Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet Page 4

  My buyer. My captor. Not my master. I’ll never call him master.

  I wonder if we’ll get far enough for me to run. Could I outrun this tall, awkward man?

  “Here, here, get in,” he says after a quarter hour of walking. My stomach bumps against the bed of a narrow wagon. “Step up!”

  It’s nearly impossible to do this without the use of my arms, but he pushes me forward nonetheless. I manage to get a knee up onto the wagon’s lip, and he shoves me indelicately. I roll and feel splinters dig into my arms where sleeves don’t cover me. The sliver of sight the bag allows me widens ever so slightly.

  The wagon shifts as he mounts the driver’s seat, and a donkey brays and jerks us forward. The smell of moldy straw seeps between the network of burlap covering my face. I wiggle back and forth, trying to shift the bag off my head, but the space is so cramped and the ride so jarring, I can’t find easy purchase. Sometime into our journey, I give up and lie there, resting. I consider jumping over the side of the wagon, but the way I’m bound—my shoulders stretched out behind me—I’m certain to cause injury. And what if the motion doesn’t knock free my blindfold?

  I don’t know this man. Will he hurt me like the marauders hurt the other women? Will he do worse?

  I remember his words.

  “Please!” I shout over the sound of the wagon and donkey. “You said you knew me. Did you speak truth? Please, I must know!”

  If this bizarre man, cruel enough to keep slaves, knows my face, my name, and my history, I will let him drag me the length of Dī and back. I would cut off my hands to know who I am and where I come from.

  “Please!” I beg, but he doesn’t answer. He must hear me.

  I call out again and again, but the wagon doesn’t slow, and I hear nothing but the occasional complaints of the donkey. Sighing, my chest trying to pull away from itself, I lay my head back on the hard wood of the wagon and stare at the dots of sky seeping through the burlap sack.

  It’s a long ride. Long enough that, despite the roughness of the wagon bed and the pain throbbing in my arms, I manage to sleep. For how long, I’m not sure. It’s in and out.

  We stop after nightfall. My buyer grabs me by my feet and hauls me to the edge of the wagon, barely keeping me upright when I tip over the lip and stumble. He guides me over loose dirt and up a creaking porch step. The building we enter is darker than the outdoors, but he lights two lamps, sits me on a wicker footstool, and pulls the bag off my head.

  I blink several times to clear my vision. Pieces of my short hair have glued themselves to my forehead and cheeks with perspiration. One tickles the corner of my mouth. My new owner sees this and brushes the strands back, looking at me excitedly with those brilliant and terrifying eyes.

  “I’m not a slave,” I say, raspy. My throat is dry, and my stomach wrings itself with hunger. My shoulders have gone numb.

  “I know you’re not,” he says, and he pulls a small knife from his pocket. I cringe, but he merely steps behind me and begins sawing through my binds.

  Trying to work up enough spit to swallow, I take a look at his house. It is a house—I can see into a small kitchen from where I sit—but it’s sparsely furnished. It could belong to anyone. There’s no personality on the walls, other than places where the wood has been bitten into by a whittling knife, maybe fingernails, over and over, seemingly at random. There are only two pieces of furniture in the room, both chairs, neither matching. One, like the footrest I’m on, is wicker; the other appears to be cotton, its striped blue pattern worn to whiteness across the back and seat.

  My binds come loose, and my shoulders scream as they relax back into their normal position. Biting my lip, I lean forward and breathe sharp breaths. My hands tingle as blood rushes back into them. My fingertips throb.

  I try to ignore the pain and focus on the man’s words. “Then you’ll let me go?”

  He laughs, that same high-pitched, girlish laugh. “Of course not! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. For a long, long time. I didn’t know where you’d gone.”

  Ants crawl through my veins as I watch him sit on the chair diagonal to me. My heart is thumping, making me light-headed.

  The lamplight makes his face look almost green. He grins widely, though neither his cheeks nor his eyes wrinkle with the effort. He crosses one leg over the other and knits his long fingers around the higher knee.

