Beside the cupboard stood a door with a black metal latch that squeaked when she lifted it. The open door revealed a large space cut deep into the wall. Many curving shelves could house a wealth of stores, but only a huge, lush, black winter cloak hung from a hook. She bit back another bitter memory. They’d not allowed her to bring her own from the village. The ancient creed for those cursed with the mark held no mercy.
She examined her palm, could scarce see the mark in the gloom. To dwell on the sign was foolish. They’d found the mark, and since legend sat weighty behind its meaning, it must be true. She needed to live, and right now, she must stay here.
The hearth caught her attention again. She gave a snort of disgust. He was stingy with the firewood. How did he expect to keep the place warm, or her to cook? Even Aunt Jen, who had so little, burned a brighter fire than this.
Beside the hearth, a broom leaned against the wall, two buckets stood near, one stacked inside the other. A pan hook, slung away from the fire, held a small copper cauldron. Hopeful of something to eat, she studied the contents. In the bottom of the pot sat a thick, congealed, brownish mess. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant odor. Unfortunately, it wasn’t porridge. Her empty stomach growled.
A smaller cupboard, low in the wall, yielded a board and a knife for chopping. A bread crock made her mouth water. She tore off the lid. Inside the glazed pot lay half a loaf, the sort baked in the village. Unappetizing green mold covered bits of the thick crust, but still she broke off a piece and chewed it.
There wasn’t much for her to work with. A pity he had no cheese. She’d so welcome a chunk of cheese. Her mouth watered at the memory of the sharp tang. She pulled another piece off the loaf and swallowed the bread. She glanced again at the grubby hearth and greasy hooks. She’d have to clean before she could cook. This being the only pot, she’d tip out the mess before she looked to find things to go in it. Later, she’d clean the rest of the room.
The afternoon light blinded after the gloom of the kitchen. Eyes narrowed, she strolled through the long grass where a cricket sang, then stepped up the bank to go over the low rise.
Below ran the stream, edged with blue forget-me-knots and white cuckooflowers. She knelt on the mossy bank, scraped out the pot, wrinkling her nose at the earthy stink. What had he cooked? Dirt?
Whatever this was, she hoped he hadn’t eaten any.
She scooped up a handful of pebbles to scrub at the mess before she rinsed the pot. Standing with her toes in the cool water of the stream, she swung the pot back and forth to dry.
Once clean, the cauldron sat small in her hand. Would this little copper vessel hold enough for two?
On her way back from the stream, she rubbed her feet on soft turf to dry them as she strolled to the other side of the tower. Here, she discovered the vegetable garden, and shook her head at the poor little plot. A row of yellowed cabbages lined the low fence. What might be thin leeks grew at the back of the patch, and three lines of carrots, whose mossy tops straggled amid weeds, were all that was left of the winter vegetables.
Near where she stood, in a less weedy patch, sat tripod frames with beans and peas struggling up to the sun on the thin interwoven sticks. None showed ripe this early in the spring. The only thing to grow fat off this garden would be the slugs and snails.
She glanced over at the tower as she ambled back, confused. For a Mage, he wasn’t very well organized. The garden should thrive. What had he done? How had he been living? He didn’t even have a cow or a goat for milk.
At least the water she drew from the well tasted sweet and fresh. She drank her fill before taking the bucket into the kitchen. The table came clean after she scrubbed hard. Beneath, she found an old basket stripped down to the withies for tapers.
She hurried back out to the garden with the kitchen knife in her hand and cut one of the cabbages. Again, she shook her head at the poor crop, then pulled up a leek and two scrawny carrots. Not near enough for a hearty stew, more like a broth, but it would be warm and most welcome. Both her hands were full so she could gather no more. She needed a basket, but so far, the kitchen had revealed none but the one he’d stripped.
She would have to ask if he had a gathering bag or something like one.
Once she prepared all she’d picked, the gloom could not disguise that the vegetables wouldn’t fit in the small pot. She drummed the table. Even though she’d eaten a few of the carrot slices raw, her stomach clenched. She needed this meal.
She toyed with the idea of calling up to him, but she’d promised not to disturb his work, and his temper certainly burned short. If she didn’t call him, she couldn’t cook, and he’d be angry. Yet chances were if she did call him, he’d be angry, too. By the end of her deliberations, she’d grown angry herself.
She might as well get on with it. I’ve got to have a bigger cauldron!
The door to the stairs creaked on its hinges as she opened it. About to call up, she stilled when his tread sounded at the top of the stone steps.
“You have no need to yell up the stairs.” His voice echoed in the lofty darkness.
“I didn’t.” Was this part of his magic? What else could he do as well as hear what she thought? Only Alicia had ever heard the mind singing, but neither she nor her friend thought the trick was anything but a game. Mind singing couldn’t be magic.
“I distinctly heard you yell.” He hesitated, as though waiting for an explanation. When she offered none, he continued down the stairs. “The cooking pot is here.”
She moved out of the way. He brushed past to reach up to the top of the cupboard where she couldn’t see, and handed her a much larger cauldron than the one on the table.
He glanced toward the hearth and demanded. “Where is the small pot?”
She froze. Was he angry?
A spasm crossed his face and his lip twitched.
“I emptied it in the stream. I meant to use the small pot for the soup.”
“Gods, I am doomed!” His stare blazed green fire. “You have thrown away the finest batch of seeing mushrooms I have made in years.” He ran his hand over his hair. The blue coils around his wrist seemed to writhe like live, spring-woken snakes. “Foolish brat, did you not think to ask?”
She shook her head, gritting her teeth to keep silent.
He glowered. “Nin, a new rule. Here you touch nothing if it contains anything.”
“That’s stupid. You can’t say I mustn’t touch anything. You should have said not to use the small cauldron. I didn’t know.” Ready to bolt, she edged to the door.
“Well, you know now!” His yell almost lifted her feet. “Do you know what a seeing mushroom looks like?”
“Yes,” she murmured. Aunt Jen had pointed them out, so both she and her cousin Lettie knew them. Her aunt had always warned they should never go in the pot, no matter how hungry they all were. The seeing mushrooms were small, sour, but most of all, dangerous. “I’ve seen them.”
“Then go out and pick more. I’ll need twenty-four, at least. I want them before nightfall.”
She backed around to the other side of the table. Safe with something solid between them, her heart hammered less. She quelled her fear. His green robe, it wasn’t so fine. A tear ran up to his knee on one side. It needed stitching. “I’ll make the soup first, shall I? I’ll need a collecting basket.”
He opened the tall top cupboard and yanked down a wicker basket. One of his sleeves bore a patch at the elbow. For a Mage, he wasn’t so well off.
“Here.”