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Chapter Eleven
Working in the kitchens became an odd routine for Salas, and before he knew it, a week passed of a mundane, yet calming regime. He would wake up each day, find the king having already vacated his own chambers to begin the day, and head to the kitchens, and after working, return back to the room. Each time he returned, it brought a sliver of anxiety that he hoped would eventually ease. He could not yet determine if the anxiety was deserved.
The kitchen staff had warmed to him, he was surprised to discover. All he did was stumble about their place of work, throwing sugar into soup instead of salt, chopping potatoes before peeling them, and ending up with enough knife cuts on his fingers, the cook had taken his knife away and he was left to stand by the cauldron and give the great pot the occasional stir. Still, every time he thought he did something he should not have done, the staff seemed to find him funny and amusing, the chidings he received were always warm.
He learned the head cook’s name was Marriott, and whenever he was bored, he would follow her around and repeat the Diagorian words she said. Whether she enjoyed the new shadow or not remained to be seen, yet he was determined to learn the stiff language nonetheless.
“Dinner…is…good,” Salas said proudly, parading his Diagorian as he tasted a spoonful of peppered greens.
“The dinner is delicious,” Marriott corrected sternly, with abundant patience.
“Del…cous.”
“Delicious,” she repeated.
“Delcous.”
She flicked him, and he swatted her away.
“What is this?” he asked, holding up the spoon he held, for he always seemed to phrase the ‘what’ question correctly and wanted to be praised for it.
He preened when Marriott nodded her approval. “That is a spoon.”
And so on and so forth. After working, he would meet the other birds in the mess hall or somewhere within the other chambers and corridors, though they often wanted to go outside and enjoy the sports in the courtyards. So far, Salas had declined each offer to join them, though internally hoped he could work himself up to leaving the castle.
Salas turned down the offer that evening and instead headed back to the King’s chambers, trying not to feel alone and deflated.
As he approached the chamber doors, something occurred to him. He was reminded, again, that for some reason, the King had ordered the guards to no longer be posted outside of his rooms. It could have been mere coincidence, though one day Salas had mentioned that the guards made him uncomfortable, and the next day, they were no longer at their station.
Shaking his head at the oddness, he stepped up to the door, about to enter, when he heard voices from inside. The King had company, and surprisingly, they spoke Susconian.
“And his leg is okay? I’m only voicing the concerns of the other Susconians. It seems Salas doesn’t share his shortcomings with them often enough.” The voice, Salas knew, belonged to Tarick.
“From what I have observed, he’s moving more freely,” King Jareth replied, sounding thoughtful. “You are right about the shortcomings observation,” he murmured, almost to himself. “His leg will be checked tomorrow. Beatrice, will you have time?”
There was a shuffle, and then another voice spoke up, belonging to a woman. “Of course, Your Majesty. I should also suggest, just from observing myself, that he take a day of rest. He works in the kitchens?”
“And has the entire staff wrapped around his little finger,” Tarick chuckled. “Doesn’t enjoy measuring cups, I hear, but enjoys people.”
“He’ll rest,” The King conceded, ignoring Tarick’s comment.
“I also wanted to mention my…suspicions regarding the peculiar…sensations the Diagorian citizens may experience while within his presence.”
There was a pause in the conversation. Salas held his breath, ear pressed to the door, sweat prickling the back of his neck.
“Yes?” the King demanded carefully, after a moment.
“Well,” Beatrice continued, sounding like someone with a wide reserve of glittering vocabulary and only wanted to choose the most shining words, “as we know, the boy is fae. A jinx. The magic that he imposed upon the kingdom may…react to him. After all, he is your beast’s ‘creator,’ in a sense. Through natural magical means, or perhaps as a defense mechanism, your magic is drawn to him.” She paused, as though considering. “It really is an obvious response. Have you observed any chaotic behavior of the other beasts who have been near him?”
“He’s received escorts from the guards, and I have heard rumors from them, though no one has been close to him.” The King said this completely decisively, as though he believed it with conviction, and with full ignorance of the truth.
Salas nearly stumbled away from the door in shock, his eyes round and suddenly wet. So the King didn’t know about the guard coming to his cell? He had not been involved in any way? He hadn’t heard the story from other guards around a dinner roast, and laughed?
“And will he stay here?” the voices continued.
“For the time being. Other arrangements might be necessary, though we shall find the best solution, one way or another…”
Then the doors were flying open and Salas could only stand there, stunned, as three bodies now stood over him, seeming perfectly surprised to find him there. The woman made a sound of astonishment.
