”
“But he didn’t tell you how?” Krystian shot back.
“He doesn’t know how,” I retorted.
“Oh—That’s complete rubbish,” Krystian barked. “Mordred?” Krystian took half a step toward me, his sightless eyes burning. “You do know that he destroyed the Seal of the Western Wood, don’t you? By himself?”
“What?” I cried, my mind reeling. “What…What Seal of the Western Wood?”
“Mm,” Krystian grunted, grabbing up the dough again and throwing it down. “During the first war between the Curse-Breakers and the Curse-Makers. Almost a thousand years ago.”
“That isn’t possible,” I insisted.
“It isn’t possible for an ordinary Curse-Maker, maybe,” Krystian spat. “But it’s certainly possible for a draid. Especially one as powerful as Mordred.”
“Why would he lie?” I demanded.
“I don’t know,” Krystian said flippantly. “Why would he lie about killing Merlin?”
I stared at him again, my feet frozen to the floor. Krystian, scowling, began working the loaf into a ball.
“This is what happens when you don’t know who it is you’re in bed with,” he muttered.
My face got so hot I could hardly see.
“I have never been to bed with anyone,” I snapped furiously. “Let alone an arrogant liar who calls himself a king.”
Krystian quit what he was doing. He faced me, his scowl softening.
“It’s only a figure of speech,” he said—with unexpected quietness. “It’s…just another way of indicating an alliance.”
I cleared my throat.
“Oh,” I muttered—blushing so fiercely I could feel my pulse in my cheeks.
Krystian almost smiled again.
I wrenched my head away, wanting to cover my eyes.
He finished kneading the dough, and set it aside. Then, as I reluctantly watched him again, he shuffled to the fireplace and picked up the long-handled peel from where it leaned against the stones, shoved it into the oven, and lifted out the bread. He carried it over to the table where I stood, and tipped the loaf off onto it. I whisked the book out of the way—the golden, steaming loaf landed right where it had been.
My mouth watered again.
“Well,” Krystian huffed. “Would you like some bread?”
I blinked.
“Erm…”
“There’s butter in the larder,” he gestured loosely to the door. “In a little white crock on the third shelf to the left.”
Unable to think of anything to say in response, I set the book on a side counter, and, wincing, crossed to the door of the larder. I opened it, cast around for a moment…
Then found the thick crock of butter right where he had said. I hefted it in one hand, grunting, and came back with it…
Krystian, his brow tight, stood by the counter near the oven, feeling around for something…
A white towel lay just out of his reach.
I set the crock of butter on the table with the bread, and, eying him, stepped around him…
And, without thinking about it, I pushed the towel closer to him.
His fingers landed on it. He snatched it up, and began wiping his hands off.
“Find it?” he asked.
“What?” I said, jumping.
“The butter,” he said.
“Oh—yes, it’s on the table,” I muttered.
“Good. We’ll wait for a bit for the bread to cool and we can—” He stepped toward it, caught his foot on the leg of the chair, and fell down.
I gasped.
He landed hard on one knee and both hands.
“Ow. Gog’s teeth,” he cursed. “That’s the third time I’ve done that…”
And he reached upward with his hand, groping through the air for the edge of the table…
And, for some reason…
I let my own hand wander into the space just above his head.
And his fingers hit my wrist.
The next second, his hand caught fully around
mine—
His head came up.
He drew in his breath. His blind eyes searched in front of him…
My heart made a strange, twisting shudder.
His grip tightened.
I braced myself. He pulled on me…
And climbed to his feet.
“Thank you,” he pa
nted, running his free hand through his hair—but he kept hold of me. Loosened his grip, and absently wound his fingers through mine.
“I swear, I’ll break my knee before this is over,” he laughed sheepishly, reaching out and feeling for the back of the chair.
“You have flour all over your face.”
The words just fell out of my mouth.
He laughed again, and released me, so he could dust at his cheeks and nose.
“I know, I know, I’m covered in it,” he chuckled. “I’ve ruined so many clothes this way…Mother would take a switch to me, even right now…” The smile faded away from his face, replaced by a painful swallow. He cleared his throat. “Is there…Is there a knife somewhere over there?” He pointed to the flour-covered table. I glanced over.