  And I feel it. I can’t describe how, but studying him in this light, he looks . . . familiar to me. What about him is familiar, I can’t tell. I can’t even guess. Some sliver of nostalgia nags at me, but when I try to pinpoint it, the sensation slips away, and I wonder if I ever felt it at all.

  “I don’t know you,” I try.

  The grin fades just a little. “Of course. That’s all right. That is perfect. This will be good. Very good.”

  Perhaps he has merely been looking for a woman of my make, of my appearance. Not me, precisely. Maybe he doesn’t know anything about me at all, for if he did, he certainly wouldn’t be treating me this way.

  “Your name?” he asks. The question burns through every flutter of hope working its way through my body. Even I remember my name. If this man truly held the key to my two decades of missing memories, he would surely know my name.

  I feel all the light leave me, sucking my energy with it. I could cry if my body had the water to muster the tears. After all this time, I really thought I’d found a clue.

  Fire sparks at the back of my neck. Why would he make me think we had a connection? Why would he toy with me? I want to glare at him, to seethe at him, but I must make this situation as pleasant as possible. I’m not sure how long I’ll have to live in it. So I answer him. “Maire.”

  The grin fades completely. He unfolds his legs. Looks off to the side, at nothing that I can see, for an uncomfortable moment. “I can say that. Maire. See? It’s fine.”

  I don’t think he’s talking to me.

  His eyes meet mine. “I am Allemas. What do you think?”

  I gawk at him. “Of what?”

  “Of the name.” His countenance sharpens.

  I don’t understand, but pretend otherwise. “It’s a very fine name.”

  He smiles again. I’m not sure if I like it when he smiles. That grin isn’t familiar. I can’t read him at all.

  Allemas leans forward and whispers, “You have magic.”

  That strikes me. I straighten, and my shoulders shout in protest, reminding me of their recent cruel treatment. “What?”

  “You do. I know you do. Tell me about it.”

  I study him again, trying to place him. He isn’t of an identifiable nationality, and I have trouble imagining which city-state or country in Raea he might call home. “Do you have magic?”

  He slams a fist down on the armrest of his chair. “Tell me about your magic.”

  I tell him about the cakes, about my shop, eyeing that fist the whole time. It isn’t a hard thing to explain, merely difficult for most people to understand, but Allemas nods as I speak, acting as though the ability were commonplace. As though he expected it.

  I try again once I’m finished. “Do you have magic?”

  He leans back. “I. Have. Knowledge.” And taps his head. “And you do not. And you are mine now, and you will do what I say. How delightful! I’ve never had a cake. Make me one.”

  I stiffen. “How do you know—”

  “Cake!” he commands.

  I stare at him, at his small kitchen, then at the darkness outside the window. I flex and unflex my stiff fingers. So many questions bubble up inside me, threatening to choke me, but I know I’ll get no answers, not tonight. “Now?”

  “Make me one.”

  I stand, a little shaky, and my stomach growls. I ignore it and step into the kitchen, searching for light.

  Allemas grabs one of the two lamps and follows after me.

  He has a small wood-burning stove and limited counter space. No sink, but there is a tall faucet with a crank for well water by the back door,
which I note has several locks running down its length. There are dingy-looking tiles beneath the water, and a gutter off center of the crank runs the excess water outside.

  Trying my buyer’s patience, I head for the pump, gritting my teeth as my shoulders creak and wrench. I work the handle up and down until water pours forth. I stick my head under it, gulping the liquid down. When my stomach is full, I rub my hands together under the stream and over my face, rinsing away dirt and salt.

  Allemas merely watches me. He doesn’t move, save for the occasional blinking of his eyes.

  I notice that they don’t always blink at the same time.

  I shiver and dry my hands on my filthy trousers. “Do you have flour? Sugar?”

  “I have bread and eggs,” he says. “And chicken.”

  “I need flour and sugar to make the cake. And butter. And milk.”

  “I don’t have those.”

  “Then I can’t help you.”

  I expect him to become angry, but he doesn’t. He puts the tip of one index finger into his mouth and thinks for an abnormally long time before replying, “Then I will bring some. And you will make me cake. Yes, this will work.”

