Page 133 of The Black Witch

Olilly, the sickly waif of a serving girl with the lavender skin, eyes me with fearful confusion, looking to Fernyllia for reassurance. The Kitchen Mistress gives the small Urisk maid a comforting smile before her eyes dart warily back to me.

“No matter,” Iris whispers loudly as she takes the flour from Bleddyn, glaring at me with courageous swagger. “You could dress a Roach like a princess, but she’s still a Roach.”

Fernyllia shoots Iris a sharp look of censure, which only partially dampens the dark smiles now on Iris’s and Bleddyn’s lips. The two young women leave for the storeroom, and I can hear them burst into laughter the moment they step out.

Neck burning now, I settle in to vigorously scrubbing plates in the broad sink.

When he finally arrives, Yvan ignores me completely, not even looking over as he takes his place by my side to scrub dishes and pots with a coarse, bristled brush. Eventually he glances over at me, then quickly glances again, a brief flash of surprise in his eyes, before he focuses back on scrubbing pots.

I’m aware of my face going red, imagining what he probably thinks. Braced for more abuse.

“I didn’t stop wearing my other clothes for you,” I awkwardly explain, sounding irritable, the sting from the harsh words he had for me the day before still smarting. “I really couldn’t care less what you think of me.”

He glances over at me again with his usual silent intensity as he scrubs the pot in front of him vigorously.

“I asked Professor Kristian if what you said was true,” I explain defensively, really not wanting Yvan to think that he has any influence over me whatsoever. “He said it was, so I decided I liked my own clothes better, the clothes I grew up wearing. I’m more comfortable this way anyway. That’s the real reason I changed.”

Yvan stops scrubbing for a moment as he stares at the wall in front of us, the muscles in his face and neck tensing. With a sigh, he returns to his work and says, “You look better this way.”

I give a start.A compliment from Yvan?

I’m unexpectedly touched by his words, a warm flush washing over me. His voice, when he’s not angry or irritated, is deep and surprisingly kind.

I stare at him sidelong as he continues to focus only on the pot in front of him.

* * *

I go to visit Professor Kristian’s office again a few days later, questions multiplying like shadowy rabbits in my mind. I’m hungry for answers, wanting to know the truth about things.

Professor Kristian blinks a few times as I enter the room, raising his eyebrows in what looks like surprise at my seeking him out again. He leans forward and peers out into the hallway from which I’ve come, perhaps expecting to see someone else out there. Then, seeing no one, he sits back in his desk chair and eyes me thoughtfully.

A shadow crosses his expression, there and gone again, his brow tensing. “You look just like your father,” he muses. He clears his throat, stiffening. “And your grandmother, of course.”

I blink at him in amazed surprise. “You knew my father?”

His eyes become guarded. “I knewofhim. Many people did.”

“Oh,” I say, disappointed.

“What brings you here, Mage Gardner?” he inquires, his tone now suspicious. “More questions?”

I nod, and after a long, tense moment, he resignedly gestures to the wooden chair in front of his desk.

I close his door and sit down, feeling awkward and nervous.

“I notice you’ve changed your dress since our last discussion,” he notes, and I think I detect a small glimmer of approval in his eyes.

“Yes, well...um...” I stammer. “I prefer my old clothing anyway.”

He raises his eyebrows at this, releases the papers he’s holding and folds his hands in front of himself, giving me his full attention. “What would you like to know?” he asks.

I bite my lip and let out a long breath before answering. “I want to know about the history of Gardneria.” I hold up my history book. “Therealhistory of Gardneria. Not this.”

The side of his mouth twitches. “That is considered a well-respected text—”

“It’s theGardnerianhistory of Gardneria,” I clarify.

He nods. “You are, perhaps, looking for a Keltic history of Gardneria instead?” he asks, wry amusement in his tone.

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