“Yes.”
“Can you get it, please? The bread’s too hot to tear with our bare hands.”
I cut the bread. He let me cut the bread. And the steam soared from the slices I made. We each put large dollops of yellow butter on our pieces, which instantly melted. We sat in chairs opposite each other, our elbows on the table, letting the butter drip onto the wood as we ate.
I couldn’t remember better-tasting bread or creamier butter. But everything tastes delicious when a person is starving—I knew that too well. And I was starving. Which is why the two of us finished half the loaf before I knew what was happening.
And all the while, Prince Krystian talked. I don’t know why, or why he thought I would care. Perhaps it was just to fill the silence. And he talked about nothing. Nonsense. About the cook named Puella and the kitchen maids named Primula, Marini, and Risu, and the kitchen servants named Felix, Petram and Spero. The tarts he would steal from Puella, and the kisses he would steal from Marini. His first baking lesson, when he didn’t knead the dough correctly, and then he caught the whole loaf on fire and singed his hair down to the roots. The trips the household and servants made down to the orchard in the autumn to pick the apples, and to make ciders and pies and tarts and preserves and butters. And Christmastime, when they had to hire ten more cooks from the village to help with the grand feast.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t make a sound. I just ate, and listened as he painted the most fantastic and unfamiliar pictures in my mind. They seemed like images from a fairy story—filled with magical impossibilities.
But I had seen this castle. I’d walked through its orchards. And I could taste this delicious bread and butter.
Perhaps it wasn’t so impossible.
Chapter Seventeen
Three more days passed.
I slept in the guardroom, on the warm hearthstones. I learned to ignore the stone presences of the guards that shared the space with me. All three mornings, I arose and did a quick cleaning spell on my clothes and myself, though I didn’t fuss much. I never did, anyway. My ankles and knees and hips and lower back and shoulders and neck ached, as Baba Yaga had often complained of herself. I noticed black spots appearing on the skin of my hands, but I had no slype to rub on them now, to make them disappear. That deep pain lingered at the back of my gut, near my spine. Like an ever-present houseguest who would not leave or even be quiet, no matter how many times he was told. The gash in my head was healing—though not as quickly as I would have liked.
And so, I found myself using the prince as a distraction.
Each morning, I arose and went to the kitchen, and found him there. As soon as he heard my footsteps, he would say good morning, as if out of reflex, and I would stammer some sort of answer. I wasn’t used to morning pleasantries of any kind. Frankly, I wasn’t used to even being awake during the day, but the cloudy dimness that surrounded the castle had confused my sleep patterns—and my constant weariness made it so I could fall asleep anytime I lay down. Besides, it made more sense, if I wished to be distracted, if I was awake when the Distraction was also awake.
Once I’d muttered something back to him, the prince would start talking. Again, about nothing. For example: what a toil it was to cook for only two people, and he wondered how on earth the chefs could keep up with an entire palace full. As he brandished a bread knife and cut large slices of the bread he’d baked, or threw sizzling bacon on a skillet, or cracked eggs in a pan on the range, he would fill the silence with hunting stories, or tales of exploration along the great river with his brother and sister. His hands usually found plates and butter knives and such things with only a few moments of searching, but once in a while, when he groped too long, I would slide the butter or knife closer—to alleviate my irritation at watching him fumble around.
I gave no indication that I wanted to hear more of what he said, no sound of interest whatsoever, yet still he talked. It was so baldly unusual for me, and I found myself both annoyed and fascinated by it. All throughout my growing up, Baba Yaga had never just prattled away whilst working in the kitchen, or sewing, or whilst we walked together. Our conversations followed the lines of instruction, or the exchange of information. Otherwise, we said nothing. We didn’t speak just for the pleasure of hearing our own voices, or hearing each other’s. It was senseless.
Yet the prince’s voice was pleasant to listen to. I found myself realizing that with something of an odd jolt. His tones were musical and varied, his occasional bursts of laughter surprising, the expressions on his face intriguing. He would smile to himself, or roll his sightless eyes, or shake his head, or furrow his brow, or screw one eye shut in a wince.
