Kine had taken sick a few weeks earlier. He began throwing up and sweating like it was summer. They each gave him some of their food, but he was not getting better. For the past three days, he had not even been able to leave The Nest. Each time Mince saw him, Kine looked worse: whiter, thinner, blotchier, and shivering—always shivering. Elbright had seen the sickness before and said not to waste any more food on Kine, as he was as good as dead. Mince still shared a bit of his bread, but his friend rarely ate it. He hardly ate anything anymore.
Mince crossed the street to the front of the house, and to escape the bitter wind, he slipped to the right of the porch stairs. His foot sank deeper than expected and his arms windmilled as he fell down a short flight of steps leading to a root cellar. Mince landed on his back, sending up a cloud of powder that blinded him. He reached around and felt a hinge. His frozen hands continued to search and found a large lock holding the door fast.
He stood and dusted himself off. As he did, he noticed a gap under the stairs, a drain of some kind. His fall had uncovered the opening. Hearing the approach of the butcher’s wagon, he quickly slithered inside.
“What will you have today, sir?”
“Goose.”
“No beef? No pork?”
“Tomorrow starts Blood Week, so I’ll wait.”
“I have some right tasty pigeons and a couple of quail.”
“I’ll take the quail. You can keep the pigeons.”
Mince had not eaten since the previous morning, and all their talk about food reminded his stomach.
“Very good, Mr. Jenkins. Are you sure you don’t require anything else?”
“Yes, I’m sure that will be all.”
Jenkins, Mince thought, that is probably the servant’s name, not the master of the house.
Footfalls came down the steps and Mince held his breath as the manservant brushed the snow away from the cellar door with a broom. He opened it to allow the butcher entry.
“It’s freezing out here,” Jenkins muttered, and trotted out of sight.
“That it is, sir. That it is.”
The butcher’s boy carried the goose, already plucked and beheaded, down into the cellar and then returned to the wagon for the quails. The door was open. It might have been the cold, the hunger, or the thought of five silver—most likely it was all three—that sent Mince scurrying inside quick as a ferret without bothering to consider his decision. He scrambled behind a pile of sacks that smelled of potatoes and crouched low while trying to catch his breath. The butcher’s boy returned with the birds, hung by their feet, and stepped out again. The door slammed, and Mince heard the lock snap shut.
After the brilliant world of sun and snow, Mince was blind. He stayed still and listened. The footsteps of the manservant crossed overhead, but they soon faded and everything was quiet. The boy knew there was no way to escape the cellar undetected, but he chose not to worry about that. The next time there was a delivery, he would just make a run for it. He could get through the door on surprise, and no one could catch him once he was in the open.
When Mince looked around again, he noticed that he could see as his eyes adjusted to the light filtering down through gaps in the boards. The cellar was cool, although balmy when compared to the street, and filled with crates, sacks, and jugs. Sides of bacon hung from the ceiling. A small box lined with straw held more eggs than he could count. Mince cracked one of them over his mouth and swallowed. Finding a tin of milk, he took two big mouthfuls and got mostly cream. Thick and sweet, it left him grinning with delight. Looking at all the containers, Mince felt as if he had fallen into a treasure room. He could live there by hiding in the piles, sleeping in the sacks, and eating himself fat. Hunting through the shelves for more treats, Mince found a jar of molasses and was trying to get the lid off when he heard steps overhead.
Muffled voices were coming closer. “I will be at the palace the rest of the day.”
“I’ll have the carriage brought at once, my lord.”
“I want you and Poe to take this medallion to the silversmith. Get him started making a duplicate. Don’t leave it, and don’t let it out of your sight. Stay with him and watch over it. It’s extremely valuable.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And bring it back at the end of the day. I expect you’ll need to take it over several times.”
“But your dinner, my lord. Surely Mr. Poe can—”
“I’ll get my meals at the palace. I’m not trusting Poe with this. He is going along only as protection.”
“But, my lord, he’s hardly more than a boy—”
“Never mind that, just do as instructed. Where is Dobbs?”
“Cleaning the bedrooms, I believe.”
“Take him too. You’ll be gone all day, and I don’t want him left here alone.”
“Yes, my lord.”
My lord, my lord! Mince was ready to scream in frustration. Why not just use the bugger’s name?