Chapter 20
I shove the journal beneath Gryphon’s mattress and race downstairs, lightheaded with worry.
The table has been set, the wild rice stew is bubbling, and Jarek is standing in the middle of the kitchen, seeming too large for the space.
My automatic response is ingrained so deep it feels like a part of me: get small.
Jarek’s corvid eyes flick to the stove and then to me. “Within the Wall,” he says. And then, “It smells good.”
I nod so abruptly it feels like a spasm. I’ve never been alone with the man. He’s tall, over six feet, lean and sinewy. His work outdoors has tanned his skin. He appears to be in good health, if not spirits, but there’s something unsettling about the way he holds himself taut, only moving his eyes.
“Don’t look so scared of me, child. I won’t bite.” When he smiles, the sharpness of his incisors belies his words. “Serve me some of that stew. It’s been long enough since I’ve eaten a good meal under this roof.”
The children of the Wall are all taught to cook, preserve food, and keep house.
If none of the Tzus are doing a good job of it, it’s by choice, not ignorance.
I turn to the stove and ladle him a hearty serving.
A whisper of worry tells me I shouldn’t have added the laxative to the congee.
It was petty and, worse, could put me in danger.
Besides, it won’t replace Wendy’s finger.
“You’re as slow as a pregnant sheep, girl,” he says. “Serve me now.”
Just like that, my worry vanishes. I set the heaping bowl onto the table. “May there always be more.”
He drops into a chair. The room’s quiet except for the click and slurp of him shoveling congee into his gob like someone’s about to steal it away. I turn to fumble at the stove, wishing that courtesy didn’t dictate inhabitants of a home eat meals together when they’re not working.
While I stall, thoughts of Jonas enter my head.
Jarek hadn’t even known my twin. He’d sentenced him to death atop the Wall without a second thought.
I eye the knife at his belt and think of the deer I gutted earlier today.
How fast would I have to move to grab that blade from its sheath and plunge it into Jarek’s throat?
Rose! I startle myself.
“Is this apple?” Jarek holds a chunk of it up to the light trickling in through the window.
I twitch, horrified at my thoughts. “It is.” I swallow wrong and begin coughing. “I found one lying on the ground. Didn’t want to waste the sweet flavor.”
When his eyes slide to me, I hold my tongue. I’m telling the truth.
Jarek shifts abruptly. Is the slippery elm already working? But then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a square of gray cloth no larger than the palm of his hand.
“If you want flavor, you should taste this.” He sets the cloth on the table and opens it to reveal what looks like four one-inch tubes of colored glass, one red, one purple, one green, and one a shade of blue I’ve never seen before.
“Go ahead,” he says. “They’re zoo zoos.”
Given what I’ve done to his congee, I’m reluctant to taste the food he’s offering. But the set of his jaw makes clear this is an order.
I reach for the green piece, marveling at the color.
It’s as bright and as jewel-like as the chapel’s stained-glass windows.
There’s no scent to it. I pop it in my mouth and close my eyes in ecstasy.
It’s got the honeyed sweetness of a maple zoo zoo combined with something tart that makes my taste buds dance and pucker.
“That’s right,” Jarek purrs. “It’s called a rancher candy.”
The name is peculiar. “Are the Bakers making it?” I take it out of my mouth, studying the glittering green treat in wonder. Gran’s going to love it.
“It’s a secret between you and me,” he says, winking. “A little something a few of us are working on. You cannot tell anyone.”
That doesn’t sit right. “But you’ll share it with others? When you have enough?”
He chuckles. “Of course. Such a tender heart you are.” His expression grows serious. “Your mother was kind, too. Henrietta and I were friends, you know.”
I don’t like the sound of my mom’s name in his mouth. She never talked about Jarek, not that I recall.
“Hen was something special,” he continues, his face growing soft, then tightening with what I swear is grief. “Smart, fearless, striking.” His eyes flick to me. “Do you take after her in more than looks?”
The Plumber had said something similar, but it felt different coming from him.
Jarek’s words, the way he says them…they make me wish I had on another layer of clothes.
I raise my arms to rub the goosebumps forming there but manage to stop them at waist level, grabbing my elbows instead.
For some reason, I don’t want him to know he’s unnerved me.
The sweetness has gone bitter on my tongue. Is this what Mom and Gran were protecting me from when they told me not to draw attention?
