In Which I Am Considering What Sir Gareth Said to Me, and Am Having the Epiphany that My Own Self-Image Does Not Perfectly Mesh with How Others Perceive Me, and In Which I Am Realizing that That Is a Fucking Disaster.
The sorcerer treated me coldly in the days following our conversation. He left rooms soon after I entered, and all attempts to draw him into conversation led to either strained silence, or to a sneering dismissal.
“He did like me before. Didn’t he?” I ate alone in a hallway, not fussing over the breadcrumbs that dropped to the floor. Just creating future mess for myself to deal with.
A quadrupedal construct creaked past. Its head dipped slightly, flaming eye sockets evaluating the crumbs.
“I will tidy this!” I assured it, though from the dimming of its eyes I could tell the sorcerer had already gone. Leaving me alone to speak freely. “Honestly, I can’t believe it’s something you care much about, given how you’ve let this place deteriorate. The audacity of nitpicking about my cleaning while I’m chipping off layers of grime and vulture shit and tossing eggsacks out the window, but hey, if it makes you happy, then—huh!”
Like a lightning bolt: a revelation. What if, rather than whinging solely to pick at me, the sorcerer had a genuine desire for and appreciation of a sparkling clean abode? If so, that might be the key to regaining his favour.
I crammed the rest of the bread down my throat so fast I nearly choked on it. Then I lifted my dress with both hands, the better to run. My strength had diminished with this change in bodily sex, but I appreciated the physical strain as I hauled buckets of water from the kitchen, seeing it as evidence of my own self-sacrifice and benevolence. Foaming up the tiled stones with lard soap, I set to work polishing and re-polishing the hallway that led to his precious library.
Finally, my labour bore fruit. A tall black-clad figure stomped down the hall, arms weighted with quills and parchment. Loping behind him was a bird-beaked construct, its wing-arms straining under an improbably tall stack of books. Merulo kept his eyes fixed upward, the tensing of his mouth his only acknowledgement of me, and so stepped blindly into a patch of soap.
Parchments exploded into the air as the sorcerer fell backward, his legs sliding in opposite directions. The construct cracked into rapid motion, balancing its books on one wing, and snatching the papers that drifted through the air with the other.
“Why,” Merulo sputtered, attempting to find his footing, only to slip again. Suds drifted, iridescent bubbles settling on his greasy black hair like a fairy crown. “Why have you done this? Fuck!”
“Uh, well, you did something nice for me—”
“And for that, you’ve decided tokill me?” He scrabbledabout for his parchments, bracing on all fours on the soapy tiles. His quill pot had shattered upon impact, leaving a smear of black across the otherwise spotless floor.
Skirting the wet patches, I approached him and offered a hand. Merulo looked ready to ignore me, so I pushed it in front of his glowering face until he accepted, wrapping his bony fingers around mine. Pulling the sorcerer to his feet proved remarkably easy; he weighed barely anything. “It wasn’t deliberate,” I said. “I’d actually rather you remain alive.”
“Of course. How else would you benefit from my protection?”
I opened my mouth to reply, but found myself shamed into silence, both by the perfectly true accusation, and by the closing off of his face, so near to my own.
The sorcerer pulled away and smacked at the bubbles nesting on his robe, flicking them to the ground.
It struck me, then, how much it mattered that I remain in his good graces. Each time he withdrew his regard, it was like he took with it some vital organ that made it harder for me to breathe. So, like, a lung.
Should I say that to him?
“I am trying to be of some use to you,” I tried instead. “With the cleaning. And if I can do more, just tell me.”
“Yes, Cameron, here’s what you can do.” The sorcerer drew himself up tall, the last of the bubbles popping on the tip of his sharp nose. “Stay out of my way.”
“Oh, okay, sure.” I crouched to pick at the scraps of broken glass. “I’ll just finish up here, then dust all the arrow slits or something. Say, if you have any appetite for dinner later, maybe we could coordinate?”
Air hissed out from between his teeth, then he muttered a quick spell. The glass fragments jumped from my hand, alighting into the air like insects to coalesce in the sorcerer’s outstretched palm, the spilled ink following in a graceful black tendril. Without further words, he pushed the door open, the construct marching to join him.
“Does that one have a name?” I asked, pointing in desperation at the bird-thing before they could disappear into the library.
The sorcerer paused. “Wilbur,” he said.
“That’s cute. I like that. My brother let me name one of his chickens once. I called it Pecky. Because it—”
“It pecked, yes. Chickens are known to do that. And I suppose if you were to name my constructs, you’d choose ‘Walky,’ or ‘Lifty,’ or—if you were feeling particularly inspired—‘Woody.’”
“Woody is nice.”
“Woody is nice,” he repeated in faint disbelief. Then: “I am indisposed for dinner tonight. Another time. And . . . thank you for your cleaning, even if it is inexpert.”
“Anytime, don’t even mention it!”
I remained scrubbing long after the door clicked shut, lost in my own satisfaction.
