Chapter 7: Hester's Kitchen

He's frightened. Ask him what of.

Imogen's words followed me through the night, and I did not plan to ask Garrick anything.

By the next evening I knew where everything was in Hester's kitchen, and who was allowed to steal from the biscuit tin.

The answer was nobody, except the pups.

There were four of them, and they had adopted me within a day.

The youngest, a gap-toothed girl, sat on the counter swinging her heels while I sliced bread.

"Is it true you can't smell anything?" she asked.

"I can smell fine. I just can't smell what you can."

"What can you smell?"

"Right now, burnt toast," I said.

Hester swore and snatched the tray out of the oven.

The girl fell off the counter laughing.

"It's not burnt," Hester said. "It's well done. Sit down, you wretched child."

I was grinning when the knife slipped.

It cut across the heel of my palm, a clean, deep line, and blood welled up in a bright thread.

I hissed and grabbed a towel.

"Let me see," said a voice from the doorway.

Bram had come in with snow on his shoulders and a bag of flour on one arm.

He set it down without looking and crossed to me.

"It's nothing."

"It's bleeding on Hester's floor."

"Hester's floor has had worse."

"It's true," Hester said cheerfully. "Stitch it, boy. My eyes are too old for that and my hands will shake."

He pulled out a chair and sat me down in it.

Then he took my hand in both of his, and turned it palm up under the lamp.

I had not been touched in a kind way for a long time.

His fingers were warm and dry, and the calluses on them rasped faintly against my skin.

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