“My mother was wiser than I’ll ever be,” I say.
He nods absently before switching subjects so quickly it leaves me dizzy. “Tell me about your knowledge. You understand herbs, medicines, the mixing of potions. Could you craft a concoction to make a plant wither, as easily as to make it thrive?”
It’s a bizarre question, and the way Jarek’s studying me makes my skin crawl. “I suppose I could, though a Chemist would be better suited to the task.”
He seems about to add something else when Misia and Gryphon walk in, bringing the smell of the outdoors on their cloaks. Misia has a swollen cheek, an ugly-looking scratch across it. Gryphon appears wary, his onyx eyes snapping between his father and me.
“Late for the first good meal we’ve had in ages,” Jarek says, leaning back. “A fine pair you two are. Pull up a chair and experience what food is supposed to taste like.”
I’m not sure who he means to insult—the home chores should be shared among the three of them—but he clearly intends for his words to sting.
“What is it?” Misia asks.
“Wild rice congee,” I say. I have to stop myself from offering to clean her wound.
“It doesn’t smell like it.” She eyes the stove suspiciously.
“I added herbs.”
“Maybe you’ve heard of them,” Jarek says. “They give food flavor.”
Ah, so Misia is meant to do the cooking. In school we learned of the bygone cultural mandate—women responsible for a majority of home duties—in our history class. It made no sense when partners were doing equal work in their trades, but a lot of history didn’t make sense.
“Go easy on Mom,” Gryphon tells his father roughly. “She said she had to dispatch”—here he glances at me—“another animal.”
Jarek’s face turns a deep red. He lunges toward Gryphon, swinging a fist. His son dodges the strike, but he’s backed against the wall.
“You know better than to tell me what to do,” Jarek says. His voice is low and dangerous, his hand still raised.
This is how they eat dinner? is my first thought.
My second is worry for Gryphon. One of these days, the habit of caring what happens to him will wear off, surely.
I force myself to replay the moment when he shoved Jonas in the basket, and that does the trick.
I’m able to watch the Tzus’ excuse for a domestic scene unfold with something close to dispassion.
“It was to be expected,” Misia says, removing her sword belt.
I examine her injury from afar, a two-inch scratch almost deep enough for stitches. It seems there really is something they’re fighting off within the Wall. Had I been wrong about Peter not being killed by an animal? But what kind of creature could have left the wounds I saw on him?
She throws her belt over the back of a chair and finishes her thought. “Good practice for the big day.”
A trickle of fear slides down my spine. The big day. What does she mean by that?
“Where was the beastie this time?” Jarek asks.
“You know where,” she says through gritted teeth.
The air feels too thick to breathe, the potential for violence crackling between us. Then, suddenly, Jarek releases his son, issuing a command. “Back out on patrol, now.” And then to Misia, “Is the tablet charged for tomorrow?”
“Barely,” she says, “but enough to get him out of here.”
Tomorrow. Peter’s funeral?
Jarek nods. “Then take me to what’s left of the creature,” he commands his wife.
“I can pack you some food to go,” I say, shocked that I’ve spoken. “It’ll stay warm for a while.”
“Do it,” Jarek orders.
My movements are jerky as I ladle the congee into a canning jar.
I screw on the cap and offer it to him. Gryphon looks at me expectantly, and I drop my gaze.
If I hadn’t just seen the way his father treats him, I’d have happily scooped him a serving of poop soup.
As it stands, I find I no longer want to.
Jarek, thinking I’m simply denying Gryphon food, laughs at his son. “Your wife doesn’t much care for you, does she?”
“She’s not my wife,” Gryphon snaps, his face shuttering. He strides to the bread box and grabs a small loaf that I’d bet a jar of honey is stale and storms out.
“Well,” Misia says. “That will not do, will it? Your disdain for your betrothed is unacceptable, Rose. It’ll be better once you’re wed. I thought we could wait, but perhaps we should pull the ceremony forward. How does that sound?”
I feel an unexpectedly sharp pang. I’d cared for Gryphon—loved him, in a child’s sort of way—before the betrothal ceremony.
But Misia isn’t offering me the Gryphon I used to know.
There are too many years between the boy who was my dear friend and the one I watched walk my brother to his death.
With this Gryphon, the one who grew up cold and hard and mistrusting?
I want to delay the inevitable as long as possible.
“It sounds wonderful,” I say. “Would you like some congee to go?”