Count Jonty Um crossed the lair and picked up the end of the dog’s chain.
“Farewell, Your Lordship. Elodie, I will come to the outer ward at dawn tomorrow for your report.” IT raised ITs eyebrow ridges. “Do you know where the outer ward is?”
“The area between the castle and the walls that surround it?”
“Just so, although these walls are called curtains. Do not disgrace me.”
I thought of my disappointing history as a caretaker of geese. And now I was to caretake an ogre!
Outside, clouds had begun to roll in. His Lordship started down Lair Street, to my surprise. I had expected him to follow the ridge and avoid the bustle of the center of town. After a few steps, he slowed to my pace.
I walked on his right, Sheeyen on his left. The street was deserted here, so he didn’t have to call his warning.
“I’m not a serf, Your Lordship.”
He nodded.
“Your Lordship?”
He stopped.
“May I ask . . .”
“Yes.”
I breathed in deeply. “Why don’t they like you?”
He sat on his haunches. I still had to look up to see into his eyes.
“My father was not a kind ogre.” He shook his head. “My mother was not kind to people, either. They didn’t eat anyone. We don’t eat humans. But they liked to frighten when they shifted shape. Fifteen years ago a child died. It was an accident, but it was my father’s fault.” He watched my face.
I didn’t blame the son!
“The townsfolk think I am like my parents. They don’t know any other ogres.”
So he wanted to show them the difference, and they didn’t want to see. I touched his cloak over his knee. “I understand.”
We continued on, passing burghers’ homes. A young woman with a broom stepped out of a doorway. As soon as she saw me, she hissed, “Save yourself. Run!” and darted back inside.
I reached up and took the count’s hand. We proceeded past the next house and the next. A cat crossed the street in front of us, its head turned toward the count. Sheeyen trotted along silently.
“Nesspa would have barked.”
The midafternoon bells tolled. The stalls and the throngs began.
“Make way. Ogre and girl.”
“Not captive,” I cried. “New servant at the castle.”
He turned on Sabow Street, which led to the market square. In the square he let my hand go and made purchases—first a string sack, then food and more food: lamb pottage, fish golden with saffron (the rarest spice in the kingdom), boiled eggs, legs of roasted capons, pickled blue carrots, cheese, and bread. How my stomach rumbled.
No one hated him when he opened his purse. People nodded, chatted, thanked him.
My mouth watered. When he stopped the roving marchpane seller, my mouth became almost a fountain. He bought a dozen pieces and paid out two dozen coppers.
With a bulging sack, he started up Daycart Way and resumed his cry of “Make way.” He continued blaring until we reached the wealthy homes again and the crowd had thinned to nothing.
We passed through the town’s south gate and continued on. To the east, the mansioners’ carts caught the light of the setting sun. As we took the north fork, I heard a shout followed by a laugh.
“They’re rehearsing.” And I am in my own mansioner’s tale, I thought, accompanying an ogre to his castle, where the drama will occur.
When we had passed perhaps a quarter mile beyond the fork, with empty, harvested fields to our left and right, the count stopped.
“Your Lordship?”
“Watch. Do not be afraid. Everyone likes this.” Eyes closed, he let Sheeyen’s chain go and raised his arms in a gesture of command, like Zeus in a myth, calling forth lightning. His mouth widened in a silent scream, and his eyes bulged.
I was afraid! Had an arrow struck him from behind? I ran around him. No arrow, but he was clearly in pain. Sheeyen sat on her haunches and howled. I picked up her chain.
He shook from side to side and forward and back, becoming indistinct, a blur of motion—a shrinking blur. He was my height, then smaller, smaller still.
Chapter Fourteen
His Lordship’s arms fell to his sides. The vibrating slowed and stopped. His cloak and tunic hung in heaps and folds over the narrow shoulders of a monkey, an animal I recognized from an illustration in Mother’s only storybook. The monkey was hardly bigger than a fox, his miniature ivory face fringed by coarse orange fur.
He smiled infectiously, showing his teeth and gums. His amber eyes were merry.
I had to smile back.
He removed the count’s clothes and shoes while grinning as if at the silliness of lavish attire, or attire at all. When he emerged, I saw how delicate he was—thin arms, thin legs, and a scrawny chest showing through his frill of fur. All the luxury was in his long bushy tail, which curled up at the end. He stood half erect on his two back legs, with one fisted hand on the ground.