Chapter 3
III
When I walk into the kitchen the next morning, I’m surprised to see a stranger standing at the range.
“Hello,” I say to the young woman wearing old-fashioned chef’s clothes.
She jumps back, the spoon clattering to the floor. Thick ribbons of white gloop spill across the tiles.
“Oh,” she gasps, clutching her chest, “You must be Mister Bloom.”
“Yeah, you can call me Astaire,” I introduce myself.
“I’m Pepper. I cook,” she replies.
“Perfect name for a cook,” I say, sitting down on a chair. The seeds are still spilled over the kitchen table, untouched.
Pepper lets out a strange little gulping chuckle. “I have a message for you,” she says, sounding a bit like a mouse caught in a giant trap.
“I’m not gonna shoot the messenger.” I wince at my poor attempt at a joke. I should just keep my mouth shut instead of trying to reassure a complete stranger. Why even try? Maybe because she looks a bit pathetic.
“The young master ordered you’ll get no food today.” She runs a hand over her messy bun, looking exceedingly uncomfortable. “On account that you misbehaved yesterday,” she adds, a bit quieter, her cheeks turning a ruddy shade of pink.
That bastard. What century does he think it is? You can’t just starve your staff.
“Do you mean Aba??” I ask.
“Yes, yes,” she nods a bit too vehemently. “And there’s a new task list on the table there.” She points not far from where I’m standing.
I grab the sheet of paper and skim it. Another day of yard work ahead of me. Just grand!
“Are you new here?” I ask Pepper when I’m done reading.
“No, Mister, uhm, I mean…” she trails off and then turns back to the range to mix whatever food she’s preparing. “I’ve worked here for many years. I cook all the meals.”
“For the young master?” I ask.
“No, for the staff. I prepare porridge once a week and bring the bread and cheese.”
She still looks mortified. I wonder if she’s ashamed of the slop she has to cook for us or for giving me the news that I’m not allowed food today.
I take a breath, feeling the weird urge to say something kind, but can’t for the life of me think of what that could be. She’s still standing there looking awkward and strangely ill-fitting. She’s too plump and rosy to be in this run-down kitchen.
“You’re not from these parts, are ya, Mist—I mean, Astaire,” she says, face blushing deeper at her blunder.
“No.”
“Oh, well, how wonderful to meet someone from a strange place. I mean, you come from afar, don’t ya? You look worldly. Like you’ve experienced much.” All the words come out without taking a single breath.
I take a moment to split each sentence into its own meaning before replying with a simple shrug. “Not really.”
“I’ve never been gone, ya know,” she says, turning back to the cooker.
“Born in the village and never left. Beside here, I suppose. Can you imagine? It’s the furthest from home I’ve ever been.
Oh dear, I must look frightfully simple.
” She rubs her hands over her apron and faces me again.
This time, her smile almost warms the room.
“How rude of me, I never asked where you hail from!”
“Just the city.” I’m feeling a bit awkward standing in the middle of the kitchen, but something is keeping me from walking out of here without a word.
“The big city! I always wanted to go. Only heard about it in tales. The things you must have seen!” Her words spill out like the seeds on the table.
“I’m sure much less than what’s going on here,” I say.
Her eyes go wide, and the rush of words is cut off at the root.
“I mean, you must spend a lot of time with Bayard, right?” I ask. “And…”
At his mention, she clasps the spoon tightly, her knuckles turning white with the effort.
“Who do you work for, by the way?” I ask. “I’m a bit unsure who the boss i—”
She cuts me off with, “The young Master, of course.” Her voice softens a bit, though it still sounds off.
“Oh, uhm…I assumed it was Bayard…” I let the sentence linger, trying to gauge her reaction. And just as I suspected, she tenses up again at his mention. Very curious.
I feel a tinge of guilt for going this far and upsetting her. How and why exactly, I don’t fully understand, but I feel bad nonetheless.
“I… Thank you for…” I start but then stop myself.
She relaxes a bit and waves her hand in front of her face as if to say that it’s no trouble at all.
I shove my hands in my pockets and shuffle backwards toward the door, knowing full well this is about as many social interactions as I can handle in a day.
I generally don’t exchange more than a couple of sentences with people, and this already exceeded the monthly quota.
“Ah. Well, Pepper, I better start work.” I shrug, leaving the kitchen.