  He hurries forward, grabs me by the elbow, and drags me to the other end of the kitchen. He lifts a door in the floor, and the scents of earth and mice flood my sinuses. He pushes me toward the cold cellar, using enough force that I nearly fall down the narrow, rotting steps. They have no rail.

  “Sleep,” he says, and shuts the door, leaving me in utter darkness.

  Where am I?

  CHAPTER 4

  My eyes don’t adjust to the dark. There has to be some source of light, however faint, for human eyes to see anything, and there is none.

  I curl up on cold stone, shivering, and fall asleep.

  I wake several times throughout the night to utter silence, never even hearing the pattering of rodent feet, which is probably for the best. Eventually morning light seeps through the cracks of the door above the stairs, rough with the shadows of splinters and nails.

  The cellar is a small room, stone all around, and empty. There’s no stored food, no shelves, no barrels or blankets or bedding of any kind. Allemas had not expected to come home with me.

  Skidding my feet over the floor as I go, I seek out each wall of the cellar, hoping my feet will find earth instead of stone, though I have no utensils with which to dig. It doesn’t matter, for there isn’t one weak spot to be found. The walls don’t even have loose bricks or other doors. My prison is sound.

  I rest my head against the cool rock and shiver. My arms and legs have grown heavy, and my head feels full of spun sugar. The floor above me creaks, but is Allemas coming or going?

  Crouching, I listen. Back and forth he moves, back and forth. I didn’t notice anything peculiar about his gait last night, but now I realize it’s never even. There isn’t a pattern to his footsteps. It’s not that he has a limp; it’s just . . . wrong. Everything about that man, about this, is wrong.

  Any god who will hear me, please guide me, I pray. Let me find a way out. Let me escape. Let me eat. Please protect Arrice and Franc and Tuck.

  Tuck. Did he get the keys? Did he escape? Or was he discovered and beaten for my actions?

  Had there been any food in my stomach, I would have thrown it up.

  The cellar door opens, basking me in blinding, green-tinted sunlight. Wincing, I shield my face with my hands and peek through my fingers. Allemas wobbles down the first few steps and says, “Come come. Now. Come.”

  I do.

  To my surprise, his counters are littered with boxes and paper sacks: sugar, three kinds of flour, cocoa powder, leaven, butter, nuts, berries, raisins, salt, dyes, eggs, and herbs. There’s not enough space left to place a bowl. I can’t fathom how he got all these ingredients here so quickly. Is there a market nearby? Open at night?

  “You’ll make a cake now,” he says, leaning over me.

  I blink, trying to clear the fuzziness in my mind. I wonder if he’s forgotten I’m human.

  I’ll remind him. “I need to eat.”

  “You will make the cake.”

  “No,” I say, soft but firm. “I haven’t eaten in two days. I can’t make what you want when I’m this hungry. Do you understand?”

  It sounds like I’m speaking to Arrice’s grandchild, but the tactic works. After Allemas mulls this over, he ambles to one of the cupboards and pulls out a hard half loaf of bread. The corner is moldy, but the rest of it looks edible.

  I take it from his hands and sit right there on the floor to devour it in huge mouthfuls. There are no chairs in the kitchen. Not even a table. The bread hits my stomach like crumbled bricks, but it fills me.

  I crawl to the pump halfway through my breakfast and gulp down cool water. It makes me sick at first, but my head begins to clear.

  Allemas watches me from the corner. I straighten my clothes, gone ragged from my hard travel with the marauders, and start rooting through his cupboards for a bowl and some utensils. Fortunately, he also purchased those, along with some pans and firewood.

  “You’ll make me a cake,” he repeats.

  I pause and stare at him, waiting for something within that dark hole in my memory to spark, but it doesn’t. “Have we met before?” I try.

  Allemas growls. “No,” he answers, petulant. “Make me a cake.”

  The bread in my stomach turns into lead, weighing down the rest of me. I can’t help but believe him; what remains of my hope fizzles like rain-drenched embers. I sigh and ask, “What do you want?” while rubbing my palm into one eye and looking out the window in the back door with the other. Lush woodland greets me. I could get lost in those trees. I doubt Allemas would find me.

