Monarchs.”
He cocked his head. “And the scrolls?”
She took a tiny step forward. “Benson’s Maps of Astro-Mathematical Values.”
Dmitri frowned. “What, no novels?” he inquired. “No lyrics, no epics?”
The girl wrinkled her nose, seeming to momentarily forget her fear. “And why ever would I waste my time on such useless frivolity?” she scoffed.
“Useless frivolity?” Dmitri was incredulous. “Young lady, in what sort of nonsense have you been schooled? Why, fiction captures the heart of man, the very essence of the human experience through an entirely unique and uncopiable process!”
She smirked. “And what are you, some sort of bard?”
Dmitri paused. “I…well, I’d like to consider myself an aspiring novelist.”
“Oh?” She looked unconvinced. “Then what, pray tell, is a mere aspiring novelist doing locked up in the king’s most formidable fortress?”
“What are you doing here?” he countered.
She blinked. “I live here.” As if remembering herself, she motioned to turn again.
But Dmitri called after her, “Hang on! What is your name?”
“Pavola.” She surveyed him through hazel eyes. “And you?”
“Um.” He straightened his spectacles. “Mit,” he decided. “And who exactly are you, Pavola?”
But she pulled open the door and scampered out, and he could only shout after her retreating figure. “Please return, if you can! I am starving, I’m parched, I’m going to die!”
He sank to his knees, his voice cracking. She couldn’t hear him anymore. Again, he was left alone, the candle she’d lit still burning. Somehow, her fresh absence felt worse than if his solitude had continued unbroken.
IT RAINED ALL EVENING. PAVOLA Ward listened to the droplets tapping against her window, unable to shake the morning’s encounter from her mind. She set down her pages. It was no use. For the first time in her young life, she couldn’t concentrate on reading.
The man imprisoned above in the tower’s keep struck her as neither rough nor imposing. In fact, he seemed rather mild and refined. Why had such a gentle soul been subjugated to the worst sort of confinement, she wondered? What could he have possibly done to earn such condemnation?
Pavi had heard rumors of King Ira’s increasing lunacy, and secretly agreed. Perhaps the ruler had taken to incarcerating innocent citizens for no reason whatever? Given what he’d committed against his subjects of late, she wouldn’t put it past him.
At any rate, the more she thought on Mit and his kindly disposition, the less threatened she felt. And his resounding claims of lethal hunger and thirst as she departed the tower that morning ate at her. How could she knowingly leave a man to starve, even if he was a prisoner?
To feed him would be treason, Pavola warned herself. And for the first time in years, the king was actually lodging at Wintersea. She knew not for how long, but betraying him right under his nose would be most unwise. Nay, the logical course of action would be to keep her hands clean, and try to forget the incident altogether.
…But a man was starving!
No one cared what she did anyway, she reasoned. That had always been the rule at Wintersea: to pretend she didn’t exist. And the king’s mind was so addled, it was likely he’d forgotten all about her. If Pavi returned to the high tower, where she’d intended to study, and brought Mit some of her dinner, who would pay her any mind?
And so, as the sun fell, she made her ascent. She hauled her books in a tote this time, with food from the kitchens wrapped in brown paper. The stairs were endless, but she was grateful for the exercise. She was not permitted outside of Wintersea’s walls to run or exert herself otherwise.
At last, she made it to the top of the tower, barely able to distinguish the man through the shadows. “Mit?” she asked, uncertain.
Rustling. A figure rose in the far corner, and the voice that echoed in her direction was soft and
He cocked his head. “And the scrolls?”
She took a tiny step forward. “Benson’s Maps of Astro-Mathematical Values.”
Dmitri frowned. “What, no novels?” he inquired. “No lyrics, no epics?”
The girl wrinkled her nose, seeming to momentarily forget her fear. “And why ever would I waste my time on such useless frivolity?” she scoffed.
“Useless frivolity?” Dmitri was incredulous. “Young lady, in what sort of nonsense have you been schooled? Why, fiction captures the heart of man, the very essence of the human experience through an entirely unique and uncopiable process!”
She smirked. “And what are you, some sort of bard?”
Dmitri paused. “I…well, I’d like to consider myself an aspiring novelist.”
“Oh?” She looked unconvinced. “Then what, pray tell, is a mere aspiring novelist doing locked up in the king’s most formidable fortress?”
“What are you doing here?” he countered.
She blinked. “I live here.” As if remembering herself, she motioned to turn again.
But Dmitri called after her, “Hang on! What is your name?”
“Pavola.” She surveyed him through hazel eyes. “And you?”
“Um.” He straightened his spectacles. “Mit,” he decided. “And who exactly are you, Pavola?”
But she pulled open the door and scampered out, and he could only shout after her retreating figure. “Please return, if you can! I am starving, I’m parched, I’m going to die!”
He sank to his knees, his voice cracking. She couldn’t hear him anymore. Again, he was left alone, the candle she’d lit still burning. Somehow, her fresh absence felt worse than if his solitude had continued unbroken.
IT RAINED ALL EVENING. PAVOLA Ward listened to the droplets tapping against her window, unable to shake the morning’s encounter from her mind. She set down her pages. It was no use. For the first time in her young life, she couldn’t concentrate on reading.
The man imprisoned above in the tower’s keep struck her as neither rough nor imposing. In fact, he seemed rather mild and refined. Why had such a gentle soul been subjugated to the worst sort of confinement, she wondered? What could he have possibly done to earn such condemnation?
Pavi had heard rumors of King Ira’s increasing lunacy, and secretly agreed. Perhaps the ruler had taken to incarcerating innocent citizens for no reason whatever? Given what he’d committed against his subjects of late, she wouldn’t put it past him.
At any rate, the more she thought on Mit and his kindly disposition, the less threatened she felt. And his resounding claims of lethal hunger and thirst as she departed the tower that morning ate at her. How could she knowingly leave a man to starve, even if he was a prisoner?
To feed him would be treason, Pavola warned herself. And for the first time in years, the king was actually lodging at Wintersea. She knew not for how long, but betraying him right under his nose would be most unwise. Nay, the logical course of action would be to keep her hands clean, and try to forget the incident altogether.
…But a man was starving!
No one cared what she did anyway, she reasoned. That had always been the rule at Wintersea: to pretend she didn’t exist. And the king’s mind was so addled, it was likely he’d forgotten all about her. If Pavi returned to the high tower, where she’d intended to study, and brought Mit some of her dinner, who would pay her any mind?
And so, as the sun fell, she made her ascent. She hauled her books in a tote this time, with food from the kitchens wrapped in brown paper. The stairs were endless, but she was grateful for the exercise. She was not permitted outside of Wintersea’s walls to run or exert herself otherwise.
At last, she made it to the top of the tower, barely able to distinguish the man through the shadows. “Mit?” she asked, uncertain.
Rustling. A figure rose in the far corner, and the voice that echoed in her direction was soft and
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