“Very well,” Bob sighed, opening the door wider to admit them.
The cottage was dark and musty inside, lit only by a pair of oil lamps. In the corner was an enormous bed heaped with blankets and furs, but there was little other furniture and only a small kitchen where coals glowed through the grate of a cast-iron stove. Setting the basket on a counter, Max peered around until he spied a pair of crates that would serve as chairs for him and David. He dragged them near the enormous kitchen stool that Bob had brought with him from the Manse.
“Can I open the shutters?” asked David.
“If you like,” the ogre murmured, shambling to the kitchen sink where dirty plates and bowls were heaped three feet high. Max’s heart sank as he watched Bob fumble about in search for clean mugs or cups.
“We just ate,” said Max. “Down at the Hanged Man. That’s where we got the bread.”
“I see,” Bob muttered. Pulling up his suspenders, he eased onto his stool and rested his elbows upon his knees. A tremor began in one of his gnarled hands. He glowered at it a moment, before covering it with the other and setting them on his lap.
“So,” said Max, breaking the silence. “I just returned from Zenuvia.”
“Welcome home,” said Bob as David opened the shutters. Sun streamed into the cottage, dusty bands of daylight that made the ogre blink. “How was your trip?”
Bob listened dutifully as Max shared tales from the distant kingdom. Max focused on the fantastic things and strange foods he’d eaten rather than the grim news of Prusias’s ultimatum, the Atropos, or the looming threat of war. The ogre did not seem to be in any condition to hear of such things. When Max had finished, Bob simply sat passively by and waited for more.
“It’s good to be back,” Max concluded. “But I was surprised to hear that you retired and moved up here. I thought you liked working in the kitchens.…” He hoped this would cue a response, but none was forthcoming. The ogre merely turned his attention to David.
“And what of you?”
“Oh,” said David, sitting up. “Well, I’ve been busy tutoring Mina. Have you met her yet?”
Bob shook his craggy head.
“We’ll have to bring her by for a visit,” said David. “She’s very talented. And I’ve been assisting the Director. Looking after my mother. Those kinds of things, I guess.”
“That is good,” said Bob distractedly.
An uncomfortable silence ensued. David craned his head about to study the cottage, but Max stared at Bob. The ogre wilted and finally rocked up from the stool to putter about the kitchen.
“You boys will want something sweet,” he mumbled, rummaging through various tins.
“We don’t want anything sweet,” said Max. “We want to know how you’re doing. We want to know what’s new with you.”
This last sentence seemed to irritate the ogre. Veering away from the kitchen, he paced like a caged animal and fought to control the tremor in his hand. Glancing down at his stained shirttail, he stuffed it into his gray trousers and stalked to one of the windows.
“Bob is tired,” he rumbled. “You should go now.”
“No,” said Max firmly. “Not until you talk to us.”
The windows were still humming when David finally spoke. “We should leave,” he said quietly. “I have a lesson with Mina this afternoon.”
“You go ahead,” said Max. “I’ll see you later.”
Walking to the door, David looked up at Bob, who towered above him, breathing heavily.
“I really do think you’d like to meet Mina,” he said.
Bob’s shame over his outburst was painfully apparent. Closing his eyes, he shook his head in self-reproach and collected himself. “Bring her by,” he sighed. “Just give Bob notice. It is hard to meet new people without … without being ready.”
The door closed and the ogre turned to face Max. “What is it you want?” he asked softly.
“I want you to talk to me,” said Max plainly. “What’s wrong?”
Shuffling back to his stool, the ogre sat and stared at his trembling hand. “You don’t know what it is to be old,
“You’re not a burden,” insisted Max. “You’ve been looking after people for so long. It’s okay to let others look after you.”
“Bob doesn’t like visits,” the ogre sighed. “He always feels worse after.”
“I don’t think retiring was such a good idea. Why did you leave the kitchens?”
“Bob said it was his hand,” he explained. “But that was little fib. In truth, it was Mum. Bob worked with her for a long time. When more potatoes or roasts were needed, he would call out for his little Mum or peek in her cupboard. But she was gone. It was no good. The other cooks became frightened. They thought your Bob was getting … confused.”
“Have you tried to write her?” Max asked.
The ogre shook his head. “If Bob had not made her confess, she would still be at Rowan. It is Bob’s fault that his Mum went away.”
“You can’t really believe that,” replied Max. “Mum’s confession is what saved her at the trial. It was Bellagrog who made her leave Rowan. Not you.”
Bob could only shrug. Max’s mind raced for solutions.
“Hey!” he exclaimed. “If you don’t want to be in the Manse’s kitchens, why don’t you open a restaurant in the township? You could still cook, but in a different setting. I bet you’d be a hit!”
“Twenty years ago perhaps,” mused the ogre, rubbing his stubble. “But not now.”
“I see,” said Max, rising to pace about the melancholy room and gaze up at the roof’s timbers. “So this isn’t really a house. It’s a coffin—a nice roomy coffin where you can sit in the dark and wait to die. Is that the plan?”
The ogre glowered at Max. A nearly subsonic rumbling emanated from deep in his chest.
“Don’t tell Bob his business.”
Max walked out the front door and seized up an enormous spade that was propped against the porch railing. Sinking it into the hilltop, he scooped up a shovelful of dirt and squeezed past Bob, who had followed and now stood by the door.
“What are you doing?” the ogre asked.
Max ignored him. Swinging the spade, he let the dirt fly. It landed with a cloud of dust on the hardwood, scattering dirt and pebbles. Turning, Max marched past Bob and went outside to fill the spade again. The ogre watched silently as Max heaped more dirt upon the cottage floor. But on the fourth trip, Bob blocked his way.
“Stop it,” he growled. The rumble resumed in his chest.
“No,” said Max, swinging the spade back. “You were good enough to bury my parents. I’m returning the favor. Shut up and get out of the way. Dead ogres don’t talk.”
When Bob wouldn’t move, Max emptied the shovel anyway. The dirt thudded against the ogre’s broad chest, spilling down his shirtfront.
Bob’s face contorted. Snatching the spade, the ogre abruptly snapped it in two and seized Max by the collar. In a blink, Max’s feet were dangling five feet above the porch. Tears brimmed in the ogre’s bright blue eyes; his nostrils flared like those of an angry bull. Max put up no resistance but merely patted his friend’s trembling hand.
“For a dead ogre, you’re pretty lively.”
Bob blinked. Exhaling slowly, he lowered Max down to the porch and released him.
“You’re not dead, Bob, and you’re not dying,” said Max gently. “Dark days are coming and Rowan needs you. It needs your wisdom and strength. Don’t push everyone away.”
Placing his great hand on Max’s shoulder, the ogre bowed his head as though in silent prayer. From far off, Old
