was himself was just a kind of mask, or whether it was just because underneath it all he couldn’t control the evil inside himself, it must never be permitted inside the walls of the Collegia again. One disaster had been enough. There was nothing about him that belonged up there.
That done, he let the fires that all those emotions had ignited burn out, let himself sink into apathetic despair, let weariness of body and spirit take over, and numb his mind into the state of not-thinking again.
This was the right thing to do. This felt right; it was right. This was the only thing that was right, in all of his dreadfully wrong world. He had to stick to it. He couldn’t be saved, but at least he could save Dallen.
The numb state lasted until the luncheon pots were done and he and the boy were feeding at the communal table. As ever, the boy’s hands scrabbled among the crusts and bread for anything good, and he stuffed what he found into his face so fast that Mags wondered why he never choked. The boy seemed to live for food, in a strange way that even the mine-kiddies had never matched. He and the boy never left this table hungry—they might not be well fed, but they were certainly full. So why was it the boy tried to stuff himself as if he thought he would never eat again? The boy’s behavior made no sense to Mags. The boy seemed to live for and obsess over food. It was a mystery.
As ever, Mags methodically ate whatever was nearest, without regard to its condition; it was all so tasteless to him it might as well have been dead grass. He ate to keep his stomach from complaining, to get him through another day. But there was no reason to be as fixated on food as the boy was.
He started, and checked his mental wall as the boy looked at him curiously for a moment, then fell back to eating. The wall was still there. There was no way that Dallen could have breached it.
How was Dallen talking to him? Never mind, this needed to be put to a stop.
There was no reply, only the sense of stuporous slumber again. Mags shook his head. He must have imagined it. Or else, he’d half fallen asleep, sitting here, and dreamed it.
Or else he was going crazy. This was not at all unlikely, actually. Being insane would actually be something of a relief. If he could blame the way he had hurt Dallen and treated Lena on insanity, well... it might ease his guilt a little.
The afternoon was always the hardest part of the day. The scents of the cooking and baking were enough to convince even a full belly that it wanted more. The boy always slowed down, knowing that this was the busiest part of Cookie’s day, and that Cookie wouldn’t see him shirking. And today the kitchen got so warm it was hard not to fall asleep where he stood. If he closed his eyes even for a moment he would find himself slowly tipping over toward the water and come to himself with a jerk, and today was no exception.
He couldn’t imagine how the others stayed awake. Maybe it was just that they all had more sleep than he ever did. Certainly the boy was as alert as a hungry rat, watching the roasting meat, hoping for a moment of distraction or inattention when he might be able to dash in with a bit of the bread he’d stuffed into his pockets and sop up some of the juices collecting in the trays under the spits. Those were supposed to be reserved for sauces and gravy, and Cookie guarded them jealously, but the boy never gave up hope of getting some. He’d actually succeeded, probably more than once, or he never would have kept trying, but Mags had seen him manage the trick once. Once, when the rest of the kitchen had been busy and Cookie had gone after something from one of the locked cellars or pantries where the expensive things like wine and meats were kept.
Today the boy got the moment of distraction he’d hoped for, and more. The door was open to let in what breeze there was, and suddenly, without warning, one of the biggest wasps Mags had ever seen soared lazily inside; it was a huge black thing, easily the size of a man’s thumb. Perhaps it had been attracted by the scent of the fruit being made into pies, or the jellies in their bowls. One of the kitchen maids spotted it, pointed, and screamed.
Then she made the mistake of flailing a towel at it without actually hitting it. That made the insect angry, and it dove aggressively down out of the air and attacked her, darting in, landing on her long enough to sting her on the neck. She shrieked with pain, while the other maids screamed and flapped their towels and aprons ineffectually at her, missing the insect altogether and further enraging it; it zig-zagged around the room, looking for more enemies to sting.
The whole kitchen erupted into a bedlam of screaming, flapping towels, people ducking out of the way, while the enraged wasp tried to find itself another target.
Mags abandoned the sink and ducked as low to the floor as he could get, making himself less of a target, as the boy saw his chance and made for the roasts. Cookie waded in at that point, as the wasp landed on the back of one of the cook’s helpers to sting him. Cookie smacked the victim and insect with his huge hand, smashing the wasp, and sending the hapless helper tumbling over into a cupboard. The maids, sure that the insect was still in the air, flailed and screamed with their eyes closed—or like Mags, ducked under the table, unaware the danger of being stung was over.
Mags glanced toward the fire. The boy was stuffing his face, not only with juice-dipped bread, but with strips of crisp skin and meat he tore off the roast with his bare hands. If Cookie turned right now—
“Shut up, you lot! Shut your faces, it’s dead!” Cookie roared for silence, whirled, to glare at the hysterical mob of maids, and caught the boy with both hands and his mouth full.
Cookie’s face, already red, went purple with rage. He strode across the kitchen and seized the boy by the collar, hauling him to his feet and shaking him like a terrier with a rat. “Thief!” he raged. “You little bastard of a thief! Oh, you’re for it now!”
Even the maid who’d been stung stopped crying and watched with open-mouthed fascination as Cookie shook the boy until his eyes rolled up in his head. The boy probably pissed himself with fear too, but he and Mags were so soaked with sweat and dishwater you couldn’t have told.
Mags had to look away, then, as Cookie delivered one of his carefully calculated beatings. The meaty sound of an open hand on flesh filled the kitchen, as the rest of thes staff watched or turned away according to their natures. It didn’t go on for very long; Cookie knew that they were behind on preparations now, and he wasn’t going to waste any more time on the boy right now than he had to in order to maintain discipline. The sounds of the flat of a hand on flesh didn’t last as long as Mags thought it would. Maybe because Cookie was desperate to get things back on schedule. As Mags looked up again, Cookie dragged the boy back to the sink, dropped him there, blubbering.
“Now get back to work!” Cookie roared, whirling round. “I’ll give you another dose of what’s coming to you when the work is done! You’ve wasted enough of my time for now! That goes for all of you!”
Mags got up off the floor and went straight back to work. Sniveling and sniffing, so did the boy. There was some harsher punishment coming for him, probably more beating, possibly something else. Mags was as sure of that as he was that the sun would rise, but right now Cookie wanted his pots clean before he wanted the boy punished.
And into the silence in his own head, came that mind-voice.
Hellfires!
How was he getting into Mags’ head?
Mags almost stopped washing pots. He actually froze for a moment, and only a blubbering sob from the boy woke him enough to continue the work. He scrubbed feverishly, no longer sleepy.
