When they reached the inn’s door, Neel said, “You know, I might be seeing you at the castle.”
“You might?”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about what Sadie said. I decided it’s about time I gave up picking pockets and tried my hand at a real job. Thought I’d see if Tabor could get me work in the stables.” He sounded serious, but his yellowy eyes twinkled.
“But, of course, you wouldn’t have to stay in the stables,” Petra said craftily. “I’m sure that once you got a job at the castle, you could probably explore different parts of it pretty freely.”
“Yep. And maybe I’ll get a notion of where the prince stashes his pretties.”
“Sadie and your mother won’t like it.”
“Oh, I suppose not. But there’s no reason for them to know, right?”
“I believe that would cause them unnecessary stress,” Astrophil chimed in.
“Most unnecessary.” Neel shook his head and sighed. “Sometimes adults just don’t know what’s good for them.” He began walking away, but glanced over his shoulder to wink at her. “See you later, Petali.”
14
Genovese
I HOPE YOU REALIZE, Astrophil silently said, that taking a job at the castle means you will miss the start of classes at the Okno schoolhouse.
And you can see how sad I am about it, Petra replied. She marched across the inn’s common room, sat across the table from Lucie and Pavel, and announced that Aunt Anezka wanted her to stay with her for an entire month. “I’ll move my things to her house tomorrow. She’ll take me back to Okno.”
“Well, if that’s what your aunt really wants …” Lucie said. “We wouldn’t be good company for you anyway. We’re so busy selling our wares.” And Lucie launched into a long complaint that Petra ignored. She ate her dinner quickly. Then she dashed up the stairs to their bedroom.
Petra had been aching to try something the moment she was alone.
She emptied her pockets, placed a copper krona on her palm, and stared. Anticipation thrilled through her. Could she move metal with her mind, like her father?
The krona lay motionless in her hand.
“Float, lazybones,” she ordered.
The krona did not budge.
After a few minutes of staring at the stubborn coin, Petra placed it in her purse and sighed. Disappointment warred with a sneaking sense of relief. In the midst of everything else —a new city, a new ally, and a dangerous plan—she wasn’t sure she was ready to use the more extravagant skills of her father’s magic. She was not sure what using them might mean—about who she was.
“You are young, Petra,” Astrophil spoke out loud. “Do not expect everything to come at once.”
“It’s just … I spent all these years thinking that I didn’t care whether I had any magic or not. I never expected that I would actually have it.”
“I never doubted you would.”
“And now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.”
“You should always do what you can. And I am not speaking about magic.”
Petra pulled the notebook from her pack. After looking at it for an hour, she could make neither head nor tail of it. The sketches were intriguing, but they mostly showed either things Petra had already seen (like the clock’s statues and water fountains) or things whose importance she didn’t understand. Petra paused when she saw her own face, and ran a finger along the edge of her penciled features. She remembered the statue of Life trailing behind Greed and Death. But most of the sketches seemed to have little to do with the Staro Clock. Petra saw spring flowers (like crocuses) and winter berries (like holly and mistletoe). There was a drawing of their home in Okno, a thin sword, a ship that had gears that turned paddles in the water, a house that stood on chicken feet like the home of the fairy tale witch Baba Yaga, a human heart that seemed split into segments, and a lizard with the face of a man.
Some of the drawings looked like blueprints of the clock. They seemed fairly straightforward. Petra didn’t notice anything particularly unusual about the measurements for the dials and the face. But what completely baffled her were lines and lines of equations. Petra asked, helplessly, “Do you understand it, Astro?”
The spider gave her a mournful look. “I studied the equations during the ride to Prague. But there are no explanations for any of the symbols. How can I figure out an equation if I do not even know what the symbols stand for?”
Petra heard Lucie’s and Pavel’s footsteps on the stairs. She shut the book and sat on the pallet. “Fat lot of good that did.” She stretched out and yelped as the first bedbug bit her. “Astrophil, why don’t you pretend to be a real spider and eat insects?”
“What an unpleasant idea,” he said serenely. He curled into a little tin ball on the pillow by Petra’s head and fell asleep for the second time in his life.
THE HOUSEKEEPER of Salamander Castle, Harold Listek, was a nervous man with watery eyes. Petra stood before the seated man, trying to smooth the wrinkles of her skirt.
