I can’t help but feel disappointed in my employer’s response. There is no mention of whether the estate has been sold. She hasn’t asked about my wellbeing either. But… she is pleased. I can still fix the mistake I made.
I scrawl a hasty reply.
The East Wind has taken me to an island somewhere northeast of St. Laurent. On it, there is a great, isolated manor, protected by many enchantments. The weapon is here with me, but it will take some time to get away without his knowledge. Will you hold off on selling the estate? Could you send someone for me?
Once I’ve sent the bird off with my message, the linens on my bed flap furiously in a bid for my attention. I peer upward. “What?”
The sheets snap out. It is a frustrated motion… I think.
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” I say to the manor. “What would you do, if someone abducted you from your home and forced you into service?”
The bedsheets settle and smooth themselves over the mattress. Even a sentient building, it seems, understands that perspective.
“All I’m doing is getting in touch with her ladyship. It’s important. She’s going to sell the estate where I grew up, where my grandmother grew up. It’s all I have left of my family.” Clutching my elbows, I peer out the window. The sea is calmer today, but no less vicious. And yet— “Nan would have loved this place,” I whisper to the manor, dashing away astray tear. “She loved the wildness of things, the raw power of the natural world. She used to sing me one of the lullabies from her homeland about the changing seasons.” Tentatively, I pick out the first few verses, the language clumsy on my tongue. “You would have liked her.”
One of the frilly curtains lifts to dab at my wet cheeks. I release a watery laugh. “Thank you.”
My eyes then drift toward the abandoned bowl of soup. If Eurus returns to discover that I have not finished the meal, he will no doubt take offense—or accuse me of deliberately prolonging my illness. Best to hide the evidence. Only under pain of death would I risk another mouthful of the vile concoction.
My limbs tremble with weakness, but I’ve strength enough to shuffle downstairs to the kitchen, his bowl of soup in hand. My mouth parts in shock.
It appears as though the entire pantry has exploded. Vegetable scraps litter the counter, which is painted with spills of various textures and hues. Flecks of red sauce have splattered the wall behind the woodfire stove, with cookware strewn about. One such pot spews a gas that smells faintly of cabbage. I gag, slapping a hand over my mouth. And Eurus takes offense atmyuntidiness? What a hypocrite.
I shove aside his mess to make space for myself at the counter. Although the manor provides me delicious meals at my request, now that I’m in the kitchen, I cannot resist the urge to cook, tocreate. It has been too long since I’ve even touched a cooking utensil. Not since Nan was alive.
After locating a cast iron skillet in one of the cupboards, I toss a hunk of butter inside, then scour the pantry for supplies. Two squashes and an onion? That will do. I slice them thinly, toss them into the pan where the butter now sizzles, emitting a nutty aroma. Next, I grab a hunk of beef and cut it into small chunks.
“What are you doing?”
My hand jerks. Only quick thinking saves me from amputating a finger. Throwing the beef into the skillet, I slap the knife onto the counter and turn to face the East Wind, whose large shape blackensthe kitchen doorway. “Can you please n-n-not startle me like th-that? I could have lost a finger.”
“You have ears,” he tosses back. “Use them.”
Mortalears. But this immortal is unlikely to see my perspective.
I have every intention of ignoring his presence, but his footsteps near. A great shadow blankets me as I carefully chop parsley. His wings shift with a soft whisper.
“If you’re going to scold m-me about making a mess,” I say, “I would suggest thinking twice.”
He is quiet—too quiet.
I shake my head. “Let me guess. Usually, the manor cleans up after y-you, but she has refused that, too. Am I right?”
“Why are you cooking for yourself?” he rumbles. “I made you soup this morning.”
My stomach growls louder as the scents of sauteed onions overpower Eurus’ toxic sludge. “I m-mean this as respectfully as possible,” I say, sprinkling a smidge of parsley into the pan, “but have youtastedyour soup?”
“Of course I’ve tasted the soup!” He sounds affronted. “It’s a perfectly acceptable soup. You’re being ungrateful.”
That stings. I’ve been extremely appreciative. I’ve said my thankyous, which he has ignored. “I appreciate the effort, but I n-need to eat something that doesn’t make me want to vomit.”
He hisses his displeasure.
“Take a bite then.” I offer him a spoon, gaze direct, borderline challenging. I could never have spoken to her ladyship in this manner. She would reward my insolence with a slap across the face, followed by a beating.
“I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
“Then I win by default.”
