to attention, she gave another quick nod. How had she let her mind wander to his face? He must think her a fool.
“I sleep in the room upstairs. After a night vigil, I often sleep through the day. My workshop is on the top floor. You will not go up to the top floor of the tower unless I say you may. You will not enter the workshop for any reason without me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she answered. A new tremble lodged in her leg. She crossed the other over and squeezed to still the movement.
“Good. At the back of the house is a vegetable garden. You will prepare meals from what grows there. Meat will not be cooked in this house.”
She gawped.
“Yes, only vegetables, pulses, and herbs will go in the pot. I do not eat meat. Flesh smothers the mind and dulls the senses. If you wish to remain here, you, too, will neither cook nor eat it.”
She couldn’t care less what she ate if only he would feed her, but he offered naught. What other strange ways would he reveal? She clamped her mouth shut.
“The well is in the yard, and over the rise there is a stream where you may bathe.” He glanced at her gown. “See you do. There, you can also wash clothes.” This time, his slow gaze followed his words.
She glanced down at her soiled, mud-streaked skirt.
“In the yard is a bread oven,” he continued. “I’ve never fired it, but after you clean it, I am sure you can.”
Her irritation niggled, shaving scraps off her fear. Did he think she knew nothing?
“Do you wish to ask me anything?”
Oh, yes, so very many things. Instead, she shook her head, for she did not trust her tongue to be wise in the asking.
“Very well, we’ve had a good beginning. I will work until dusk. When I come down, I shall expect a meal.” He got up from his seat, put the cup on the table, and swept through the doorway to the stairs.
The wine, warm in her stomach, sparked her hunger as she looked at her new home. “Gods, help me, where do I start?”
Chapter 2
Once Nin no longer heard his tread on the stairs, she opened the heavy black drapes. A shaft of light hit the table to reveal a collection of pot marks. Smears of grease shone with rainbow colors. Beyond, sat the hearth, not cleaned in months, maybe years, judging by the pile of cinders, soot, and ash. Cobwebs hung high in the corners where the spiders didn’t feel the heat of his low fire. The flagstone floor resembled the one in the village barn. Uncertain she’d made a good bargain to stay here, she stood and moved to the cupboard to look for a cleaning rag to begin work.
Behind the loose door of the cupboard he’d opened, she found two more of the large wine jugs. She corked the one still on the table before putting it back with the others. The depth of the cupboard made it impossible to see what lay at the back. She closed the door, uncertain of what she might find should she slide her hand deeper into the darkness.
Beside the cupboard stood a door with a black metal latch that squeaked when she lifted it. The open door revealed a large space cut deep into the wall. Many curving shelves could house a wealth of stores, but only a huge, lush, black winter cloak hung from a hook. She bit back another bitter memory. They’d not allowed her to bring her own from the village. The ancient creed for those cursed with the mark held no mercy.
She examined her palm, could scarce see the mark in the gloom. To dwell on the sign was foolish. They’d found the mark, and since legend sat weighty behind its meaning, it must be true. She needed to live, and right now, she must stay here.
The hearth caught her attention again. She gave a snort of disgust. He was stingy with the firewood. How did he expect to keep the place warm, or her to cook? Even Aunt Jen, who had so little, burned a brighter fire than this.
Beside the hearth, a broom leaned against the wall, two buckets stood near, one stacked inside the other. A pan hook, slung away from the fire, held a small copper cauldron. Hopeful of something to eat, she studied the contents. In the bottom of the pot sat a thick, congealed, brownish mess. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant odor. Unfortunately, it wasn’t porridge. Her empty stomach growled.
A smaller cupboard, low in the wall, yielded a board and a knife for chopping. A bread crock made her mouth water. She tore off the lid. Inside the glazed pot lay half a loaf, the sort baked in the village. Unappetizing green mold covered bits of the thick crust, but still she broke off a piece and chewed it.
There wasn’t much for her to work with. A pity he had no cheese. She’d so welcome a chunk of cheese. Her mouth watered at the memory of the sharp tang. She pulled another piece off the loaf and swallowed the bread. She glanced again at the grubby hearth and greasy hooks. She’d have to clean before she could cook. This being the only pot, she’d tip out the mess before she looked to find things to go in it. Later, she’d clean the rest of the room.
The afternoon light blinded after the gloom of the kitchen. Eyes narrowed, she strolled through the long grass where a cricket sang, then stepped up the bank to go over the low rise.
Below ran the stream, edged with blue forget-me-knots and white cuckooflowers. She knelt on the mossy bank, scraped out the pot, wrinkling her nose at the earthy stink. What had he cooked? Dirt?
Whatever this was, she hoped he hadn’t eaten any.
She scooped up a handful of pebbles to scrub at the mess before she rinsed the pot. Standing with her toes in the cool water of the stream, she swung the pot back and forth to dry.
Once clean, the cauldron sat small in her hand. Would this little copper vessel hold enough for two?
On her way back from the stream, she rubbed her feet on soft turf to dry them as she strolled to the other side of the tower. Here, she discovered the vegetable garden, and shook her head at the poor little plot. A row of yellowed cabbages lined the low fence. What might be thin leeks grew at the back of the patch, and three lines of carrots, whose mossy tops straggled amid weeds, were all that was left of the winter vegetables.
Near where she stood, in a less weedy patch, sat tripod frames with beans and peas struggling up to the sun on the thin interwoven sticks. None showed ripe this early in the spring. The only thing to grow fat off this garden would be the slugs and snails.
She glanced over at the tower as she ambled back, confused. For a Mage, he wasn’t very well organized. The garden should thrive. What had he done? How had he been living? He didn’t even have a cow or a goat for milk.
At least the water she drew from the well tasted sweet and fresh. She drank her fill before taking the bucket into the kitchen. The table came clean after she scrubbed hard. Beneath, she found an old basket stripped down to the withies for tapers.
She hurried back out to the garden with the kitchen knife in her hand and cut one of the cabbages. Again, she shook her head at the poor crop, then pulled up a leek and two scrawny carrots. Not near enough for a hearty stew, more like a broth, but it would be warm and most welcome. Both her hands were full so she could gather no more. She needed a basket, but so far, the kitchen had revealed none but the one he’d stripped.
She would have to ask if he had a gathering bag or something like one.
