I watch him.
I think about how he leaned his head against Papa’s hand on the day he was summoned, as though there was a deep yearning for kindness and companionship in him. I think about how he glanced at me that first day, a glance like a shared secret. I wonder if mayhap we might yet understand one another, the wild boy and I. If we might yet be friends.
If Papa bespells him a second time, I shall never know.
My bare feet carry me down the stairs, along the colonnade that leads to the wild boy’s cell. I gaze at the stout wooden door, the haft of the iron key protruding from the lock. It would be wrong for me to enter the wild boy’s cell alone; and yet, Papa has never forbidden it, has he?
No, he has not. He has told me not to enter the gallery without permission, but he said naught of the cell itself. Like as not, it is because Papa never imagined I would dare such folly. But the wild boy cannot harm me. Papa’s magic has made certain of it. And if I am swift, Papa will never know.
Reaching up, I grasp the haft of the key and turn it in its lock. There are clicking sounds, after which the wooden door gapes open a crack.
My heart thuds in my chest.
I push the door.
It opens with a creak and I slip inside, closing it behind me. The sound awakens the wild boy. He leaps from his pallet and lands in a crouch. Behind his thatch of coarse black hair, his eyes widen in surprise.
My heart continues to beat hard and fast. The wild boy’s cell is hot and it stinks like a chamber-pot left to stand unemptied for days on end. Not a single whisper of air stirs in it.
“Hello,” I say. My voice sounds high and strange to my ears and my chest feels tight. I draw a deeper breath of hot, stinking air and make another attempt. “Hello!” The wild boy stares uncomprehending at me. I cock my head at him, but he does not cock his in reply this time. Daring greatly, I take a step forward. The wild boy retreats a step, his knuckles brushing the tiled floor. I hold out my hands in a pleading gesture. “Don’t be afraid! I won’t harm you. No one will harm you. I only want to be your friend.”
The wild boy’s gaze darts uncertainly around the room. I think about the unlocked door behind me and fear takes root in me, my skin prickling. If the wild boy escapes, Papa will be in a fury.
But no, the wild boy makes no move toward the door. I think he must not know what a lock is.
“Friends,” I say softly, clasping my hands together in an effort to show him the meaning of the word. “Can we not be friends, you and I? Surely you must be lonely.” My voice trembles a little. “I am. I know you cannot understand the words I speak, but can you not try to understand? Because I should very much like to be your friend, and I do not know how else to ask.”
The wild boy hunches his shoulders and lets out a hoarse bark.
And all at once, a wave of despair washes over me. It is too much, all of it. The blanketing heat, the enduring stench, the wild boy’s unteachable savagery, Papa’s endless absences, and my own unbearable loneliness.
Hot tears scald my eyes and I find myself sitting down hard on the floor. “I hate you!” I shout at the wild boy. “It’s not fair! All I wanted was a friend! I hate that Bianca was killed to summon you! I hate you!”
The wild boy whines.
Burying my face in my hands, I cry harder. There is a release in giving in to tears; not the quiet and decorous tears I shed for Bianca’s death, but great sobs of self-pity that wrack my whole body. Absorbed in my grief, I do not hear the wild boy’s stealthy, creeping approach.
I know nothing of it until I feel his hand touch my foot.
I look up.
The wild boy is crouching before me. His dark eyes are bright and troubled. He makes a crooning sound deep in his throat and strokes the bare skin of my foot with his knuckles.
He is trying to comfort me.
I stare at him in wonder, self-pity forgotten. He croons encouragingly at me. There is understanding in him. “Miranda,” I whisper. Tapping my chest, I say my name again, as slowly and carefully as I can. “Mir-an-da.”
The wild boy squats back on his haunches. The filthy remnants of his breech-cloth hang between his thighs. His throat works and his mouth opens and closes. I think mayhap he is trying to speak.
I shift to kneel on the floor, sitting on my heels. If he stood upright, he would be taller than me, but sitting thusly we are at a height. “Miranda.” I touch my chest again, then point to him.
The wild boy’s brow furrows and his right hand twitches as he raises it and scrabbles at his own chest. I nod. His mouth opens again, his red tongue touching his teeth as though searching for something. His breath comes in short huffs and his nostrils flare, his tongue questing.