The midmorning bells were ringing when a smith told me, “IT makes my fire the hottest in Two Castles.” He took my forearm in his grimy hand. “IT could be a fine smith if IT didn’t have to be Unfathomable. Tell IT Master Bonay says so.”
At her place in Romply Alley, the scribe told me that IT had once deduced that her box of quills was hidden under a rock in her garden. “How did IT know?”
I announced loudly, “IT has ITs mysterious meth—”
“Make way! Ogre coming. Dog coming.”
The scribe pulled me between her table and one of the cheese seller’s stalls.
Count Jonty Um’s shadow darkened the alley. His shoulder brushed an awning. He stopped three stalls from me, by a cobbler. “Sit, Sheeyen. A girl turned in here, shouting about Meenore. Where is she?”
My heart rose into my throat as the scribe pushed me forward. I lurched into the street, almost fell, caught myself, and found my face an inch from a fold in the ogre’s cloak.
Chapter Twelve
I wheezed, “Today, in Two Castles”—I swallowed and forced my voice out—“and only in Two Castles, the Great, the Unfathomable—”
Count Jonty Um boomed, “I wish to speak with IT.”
“Masteress Meenore is in the square, um . . . Count Um.”
“Count Jonty Um. We will go together.” He placed a heavy hand over the crown of my capless head. A finger touched each of my ears. If he pushed down, I’d sink into the street up to my nose.
“Make way,” he cried. “Ogre passing. Girl passing.”
Everyone stared. The scribe mouthed words at me: Take care. How could I take care? The ogre could squeeze my head like a lemon.
Count Jonty Um edged along to avoid upsetting tables and bringing down displays. He’d captured me, but he took care with the townspeople’s stalls. Today’s dog, a brown shepherd on a short chain, managed not to knock over anything, either. Gradually my heart slowed to a gallop. Because of the ogre’s hand, I feared to turn my head, but I moved my eyes from side to side.
Everywhere, people froze to watch us. I saw pity for me on many faces, but no one challenged him. Cats stared, too, from between their owners’ legs, from stall tabletops, from windowsills. I heard hisses.
In the market square Count Jonty Um cried, “Ogre and girl going to the dragon. Make way.”
By the time we reached Masteress Meenore, ITs customers had fled. IT swept one wing in front of ITself, then to the side, and lowered ITs head in a definite, almost graceful bow.
Did bowing, rather than curtsying, make IT a he?
I ducked out from under the ogre’s hand, and he let me go. IT raised both wings at the elbow, put one back foot behind the other, and dipped, in a definite curtsy.
A bow and a curtsy. He-she-IT.
IT said, “Your Lordship . . .”
Count Jonty Um bowed, too, a quick bend at the waist that meant I am a count, you a mere masteress.
“Your lordship has not come for skewers. We will consult at my lair. Lodie will lead you.”
“Elodie, if you please, Masteress.” I wanted the count to know my proper name.
IT took the basket of coins in a claw, leaped into the air, and flew, barely clearing Count Jonty Um’s head. IT circled low, twice, three times. Why was IT lingering?
I deduced and proclaimed, “See, one and all, how Masteress Meenore is sought by nobility. IT will answer your questions, too. Schedule your own meeting with the nimble-witted, farseeing Masteress Meenore.”
IT flew off in the direction of the lair. I picked up the basket of skewers. “This way, Count Jonty Um.”
“Make way!” he cried. He put his hand on my shoulder.
I gathered my courage. “You can let go, Count Jonty Um. I won’t run away.”
His hand dropped. We left the square, watched by everyone. When we reached a less crowded street, he boomed, “Thank you for telling me to let go. You told me to wait in line, too. I like truthful people, Elodie.”
I looked up. The line of his lips had softened, his face was no longer red, and his eyes seemed wider. An easier, more relaxed face made me feel easier, too.
“This way.”
A robin landed on his shoulder, ruffled its feathers, and stayed. Cats might hate him, but not all animals. The dog seemed comfortable at his side.
He must have noticed that I was rushing to stay ahead of him, because he stopped. “You can ride on my shoulders.”
What would I hold on to up there? His great ears? What if I fell and pulled an ear off with me, or grabbed his silver pendant and swung from his neck like a bell clapper? “No, thank you.”
He reddened again. I had insulted him. He set off at a slower pace, a considerate ogre. I tried to think how to apologize without making the insult worse.
He sneezed hugely. “Sulfur.”
The robin flew away.
“We’re near the lair.” He liked frankness. “Count Jonty Um, I was afraid of falling off your shoulder and pulling your ear down with me.”
He began to smile. The smile broadened, mouth half open, white upper teeth shining, bathing me in sweetness.
How changed he was! Almost as if he’d shape-shifted.