And before I knew it, breakfast would be ready.
I hadn’t ever eaten food like this. The prince used different spices and seasonings, and he stirred up the eggs in the pan until they turned into yellow, fluffy piles, which he dashed across with salt and pepper. He also treated the bacon strangely, by pouring honey over it. He doused the bread in honey, too. He also made tea for breakfast. And, somehow, I found myself sitting down across from him and eating when he did.
The commentary didn’t stop as we ate. But I found myself more mesmerized by his manner than his conversation. I sat there with my elbows on the table, eating with my fingers. The prince, on the other hand, put a napkin in his lap, and ate with fork, knife and spoon with the delicacy and precision of a master craftsman, his back straight and his bearing poised. He never spilled or dripped, and he never spoke with his mouth full. But he did all this effortlessly, with a sort of refined casualness that baffled me. I found myself self-consciously pulling my elbows down off the table, sitting up a little straighter, and trying not to chew with my mouth open. And, to my everlasting frustration, I attempted to make my utensils move more like his did, without much luck. Certainly, I’d used them before—but just to shovel food into my mouth, without any thought as to keeping things neat or measured.
I knew he couldn’t see me. But for some reason, just watching him—and then realizing what I would look like in contrast—made me feel like some sort of beast.
After breakfast, I would watch him clean up and put everything away, and then I’d follow him out of the kitchen, trailing behind him as he made rounds of the castle. Offhandedly, he mentioned that he made a habit of this in winter months, for exercise.
We would walk into the great dining hall, where his relations sat at table, still captured in stone. He would greet them all, and touch their shoulders, and give smiles filled with sadness. After lingering there a while, he would venture into the Music Room, where a white and gold pianoforte sat centerpiece, and many other polished instruments waited for a master’s hand. The Great Window here portrayed a lavish, colorful, ancient scene of well-dressed musicians lounging on a hillside, serenading each other. After this, we would backtrack through what he called the Hearth Room: the long hall lined with portraits, and interrupted by several small fireplaces. We then entered the warm Waterfall Parlour, the place where I’d seen him drink from the Source water several days before. We would then enter the Men’s Bath, which had a beautiful scarlet skylight, and a broad, square pool filled with steaming water. Through the broad door at the end was th
e Sun Room, with a Great Window facing East. The stained glass here depicted a rising sun over mountainous hills. From there, we would pass through the familiar guardroom, into the Great Hall, on to the cloister library, through the Hall of Fountains, then a right turn into the Great Library. Hence, we would cross through the vast, empty ballroom, then the indoor gardens, and back into the kitchens, completing a full round. The entire journey took all morning.
Throughout, the prince talked about each room, when it was built, which monarch favored it the most, which one improved it, which one redecorated. As he spoke, I began to realize that Astrum had not begun as a sprawling fortress, but as a central Keep and surrounding rooms that were now the gardens, kitchens, dining hall, Hearth Room, guardroom and Waterfall Parlour. Each outward layer afterward had been added as the centuries went on, until the north wing of the castle itself penetrated the wall of the mountain.
For two days, I couldn’t fathom why Prince Krystian kept talking. I followed him, yes, but I never made so much as a grunt. And I wasn’t particularly interested in stories of kings and queens long dead, who hadn’t found anything better to do with their money except gild the entire ceiling. But I did find myself listening when the prince would spin tales about himself and his brother and sister growing up: when they had slid down that bannister there and crashed right into a butler carrying an entire platter of pheasant; or when August had shot an arrow through that window from inside, or when Tulia had vanished so completely during a game of hide and seek that the entire palace staff and court couldn’t find her for two days. She still reigned as champion.
I did not show my interest, though. And even as I listened and made my aching muscles keep my body moving, my puzzlement at this prince’s talkativeness grew.
That is, until the third day, when I accidentally made a remark.
We were in the Great Library, and Prince Krystian was speaking about how one of his relatives had visited the Purpurny Les forest in the north, and brought back several decorations for this room.
“The little wooden faces are from Starov,” I said.
And suddenly, Krystian laughed.
I jumped, and jerked my attention down from the lofty heights to find Krystian’s features alight. He pointed upward.
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