“That will be one of yer chores on the morrow. Today, I will prepare our meals.”
“Have ye no servants?” she asked, thinking it strange that such a powerful wizard had no one to look after him.
“No.”
A sliver of fear ran down her spine. She had not realized she would be alone in the keep with him. “I can prepare a meal,” she said. “I enjoy cooking.” It was something she did well, something that she had struggled hard to learn. Something that gave her a sense of accomplishment and self-worth.
“Come along then,” he said.He walked slowly toward the kitchen, and she followed the sound of his footsteps, her feet learning the shape and feel of the cold stones.
In the kitchen, he took her hand, wondering if his touch would enable her to see, but she continued to stare ahead, looking at nothing. Odd, that in his wolf form, his touch granted her sight. What was it, he mused, that made the difference?
Holding her by the hand, he guided her to the pantry, and to the hearth, showed her where the cook pots were, the shelves that held the pewter plates and cups and bowls, the drawer that held the utensils and the linens. He guided her hand to the pump.
“Where do ye keep the wood and the flint, my lord?” she asked.
He blinked at her. He was master of fire and flame; he had no need of flint.
“Ye will have no need of them,” he replied. “The fire burns day and night.”
She gazed in his direction, unseeing, unblinking.
“Is there anything ye need?” he asked.”
She shook her head. She had been blessed with a quick mind, a good memory. It would take her but a little while to learn herway around the kitchen; until she did, she would rather stumble around on her own than ask for his help.
“Call me when the meal is ready.”
“Aye, my lord.”
With a grunt, he left the kitchen, then, on silent feet, he returned to stand in the doorway, watching her. She moved slowly about the kitchen, one hand out in front of her. He was tempted to go to her aid as she ran her hands over the pans, looking for a particular size, but he stayed where he was, curious to see if she would call for help.
She had the patience of a saint, he mused, as he watched her. By smell and by touch, she found the ingredients she desired. His amazement grew as he watched her prepare a pot of porridge, boil half a dozen eggs, and brew a pot of tea.
He backed away from the door as she walked toward him.
“My Lord Darkfest,” she called. “‘Tis ready.”
He waited a moment, then moved toward the kitchen, making certain she could hear his footsteps.
He approached the table and sat down. He waited for her to join him, and when she did not, he cleared his throat and said, “Come, eat with me.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I would rather ye did.”
She hesitated a moment, then made her way to the table and sat down in the chair across from him. “Shall I serve ye, my lord?”
“I can do it,” he said gruffly.
He watched her while he ate, studying her face, the rich golden color of her hair, the delicate shape of her brows. She ate very little. Her hands trembled slightly. Did she fear him so much then? Hah! He knew the stories they told of him down in the village, that he drank blood and devoured children, that hesacrificed virgins to the Dark One. That he was the misbegotten son of the Devil.
He would have renounced it all as nonsense save for the fact that he did not know who his father was. Perhaps he was the son of the Dark One. Perhaps that was why he had lived so long, why he did not grow old; perhaps it explained his supernatural powers.
He stood up when the meal was over. “Would ye like me to show ye the rest of the castle now?”
She stood up. “Aye, I would.”
Taking her by the hand, he led her through each of the rooms on the castle’s main floor.