  Allemas grins. “Make me smart.”

  He doesn’t specify a flavor, but I hardly care. As I cut butter and measure sugar, I realize the power this bizarre creature has given me. I slow my movements and focus on the task before me.

  I imagine debtors in chains being absolved of their fines by generous patrons. Criminals released early for their good behavior. The small roach in my shop, and the feel of its antennae as they sought escape through my fingers. I imagine the slave traders approaching my pen and saying, We’ve changed our mind. Go. Run while you can.

  Mercy. I have never made a mercy cake, but I pour everything I have into it, real and imagined. I think of scripture legends, little children, Arrice and Franc’s hospitality, even the ghost-man who warned me to run.

  The cake is buttermilk with raisins, and as it bakes, I whisk a glaze of cream and browned butter. I’m not familiar with Allemas’s stove, so I stop to check on the cake often. It rises, and it smells heavenly. My stomach remembers the taste of sugar and spice and growls in anticipation.

  Allemas merely stares as I work. I try to ignore him. Perhaps in his mercy, he’ll let me eat some of my own confection. I’m not sure how house slaves are meant to be treated; Arrice never kept any. No one in Carmine did, so far as I know. Not even the governor. We were all too poor, or perhaps too kind.

  I cut Allemas a slice and serve it to him on a chipped plate.

  He doesn’t use a fork, which makes me wonder if he even owns one. His eyes widen and sparkle, much like a child’s, and he licks the glaze off the top of the cake.

  “Mmm!” he exclaims. A noise that would have made me smile were he truly a child and I not his prisoner. He picks up the triangle of cake in his hand and takes a large bite, chewing happily. He takes another before he’s even swallowed.

  “This is very good. This is—”

  He pauses, crumbs on his lips. Studies me for a long moment. His bushy, orange eyebrows tighten, and gooseflesh rises on my arms.

  I feel like I’m back in Carmine, huddled in my cupboard, holding my breath as the cupboard door behind me opens and slams shut again, the marauders searching for me—

  “This is not what you were supposed to make. I do not feel this way!”

  Cake and plate hit the ground. The latt
er shatters. Allemas charges for me, and I throw my hands over my head, ready for a blow. Instead he grabs my arm, drags me across the kitchen, and shoves me into the cellar.

  I stay down there for a very long time.

  “Make me a cake,” he says.

  And I do, this time focusing on intelligence. On the light in the governor’s eyes, on the library, on the riddles Franc tells around the fire after supper in the winter, when the light forces him to retire early. I think of Cleric Tuck’s lessons on philosophy, for once wishing I had paid better attention to his words. I make a chocolate cake, but it’s not rich and spicy like my love cake. I don’t have the right spices, and besides, I have no desire to create something delicious for Allemas.

  It’s a light cake without topping. Simple, and exactly what Allemas requested.

  He eats the entire thing, giggles, and claps his hands.

  “How old are you?” I ask. I steady my legs, ready to fight back if he tries to toss me in the cellar again.

  The question doesn’t rile him, however. “I don’t know,” he answers, somewhat solemnly. “How old am I?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t?”

  I study the narrowness of his face, the odd shape of his hair. I can’t decide if he’s mocking me or if there’s something inside him that’s absent. “You look to be in your midthirties.”

  That makes him smile.

  “I’m four and twenty,” I say, hoping that giving him a fact about myself might humanize me in his eyes, but he only laughs.

  “Oh no, Maire,” he says. “You are much older than that.”

  Cold laces my bones. I stiffen and feel, oddly, like I’m very far away. “What?”

  He stands and passes me, walking into the front room. “I’ll show you your room.”

  “But—” I hesitate. Glimpse the back door and forget the strange comment for a moment. I eye the locks parading up the doorjamb and wonder: How fast can Allemas run, with that uneven gait of his?

  He growls, calling back my attention. “Do not run. I know all about you, Maire. I’ll know if you try to leave me.”