The Winter Long

“Our—right.” I turned toward him. He was standing next to the table, holding the roast chicken on a platter. “What did Luna say?”


“It’s not what Luna said that should concern you at the moment: it’s what I’m saying, and what I’m saying is that I’ll tell you what Luna said as soon as you can get out of that bed, come to this table, and eat.” His smile couldn’t hide his concern. “You’ve run yourself to shreds today, and I simply cannot have that.”

“I’m not that tired,” I protested.

“Then push off the blanket, rise from the bed, and come to the table. I have seen how much you’ve bled today: you’ll forgive me if I choose not to believe you.” He took a seat, beginning to portion the chicken onto the plates he had already waiting—plates which appeared to contain potatoes and some sort of lightly dressed salad. He’d been preparing for me to wake up for a while.

Glaring, I attempted to rise to his challenge . . . and failed as my jellied limbs refused to obey even the simplest commands. I tried again, with the same result.

Tybalt observed all this before commenting mildly, “I have seen you accomplish more under worse circumstances, but only when there was an immediate threat to be dealt with, an ally to be rescued or a life to be saved. The situation in which we find ourselves is unpleasant to be sure, and doubtless dangerous, but it is not, at the moment, life-threatening. Your body knows its needs better than you do.”

“You’re a jerk sometimes.”

“I’m a cat, always,” he said, and smiled. “At least you sound on the road to recovery. Stop thinking of rising as a way to gain access to information that will cause you to put even more strain on your body’s ability to sustain itself, and think of it as a quick route to the sustenance I know you need.” He picked up his plate and waved his hand over it, wafting the smell of the chicken toward me.

I was on my feet before consciously deciding to move, and my butt was hitting the polished bench across from where Tybalt sat before I had time to process what I was wearing. The growling of my stomach had become a roar. I shut it out for a moment as I looked down at my attire: black leggings, a white linen chemise that would need to be belted if I was going to wear it out of this room, and no shoes. No socks either. At least my bare feet were finally warm, courtesy of the bed and the fire.

“Your previous clothing still exists,” said Tybalt. “It simply needed a good drying, and sleeping in it seemed mildly unsanitary.”

“You know, there was a time when waking up to find that someone had changed my clothes would have been a surprise. When did I get used to this, exactly?” I finally reached for the plate that had been set in front of me, and asked a more important question: “Did you get my jacket from Bridget?”

“Yes, and it should be ready for you by now. Were you aware that the mortal world contained establishments called ‘dry cleaners,’ which are capable of working feats that previously only Bannicks had been able to accomplish?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I knew about dry cleaners. I’m a little surprised that you do.”

“In this case, the credit for wisdom should go to your squire. Your precious leathers are pristine.” Tybalt gave my food a meaningful look. “Now please. Eat, so that we may wake the boys and be on our way. I’m sure you’ll want that, once you’ve recovered sufficiently.”

The roaring in my stomach was almost impossible for me to ignore at this point. I still forced myself to hold it off for a few seconds more. “Tell me what Luna said.”

He sighed. “Do you swear to eat your supper even once you have what you desire?”