High Brunka Marya lay on a pallet, too, hers near the Oase entrance, the coldest spot in the great hall.
Though she’d slept little in the last three days, Elodie’s mind busied her with ideas and worries. How had Master Uwald arranged to lose at dice, which was all luck?
Her thoughts wandered back to the stable and her performance as a weeping handkerchief and the ideas that she summoned to bring on the sadness. Above all, she cared most about His Lordship and now IT, who had both flown into the greatest danger.
She tried to cheer herself by making up a dragon ditty:
There once was an IT who sang Ta da dum
And searched for an ogre called Jonty Um.
Because of a theft they’d flown far away;
Their friend could hardly bear her dismay.
She wept and never got over them.
No help in poetry. She tugged her mind to Potluck Farm, where her mother and father lay in their bedroom loft, and her father’s pet goat and the family cat, Belliss, curled up below by the still-warm fireplace. Comforted enough to sleep, she fell into dreams of her masteress and His Lordship floundering in a river of molten rock.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Masteress Meenore flew above an owl that soared over the Fluce River. Both were hunting, and IT had found ITs prey. IT swooped lower, extending a talon.
The owl twisted and veered away.
IT grinned. Another swoop, another miss, and finally success. IT held the bird out, inches from ITs snout.
“Bird, if you are His Lordship, shape-shift! Now!”
The owl remained an owl. IT roasted the bird in the air and, still flying, devoured it, savoring the crunch of the bones and beak, the tickle of the feathers descending along ITs gullet.
Owl, IT thought, symbol of wisdom, how fitting that you should be conjoined with my brilliance. If only you’d known, your last emotion would have been gratitude. Enh enh enh.
ITs thoughts turned darker. I take my precious self into danger for an ogre I esteem but do not love and for mountain folk I do not know, most of whom I would most certainly disdain. I leave at risk the only human I care deeply for. If a crisis comes to her . . . if she is attacked . . . if she is—I will not think it—I will be leagues away. I am unlikely to return in time to recover this Replica, and I will not be paid my fee. Folly. Folly. Folly.
IT flew on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
In the widow’s shed, halfway between midnight and dawn, the donkey brayed. His Lordship raised his head, and then—fee fi!—he felt, from deep in the earth, a menacing rumble.
He touched the donkey’s flank to quiet her and slipped into an uneasy sleep.
When the sky had just begun to lighten, something tickled his ankle. He opened his eyes to see a child of perhaps three years staring at his booted feet, which stuck straight up and were almost as tall as she was.
The ominous rumbling from below had gained strength. He sat up slowly, as if a fast movement might make it worse. “Good morning.”
The girl covered her ears but didn’t budge.
He bared his shoulder to see his wound. The cut was still red, but the swelling had flattened. Whatever was in Widow Fridda’s salve had worked a little miracle. He could fly again as a swift and bring what he’d learned to Meenore and Elodie—and be reunited with Nesspa.
The child touched the boot toe and jumped back.
What would amuse her? He lifted his right foot a few inches and let it fall hard.
She experimented by touching again.
Instantly, he raised the foot and let it drop.
She giggled and walked along his leg and touched his knee under his cloak.
He raised his whole leg and let it drop and grunted.
She laughed and sat at his side.
He smiled, pleased with himself. He touched his nose and, as softly as he could, made a honking sound, which caused the donkey to bray and the child to laugh harder.
Another girlchild, this one seeming only a little younger than Elodie, leaned on a single crutch and watched solemnly from a few feet beyond the lean-to. Her right leg twisted at the ankle, as if it had once been broken and hadn’t been set properly.
When His Lordship’s eyes met hers, she said, “Mother says you’re a nice ogre.”
How ridiculous, he thought, that nice ogre can almost make me weep.
“Mother says you should get ready.”
He stood and would have been ready if he was going with them. Before he shape-shifted, he wanted to thank Widow Fridda for the food and the salve.
Twins, more girls, these about five years old, burst out of the house. One held a loaf of bread in both hands, and the other staggered under the weight of half a wheel of yellow cheese.
The one with the bread thrust it out. “For the good ogre.”
The other extended the cheese and echoed, “For the good ogre.”
He looked behind him. “Where is that good ogre?”
The twins laughed. The older girl smiled.
The twin with the bread, who seemed to be the bolder one, said, “It’s you! There isn’t another ogre.”