I double-check the instructions again to confirm that my chores are indeed outside. Once on the grounds, I quickly find the new tools waiting for me not far from the spot I weeded yesterday.
Today, I am to dig two holes for an unspecified purpose.
Well, it’s not like they’ve told me the reason for anything I’ve been doing here.
Not that I came here to ask questions, either.
Without thinking further about it, I take my coat off and roll my sleeves up.
Even though my skin seems to have already recovered from yesterday’s time spent in the sun, I’m still grateful that today is overcast.
With all the very random and badly paying jobs I’ve had in the past 12 years, digging ditches hasn’t been one.
And if I had to be completely honest with myself, I suspect that I was doing a pretty bad job of it.
I can almost hear the shovel silently mocking me while I exhaust myself trying to loosen up the dense soil.
Even through the thick leather gloves, my fingers groan in distress.
I can practically feel the blisters forming with each thrust. The scream that pierces my bones when I hit that first rock is ungodly, making me reconsider all my life choices.
I know I must look like a fool, or maybe even plain stupid, doing hard-labour for these strange men, who don’t even have the decency to feed me.
The thing is, I don’t actually mind not eating.
In fact, I tend to forget to eat all the time.
I’ve never enjoyed it, and even the little that I force myself to eat mostly feels like a tedious chore.
I remember when I was a child, my parents jumped through every hoop they could find in order to make food appealing to me.
Of course, they were completely unsuccessful.
One night, when I was around 7, I heard my mother crying in her room, worried that I might starve myself to death.
Ha! If she could just see me now, positively brimming with health and elan.
What actually bothers me, though, is that Aba? took my choice away from me.
No, actually, he’s punishing me. Ridiculous. What a pompous prick. Rich people really believe they can get away with anything.
I’m sure it takes me hours of digging before I finish the first hole. Hoping to catch my breath, I lean on the shovel, watching my sweat drip on the ground. The droplets glimmer in the sun desperately squeezing through the clouds.
I might be exceedingly stubborn and more resilient than I look, but right now, my body is screaming for a break.
I walk a couple of meters away, pull my Walkman out, and lay down to rest. The grass is moist and smells stagnant, but I ignore the discomfort.
I close my eyes, trying to calm my breathing, listening to the familiar sounds of the music.
Metallic scraping. Clattering and clashing.
Dragging, something, with great force. Slowly, with effort.
Words slurred. Body to body. A growl. A mouth full of rocks.
No meaning, just sounds. Nothing else exists.
Only me in the music. I am the one that is being dragged.
Caught in a net surrounded by ripped up metal.
Scraping across the asphalt in the summer sun. A warm hug between noise’s arms.
The next thing I feel is something kicking my legs.
“What the fuck?” I blurt out as I jump up, glaring at whoever woke me.
Aba? is glaring right back.
My thoughts stutter. My fingers chill. In bright daylight, he’s even more stunning than in the gloom of the castle.
His black eyes absorb the surrounding sunlight.
Only a faint glimmer hints that they’re hiding in the shadows.
Watching me. Aba?’ scowl is ferocious, valleys and hills marking his face, but it looks almost–no.
I try to stop staring, but his mouth, it looks indecently soft.
Focus, Astaire.
Do I see a hint of sadness–
“I am not employing you to be idle,” he interrupts in a voice much too calm for having just kicked me.
“You’re also supposed to give me room and board. But last thing I heard, I’m not allowed to eat anymore,” I quip back.
“You are obligated to follow my orders.” He moves too close when he says this.
I step back, refusing to let him intimidate me. “You know, I don’t need this job.”
“Then get out. It matters not to me,” he answers, still calm.
“Are you firing me?” I ask.
“Did I say so? Perhaps I should write it down for you so you better grasp my meaning.” He says it so pompously that I can’t help but stare back, baffled.
There’s no way I’m letting this jackass think he can intimidate me into quitting. If anything, he can fire me and pay the juicy severance package that’s written into my contract. After all, that clause is one of the reasons why I decided to take this job in the first place.
Wordlessly, I walk over to the shovel, pick it up, and start digging the next ditch. I defiantly glare at him as I break up the soil. Aba? glowers back, crossing his arms in front of his chest. I push the shovel deeper with my foot, refusing to blink, determined to be more stubborn than he.
It doesn’t take long before he strides back into his castle. While I continue to dig, I feel a little foolish and a little proud.