Chapter 8: The Hound

Bastian's POV

The hound died on the hall rug at five in the afternoon.

I was in the Chamber of Records with a clerk and a stack of Assize returns.

A footman came through the door without knocking.

"My lord," he said. "It's the dog."

I ran.

The old brown hound lay on its side at the foot of the stair, its legs stretched out, its tongue blue.

Beside it on the flagstones was a white box with the lid off and gold ribbon trailing.

The cake had one corner torn away.

The hound had been mine for nine years.

Ximena was kneeling by the dog in her house gown, with her hand on its ribs.

She looked up.

"It was in the kitchen," she said. "The cook put the box on the table and went out for flour."

"I didn't eat any. I swear to you I didn't."

"I know," I said.

"It ate the corner. It was alive when I came in. It just lay down."

"I know," I said.

I was on my knees beside her.

I put my hands on her face, both of them, hard.

I turned it to me and looked at her eyes and her mouth.

She was breathing.

Her pupils were wide and normal. Her lips were pink. She smelled of rosewater.

I let my forehead drop onto hers.

My hands were shaking again.

"I'm all right," she said, softly. "Bastian. I'm all right."

It was the first time she had said my name.

I had waited six years to hear it said like that, low and sure.

And now it was in my own hall, with my dead dog between us.

"Stay in this house," I said. "Do not eat anything you did not see made."

"Do not leave the room until I come back," I said.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To see a cook," I said.

She held my wrist.

"Don't do anything that costs you," she said.

I looked at her for a long moment.

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