I study him, because he’s said this in much the same way he brushed aside my questions about the list of dates in the front of the book. He’s not lying, but he’s not giving me the whole truth either.
I study him, curious now. “I sense I’m going to have to pry secrets from you, Palace Master.”
He stares at me, implacable. I stare back.
He breaks in less than a minute, tossing down the pencil. “Very well.” He sighs. “I’ll deny you nothing, so I don’t know why I bother trying. I’ll have you know, it’s not a flattering story. When I was young, I was quite the burden on my family. Couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t finish my chores, couldn’t be trusted to do anything, really.” He hesitates, then offers a little shrug. “Downright useless.”
I frown. “No.”
“Oh, but I was. My mother would send me to fetch a sack of flour, and I’d spend an hour arranging stones in the creek. My father would tell me to feed the chickens, and he’d find me weaving straw under the rabbit hutch, telling stories to random travelers. I had a sister who was perfect, worked right alongside my mother in the kitchen and never forgot a thing, so I always felt like a complete fool—which really only made things worse. My father grew so sick of it that they sent me to live with my aunt and unclein Mosswell for a while, becausetheythought it was a matter of discipline—and so I endured a long, miserable year that made absolutely no difference. But the following summer, my father brought me home and said he’d hired me out to a miller down the lane who’d gone blind. He needed someone to read notices and bills and draft any new ones for customers. I’m sure my father expected I would do a poor job, but that the man wouldn’t have any way to know the difference. Honestly, I was just glad to be out of my family’s reach, so I went.”
None of this story has gone anywhere I thought it would, and I’m not sure what to say.
Part of me wants to find his parents so I can lock them in the Hold. The darkest part of me wants to do worse.
But now I’m remembering that moment we sat on the porch, when I asked Quint if he had a family, if there was anyone he was missing.
How he saidno.
“The man was older,” Quint is saying, “and so kind, and when I saw all the papers and notices that he had waiting for me, I told him that I was unsuitable. No matter how badly I wanted to be away from my family, I wasn’t going to swindle someone. His name was Pascal, and he asked if I could read and write, and I said I could. Despite everything else, I’d always had rather good penmanship. But then he asked if I was honest and trustworthy, and I said I was, which was why I’d be unsuitable. I explained about the stones in the creek or forgetting the sack of flour. I told him about my aunt and uncle who’d make me sleep out in the cold or tie a rope around my mouth whenever I’d talk too much.”
I draw a frustrated breath. “I hope you know I want to kill almost everyone in this story.”
“It was a very long time ago, Your Majesty.”
“How long?”
“Ten years? I was fourteen or fifteen or so. Pascal said as long as I was honest and could read and write, I would do, because the last person who’d tried to help him kept sneaking his coins, and he was worried he’d lose the mill. He said he didn’t care how much I talked, because he couldn’t see anymore, so listening to me gave him something to do. He gave me a ledger and a jar of pencils, and he told me to write down everything. No matter how big or small, everything. Every task, every duty, every single thought in my head if I wanted. He said I could read it back to him later and we would figure out what was most important. If people came to the mill, I was to write down the person’s name, anything they said—everything, Your Majesty. Sometimes I would write down what they wore.”
“This all sounds rather hellish.”
He smiles. “Do you think so? I found it a bit freeing. Pascal said that this way it didn’t matter if I forgot anything, because I could read it all back to him later. I wasn’t perfect, especially not at first, because I’d write down that I saw a butterfly, or that the sun was very hot that day. But as I said, he was very kind, and very patient—and I did write down the things that mattered, too. We got on well. When the afternoons were quiet, he’d ask me to read off my notes, and I began to realize that writing things down actually helped me remember a great deal—instead of allowing me to forget. I found myself telling him everything that happened without needing to resort to my notebooks at all. Then the mill grew busier, and he hired a girl to help him tend the shop and the house. I was a bit frightened then, remembering my sister’s perfection, thinking he was going to have me discharged. Instead, he told the girl to cometo me for her duties. He said, ‘Quint always knows every detail. You’ll do whatever he tells you needs doing.’ ”
He pauses, and I can hear the weight in his voice, the importance of that moment. How much it meant to him, to finally feel valued. Before I can acknowledge it, he blinks and looks up. “Within a few years he wanted to retire, because he’d grown too old to work. By then he’d hired half a dozen more people. He was selling the mill, and I was worried I might end up with a boorish new employer, but Pascal’s brother worked for the mill that supplied the Royal Sector. He’d heard that the Palace Master was aging and that King Lucas was urging him to take on some apprentices. Pascal encouraged me to apply, and his brother knew I’d done good work, so he provided a reference. I never thought I’d be considered, but here I am.” He taps the book. “Writing things down.”
“And here you are.” I narrow my eyes. “With your boorish new employer.”
Quint laughs, and it makes his eyes sparkle.
“Does Corrick know that story?” I say.
“He knows I worked in the mill before I came to the palace. But I’ve never shared the rest of it.” He grimaces and looks away. “Not with anyone, really. As I said, it’s not a flattering story.”
“I disagree,” I say. “Your determination and tenacity are rather inspiring.”
“Well now.” He blushes, though he seems pleased. “I shall add that to my treasure trove along with the knowledge that I am ‘very pleasing to look at.’ ”
I grimace, then run a hand down my face. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
He nods, then opens his book, lifting his pencil. “I should write this down.” He speaks slowly, drawing out each syllable as he writes. “Tenacious . . . determined . . . very pleasing to—”
I snatch the book right out from under his pencil. This time, when he comes after it, I don’t let him tussle. I let go of the book, take hold of his shirt, and kiss him. He yields immediately, his mouth softening under mine. No tension, no uncertainty. Just simpleease, simple comfort. There’s something so gratifying to that.
“Ah, Quint,” I whisper when I draw back.
He smiles when I say his name. “I knew you’d break first.”
I brush a thumb along his lip and don’t smile back. There’s so much I want to say, but I’ve spent too many years trapping every sentiment behind a thousand walls in my head.
