She returned to her seat. “If they are fine, we must share them.” She cut off a chunk and fed it to him.
While chewing, he continued. “The count would have been a great help against Tair, but the earl is eager to put money into the undertaking.” He seemed to remember my presence. “Girl, you may leave. You will do well to stay out of my sight unless a real snake is exiting from your mouth. That I would like to see.”
His laughter followed me out the door.
In the inner ward, I went straight to the well. The jam came off easily, but the sauce had hardened. On my chin I needed to chip away a congealed bit with my fingernail. When I thought I had rinsed the food away, I scrubbed again. I felt dirty under the skin.
From the well I returned to the great hall to ask Sir Misyur how I might help in the search—not to see if Master Thiel was still there, which he wasn’t.
Several servants carried trestles to the middle of the hall, in readiness for a meal, I supposed.
“Elodie,” Sir Misyur said, looking up. “Nesspa must want a walk. Will you be so kind as to take him to the outer ward.”
I got him from the count’s apartment, and he pulled me into the postern passage, which was long enough to be dark even in midday.
“Young Mistress Elodie?”
My heart lurched with fright until I recognized the voice. Then it simply lurched. In the gloom, I saw Nesspa leap up to lick Master Thiel’s face.
“May I walk with you?”
I nodded, although he couldn’t have seen my head bob.
Outside, Nesspa ran here and there, sniffing as I let out his chain.
Master Thiel slung his sack over his shoulder. The coins in his purse jingled. “There is a question I would like to ask you.”
The start of a Lahnt love song ran through my mind: A secret meeting and a secret, a sweet greeting . . .
“You may ask.” How grown-up I sounded!
“In Master Sulow’s mansion, what were your thoughts when you pretended to be Thisbe?”
This was his question?
I sighed. “I was very hungry. Remember the bowl of apples? I pretended an apple was Pyramus. I adored that apple.”
Nesspa sniffed a patch of grass, then barked and scuffed up clods of dirt with his back legs, after which he tugged me away, following a new scent.
“And last night, when you mansioned the princesses?”
“I simply thought about the fairy tale. When I was the princesses, I imagined myself in their stead.” The words repeated in my mind: I imagined myself in their stead. The words were important, but I didn’t see how. I imagined myself in their stead. “Why do you ask?”
“I hope to be . . .”
I looked up.
He was blushing. “. . . something more than a plate mender or cat teacher. Despite Sulow’s first no, becoming a mansioner may be within my grasp, and it would be”—he paused—“an exciting life.”
No one could be a true mansioner who wanted the life, not the mansioning.
Nesspa raised his head. He sniffed the air, then howled deep in his throat and ran, pulling me helplessly along.
Master Thiel grabbed the chain just above my hand. Between the two of us, we controlled the dog, who continued to strain toward the south ward, keening eerily. We followed, Master Thiel so close to me that my shoulder jogged his side. He smelled of hay—another night in the stable, perhaps.
Was Nesspa taking us to the ogre, safe out here by some miracle?
When we neared the southwest tower, I heard groans above Nesspa’s whines. Master Thiel and I stopped restraining the dog and raced behind him.
We rounded the tower. Not many yards away, an ox lay on the ground, bleeding into the grass.
“Get Master Dess from the stable,” I yelled. Master Thiel could run faster than I could.
His face was pale, as mine must have been. “Can—”
“Go!” I cried.
He left me at a run.
The blood was seeping from gashes that striped the beast’s neck and shoulder. He struggled to his knees, then collapsed on his side, panting heavily. Nesspa wagged his tail and licked the wound.
“Poor thing.” I stroked the ox’s face. Lepai oxen are mild-tempered. “What happened to you?”
Masteress Meenore could have done this.
A lion could have done it. My hand stopped in the air above the beast’s cheek. Had the count turned back into a lion?
Or might this ox be His Lordship?
Master Dess arrived soon, carrying a sack, but Master Thiel didn’t come with him.
“Honey, honey. Dess is here.” He pressed linen from his sack into the cuts, layer upon layer of cloth until the blood stopped showing through.
“Master Dess . . . is the ox—”
“Just an ox. Girl, put your hands here. I need to move him.” He had me take his place pushing down on the bandages.
“Like this?” I wished my hands were bigger.
“Yes, and don’t stop pressing.”