I followed ITs tail back up to the lair, where IT set the book on the bench by the fireplace.
“Nothing read, nothing learned. We will not starve if we have a holiday. Read to me, Lodie.”
IT had said I could write to my family, but I didn’t want to remind IT. I lifted the book onto my lap. Lambs and calves, it was heavy, both thick and wide, covered in bumpy orange-brown leather that reminded me of ITs scales.
IT stretched out with ITs long head at my feet. ITs smoke rose in spirals. I wondered what spiraling smoke meant.
“Begin.”
I opened to the first page. “Masteress Meenore, this is a book about vegetable gardening.”
“Mmm. Proceed.”
I thumbed through. Each chapter described planting, tending, and harvesting a different vegetable. On the first page an enormous A in gold lettering was followed by corn squash in smaller black letters. In the corner of the page, with a border of gold dots, was a drawing in green and black ink of an acorn squash.
“Is the gold real?”
“Read.”
I began. ITs eyes never left my face. If my mouth hadn’t been moving, I would soon have been asleep. IT didn’t object when I practiced my Two Castles accent, but IT wouldn’t let me mansion a cabbage into tragedy or a carrot into comedy.
“Read as the farmer’s daughter you are.”
If I hadn’t been a mansioner as well as a farmer’s daughter, my throat would have given out. As it was, I finally had to interrupt myself. “Masteress, I need to drink.”
IT accompanied me out to the rainwater vats. I carried a tumbler, and IT held a bowl and the ladle. The changeable Lepai weather had brought more rain, but by now no clouds remained. The air smelled of sweet grass and fallen leaves.
IT lapped ITs water with ITs tongue, as a cat does. When we finished, IT led me back inside. I told myself how interesting endives would be.
But instead IT said we would eat our midday meal. Perhaps in honor of the book, IT roasted the orange squash to have with our skewers.
“Masteress?” I asked over spoonfuls of squash. “Will you plant a garden in the spring?”
“I have no land for a garden.” Then IT gave me leave to visit the scribe when I finished eating. “Thirty tins. Do not let any cats get my coins.”
I counted out the tins while IT watched me narrowly. When I had enough, I spilled them into my purse, tucked the purse under my apron, and touched the spot.
“Do not touch! You are signaling thieves.”
I pulled my hand away as though my apron were on fire. What a bumpkin I’d been.
“While you are out, observe and listen. Smell the air. All your senses are in my employ, Lodie.”
On Lair Lane, a shutter slammed shut. A cat cleaned itself in a doorway. I spied four cats. It occurred to me that Two Castles might have not a single mouse.
Roo Street was busier than quiet Lair Lane. At a weaver’s stall a man turned over lengths of cloth. I tried out the Two Castles accent I’d just practiced for hours and he simply directed me to a scribe’s stall. I skipped across Roo onto Trist Street.
Ahead, outside a jeweler’s stall, Goodwife Celeste held a silver bracelet close to her eyes while the jeweler pounded his fist into his palm and disputed with her husband, Goodman Twah.
I’d thought them too poor to buy jewelry.
“Mistress! It’s Elodie! From the cog!”
Her hand closed around the bracelet, and she lowered her arm. “Elodie! How nice to see you.”
Was it? I’d interrupted something.
“Have you become a mansioner’s apprentice?”
I told her about Masteress Meenore.
“The dragon Meenore?”
“ITself.”
“Look about for something else, Elodie.” She put her hands on my shoulders, the bracelet hand still a fist. “IT is moody. Today IT may be kind, but tomorrow IT could be angry and do anything. If you stay, be prepared to flee.”
To flee, but not to seek her aid.
“Come, Celeste.” Her goodman twined his arm in hers. “The grandchildren are waiting. Good day.” He nodded at me and at the jeweler.
“Good day!” The jeweler’s voice was sharp.
Goodwife Celeste and her husband headed uphill. She still had the bracelet, so her goodman must have paid for it.
I decided to be cautious in ITs company and to continue barricading myself while I slept.
In Romply Alley the scribe’s table took up little space between two cheese sellers’ booths. The scribe was a tiny woman with a large nose, as if the pungent cheese had directed all her growth one way. “You’d like me to write something for you?”
I said I needed no assistance.
She peered at me through small, red-rimmed eyes. “Remarkable.”
Thirty tins bought me postage and a scrap of parchment. I wrote in a cramped script,
Am well, am safe. Many weavers here. A master has taken me for free. Do not miss the geese, but miss you both and Albin. Your loving daughter, Elodie