chopping up a potato and tossing it into a skillet with grease and bacon.
“I’m guessing it’s her, yes,” said Maria. “Got Himself’s ring on. Ask her yourself, she’s right here.”
“Is she pretty, Maria?”
Rhea blinked.
Maria sighed and said “She’s young, Sylvie. Young, and not bad-looking, but she’s no great beauty. Not like you were, dear.” Over the frail woman’s head, she mouthed, Sorry.
Rhea wondered if she should be annoyed, and decided that the potatoes were much more important.
“Oh,” said Sylvie. “Oh, that’s fine then. Not that it matters.” She folded her hands together, and Rhea was suddenly quite sure that it mattered very much .
“Egg with your potatoes, dear?”
“Oh yes, please,” said Rhea.
“Not that it matters,” said Sylvie again, more loudly. And then, hesitantly, “You—you have a nice voice, dear.”
“Err. Thank you,” said Rhea. She looked worriedly at Maria, who glanced over at Sylvie and rolled her eyes heavenward.
“She has a nice voice,” Sylvie told Maria.
“It’s not nice to talk about her as if she’s not here,” said Maria. “What’s your name, child?”
“Um. Rhea.”
“Good name, that,” said the fat woman approvingly. “Queen of the old gods. A strong name.”
“It’s important to be strong,” said Sylvie. “It’s better to be strong than—that is—” She stopped. Had she not been wearing the blindfold-like bandage, Rhea thought she would have been staring at her hands. “It’s bad to be vain,” she said finally.
She’s mad , thought Rhea. Or if not quite mad, she’s at least a little touched in the head. Worse than the conjure wife, anyway.
Maria must be the cook, and I guess that means the woman with the throat wound is the butler? Maybe? And Sylvie…maybe she’s a former servant? Or a relative of Maria’s?
“You’ll have to forgive Sylvie,” said Maria, thumping a plate of potatoes, eggs, and bits of ham down on the table in front of Rhea. “Which is not to say that she ought to be forgiven, but you’re probably going to be here awhile, and it’s just easier if we all make our peace with each other.”
Rhea would have forgiven anyone anything at that point if they came bearing potatoes, but a prickly wiggling in her pocket reminded her of her manners. “Um,” she said again, reaching into her skirt. “I have a hedgehog.”
“So you do,” said Maria, eyeing it dubiously. “I suppose it’s hungry, too?”
The hedgehog managed to indicate that it could eat, yes.
Maria opened a cupboard and began rummaging through it. “I’m out of slugs,” she said over her shoulder. “There are plenty out in the garden, and your services would be much appreciated there, Master—or Mistress—Hedgehog, but for now…”
She dumped a handful of raisins out on the table next to the hedgehog. It picked one up in its paws, nodded graciously to Maria, and tucked in.
“Useful creatures, hedgehogs,” said Maria. “Is it your familiar, then?”
“I don’t think so,” said Rhea, who had been applying herself to the potatoes. “We only just met. And I’m not magicky.”
She glanced at the hedgehog. The hedgehog shook its head.
“Well, you never know,” said Maria, wiping her hands on her apron and settling down into her chair. “I had a familiar once. Old she-bear, size of a cow by the time—well, never mind. She’s still out there. Bears are nigh-impossible to kill once they get that size. Death’s too scared to come looking for them.”
Sylvie stirred restlessly, as if about to say something, and Maria patted her hand firmly. The blind woman—surely she was blind?—settled back into her chair.
She had a familiar? Lord Crevan’s cook had a familiar?
“So you’re Rhea. Well, I’m Maria,” said the cook. “And this is Sylvie, as you heard, and the grim old bat who brought you in is Ingeth.”
“Are—are you Lord Crevan’s servants?” asked
“I’m guessing it’s her, yes,” said Maria. “Got Himself’s ring on. Ask her yourself, she’s right here.”
“Is she pretty, Maria?”
Rhea blinked.
Maria sighed and said “She’s young, Sylvie. Young, and not bad-looking, but she’s no great beauty. Not like you were, dear.” Over the frail woman’s head, she mouthed, Sorry.
Rhea wondered if she should be annoyed, and decided that the potatoes were much more important.
“Oh,” said Sylvie. “Oh, that’s fine then. Not that it matters.” She folded her hands together, and Rhea was suddenly quite sure that it mattered very much .
“Egg with your potatoes, dear?”
“Oh yes, please,” said Rhea.
“Not that it matters,” said Sylvie again, more loudly. And then, hesitantly, “You—you have a nice voice, dear.”
“Err. Thank you,” said Rhea. She looked worriedly at Maria, who glanced over at Sylvie and rolled her eyes heavenward.
“She has a nice voice,” Sylvie told Maria.
“It’s not nice to talk about her as if she’s not here,” said Maria. “What’s your name, child?”
“Um. Rhea.”
“Good name, that,” said the fat woman approvingly. “Queen of the old gods. A strong name.”
“It’s important to be strong,” said Sylvie. “It’s better to be strong than—that is—” She stopped. Had she not been wearing the blindfold-like bandage, Rhea thought she would have been staring at her hands. “It’s bad to be vain,” she said finally.
She’s mad , thought Rhea. Or if not quite mad, she’s at least a little touched in the head. Worse than the conjure wife, anyway.
Maria must be the cook, and I guess that means the woman with the throat wound is the butler? Maybe? And Sylvie…maybe she’s a former servant? Or a relative of Maria’s?
“You’ll have to forgive Sylvie,” said Maria, thumping a plate of potatoes, eggs, and bits of ham down on the table in front of Rhea. “Which is not to say that she ought to be forgiven, but you’re probably going to be here awhile, and it’s just easier if we all make our peace with each other.”
Rhea would have forgiven anyone anything at that point if they came bearing potatoes, but a prickly wiggling in her pocket reminded her of her manners. “Um,” she said again, reaching into her skirt. “I have a hedgehog.”
“So you do,” said Maria, eyeing it dubiously. “I suppose it’s hungry, too?”
The hedgehog managed to indicate that it could eat, yes.
Maria opened a cupboard and began rummaging through it. “I’m out of slugs,” she said over her shoulder. “There are plenty out in the garden, and your services would be much appreciated there, Master—or Mistress—Hedgehog, but for now…”
She dumped a handful of raisins out on the table next to the hedgehog. It picked one up in its paws, nodded graciously to Maria, and tucked in.
“Useful creatures, hedgehogs,” said Maria. “Is it your familiar, then?”
“I don’t think so,” said Rhea, who had been applying herself to the potatoes. “We only just met. And I’m not magicky.”
She glanced at the hedgehog. The hedgehog shook its head.
“Well, you never know,” said Maria, wiping her hands on her apron and settling down into her chair. “I had a familiar once. Old she-bear, size of a cow by the time—well, never mind. She’s still out there. Bears are nigh-impossible to kill once they get that size. Death’s too scared to come looking for them.”
Sylvie stirred restlessly, as if about to say something, and Maria patted her hand firmly. The blind woman—surely she was blind?—settled back into her chair.
She had a familiar? Lord Crevan’s cook had a familiar?
“So you’re Rhea. Well, I’m Maria,” said the cook. “And this is Sylvie, as you heard, and the grim old bat who brought you in is Ingeth.”
“Are—are you Lord Crevan’s servants?” asked
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