“You?”
“I know I don’t look it, but I’m actually rather handy, if I do say so myself; I can do a good variety of maintenance and upkeep. None of them exceptionally well, I’m forced to admit. But well enough. I cannot cook you a feast, but I can make sure the food is palatable so that you don’t go hungry. I cannot build you a house, or explain the finer points of architecture, but I can tell you when a roof is going to collapse and where you need to shore it up to make it last another winter until there’s enough money to hire a proper tradesman.” I pass my glass from hand to hand, thinking of all the things I learned from necessity. Part of me is afflicted with the sudden urge to explain Joyce’s cruelty as some kind of misguided lesson. I shake my head and take another sip of the mead. Her intention doesn’t matter when her execution was so wretched. I’m trying to give her benefits she does not deserve.
“So you are saying you would rather be my servant than my wife?”
“No,” I say, so fast and sharp that I hear him shift uncomfortably in his chair. I don’t even apologize for my tone. “I will never be someone’s servant ever again.”
I hear him inhale softly. “Apologies for my wording. I would never make you one.”
Another truth. I release a sigh of relief. “But I would like a purpose, of some kind. I would like to feel useful, at least. I like it when my hands are busy.”
“I’ll speak with Oren and see if there are any tasks that he thinks you would be well suited for.”
“Thank you.” I stare up at the ceiling, wishing there was a mirror, wishing I could get a clearer glimpse of him. “What do you do to occupy the hours of your day?”
He chuckles again and I hear him take a sip. “Me? I’m trying to become king.”
I laugh along with him. But the odd thing is, there isn’t even a hint of smoke in the air. He’s telling the truth.
But there hasn’t been a king of these lands in years. What does he hope to become king of? I never find the courage to ask throughout the rest of our pleasant conversation.
The next morning Oren is waiting after breakfast. I nearly drop my plates onto the kitchen floor in surprise at the sight of him.
“You nearly made my heart stop.” I breathe a heavy sigh, trying to calm my suddenly racing nerves.
Oren continues shoveling the ash from the hearth, tiny embers still smoldering in the back, ready to help reignite the fire. “I have more business being here than you do.”
“Yet you never are.”
“How do you think your food is made?” He glances at me as I cross the room to the sink. I expect him to tell me not to clean the dishes, but he doesn’t. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been doing it for a week now and he knows there’s no point stopping me. Or perhaps it’s because of something Lord Fenwood said last night to him.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I assumed there might be a cook.” I shrug and turn on the water, focusing on the dishes over him. I’m dying to know if there are more people in this house or not. But I don’t want to pry too obviously. I already know that won’t go over well.
“There is not.”
“Then you are exceptional with seasonings.” I flash him a smile.
Oren chuckles as he finishes dumping the ash into a metal bucket. “You’re trying to get on my good side.”
“I’m telling the truth.” I cross the room to free up the sink so he can wash his hands—he’s covered in soot up to his elbows. “Besides, I didn’t think I was on your bad side. Do I need to get on your good side?”
“I suppose having you here hasn’t been as bad as expected.”
“A resounding endorsement,” I say dryly.
He ignores the remark, turns off the water, and takes a little too long to dry his hands. I wonder what he’s thinking. “The master has certainly become intrigued by you.”
A tingling feeling rushes over my body, like the warm flush of a slightly too hot bath. Why does the idea of Lord Fenwood being intrigued by me excite me? I try and push away the sensation before it can reach my cheeks.
“What makes you think he’s ‘intrigued by’ me?” Curiosity gets the better of me. I can’t stop myself from asking. I have to know.
“He’s been asking more and more after you, and I haven’t seen him spend so much time with a new person in years.”
He’s hardly spent any time with me at all. If this is his definition of spending a lot of time with someone then it’s a miracle he hasn’t gone mad as a recluse out here. “Well, you can pass along that I enjoy spending time with him too. I feel much less lonely whenever he shares a nightcap with me.”
“I will let him know.” Oren heads for the side door to the kitchen, bucket of ashes in hand. “Now, come along. Despite my protests, the lord has informed me that you have work to do today.”
“Really?” I can’t hide my excitement as I scamper after him. However, I stop in my tracks on the threshold of the back door. “I thought I wasn’t allowed in the back of the house?”
“This area is fine.” Oren points to the old stone wall that lines the perimeter of the property where it stretches beyond the right wing of the house and back into the wood. In the dim light of the forest I can make out the point where it crumbles to nothing. “You cannot cross where that wall ends under any circumstances. Our protection extends only within its confines. Which means the garden is safe.”
The garden is boxed in between the wall at our right, the right wing of the manor behind us, and the conservatory dining room on the left-hand side. I’m surprised I didn’t notice this was here before, but maybe that was because calling it a “garden” is a bit of a generous way to describe this area. Overgrown beds spill onto cracked pathways covered in a thick blanket of pine needles. There’s a wooden shed in the corner where the wall meets the house that’s held together with nothing more than a miracle. Oren heads over to what I assume is the compost bin beside it and dumps the ash.
“You…grow things out here?” I ask.
“There’s potatoes in this bed,” he says, now walking along the pathway and pointing as he goes. Sure enough, I recognize the pointed flat leaves of a potato plant. “Carrots are over here, mixed in with the parsley. Rosemary is in the back. The basil bush took over the tomatoes last winter, and then…died.” He looks a little guilty about that. “So, how are you with gardening?”
“I’m okay, I suppose.” It’s a bit of a stretch. Joyce rapped my knuckles with a switch more than once over poor yields. Not the worst scars she gave me. You would think her harsh punishment would’ve made me exceptional. It made me merely passable because it filled me with nothing but resentment for the task. “But I can certainly clean up this place, shore up the shed, redefine the beds. And if you give me instruction on the plants, I won’t mess them up.”
He looks skeptical. I’m excited for this project and I don’t want it to be taken away from me because I have mediocre skills when it comes to gardening. So I add, “I promise I won’t let you down, Oren.”
“Why don’t you start with cleaning up today?” he suggests. “Then we’ll see about you tending the plants.”