Master Listek gave Petra a confused glance and turned to Sadie. “Well, what is it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Boy or girl?” He looked like someone who thought a trick was being played on him.
“A girl, sir. Her name is—”
“Viera,” Petra interrupted. Her own name was not terribly common, and she didn’t think it was wise to reveal anything of her identity.
“Well, if it’s a girl, then what the devil has happened to her hair?” he cried.
“The pox,” Petra said promptly. The disease usually made one stark bald, at least until the sickness had run its course and the hair had time to grow back. Petra imagined Neel completely bald and tried not to laugh.
But Master Listek caught her. “The pox is no laughing matter, girl! Why, anybody would think from the look on your face that pox was your favorite treat! Like kolachki! Not at all, not at all. It can make your skin look like a cheese grater. I could tell you a few tales about court beauties laid low by a bout of the pox. Marriage negotiations wrecked. Reputations ruined. Of course, the pox can leave just a few scars, and one can live with that. Indeed. But how miraculous that you seem to have escaped the worst fate of the pox. Why, your skin is quite smooth.” He peered at her as if she were a horse he might buy. “I suppose that is a sign of good health, isn’t it? And good health—”
“Yes, sir,” Sadie gently interrupted. “She is a healthy, strong girl. I think she would be well suited to working with me.”
“Out of the question, my dear, out of the very question! Why, a chambermaid is often seen. And what with her hair—”
Hair seems to cause humans quite a lot of problems, Astrophil told Petra. I am glad I do not have any.
“Perhaps a position in the kitchens?” Sadie pressed. “There she would have to cover her head with a cap anyway.”
“Hmm. Hmm.” Master Listek’s finger quivered against his lips. “Yes. Yes. I suppose that would do. Mistress Hild can always use another hand. Now, Sadie, see to it that this girl gets her uniform and makes it to the kitchen without falling into the dungeons or getting lost in a closet, will you? Why, the last person we hired somehow got trapped in a suit of armor and we only found her skeleton!” He slapped his knee and laughed. “That’s a joke,” he wheezed. “A joke!”
Sadie smiled creakily but Petra didn’t even bother.
“Thank you, sir.” Sadie began to lead Petra away.
“And the best way to stave off the pox is worms, I say, worms. You have to dry and powder them, mix a little bit in your tea before bedtime. I never got the pox, I’m glad to say, and it’s all due to the benefacting powers of worms—”
The door shut behind them.
“If I’m going to be working in the kitchen, I can always prepare a cup of bedtime tea for you, Sadie,” Petra said wickedly.
Sadie grimaced. “No, thanks.”
She led Petra down a dark hall. Petra didn’t feel as if she were in a castle. Rather, it seemed
as if she were in a labyrinthine cellar with many doors. After she had met Sadie at the stables, the young woman had led her straight to the servants’ entrance, which was small and low. From that point on, Petra had seen only one underground room after another. Even Master Listek’s office, though it was decorated with a sad red rug and a few unmemorable knickknacks, was disappointing. Petra had hoped to find more grandeur in the castle, especially after everything her father had told her. But she supposed that the prince didn’t put much energy into beautifying the servants’ quarters.
If she was looking for grandeur, she didn’t find it in the vestiary, where Sadie helped her into a gray-blue dress that was her size, with an apron to match. The walls were lined with shelves of the gray-blue clothes. Imagine that every dress was one rainy day. The vestiary housed years of them. Sadie helped Petra tuck her sleek hair under the cap and said, “Take good care of your clothes. They are part of your wages.”
“What?” Petra objected. “Couldn’t they pay me with fur-lined boots? Or hot, saffron-scented baths? Or pastries?”
“Once a week you’re allowed to have a bath.”
“A hot one?”
“Er … it’s lukewarm. Sort of. After all the older girls—like me—have their turn in it,” Sadie said somewhat apologetically.
Petra groaned. She turned to the spider and pointed at her cap. “Well, get in.”
“Surely not,” said Astrophil.
“Where else are you going to hide?”
Astrophil crawled inside her cap and lay flattened against her head. “I am cramped,” he complained in a muffled voice.
Sadie led her down yet another dark hallway that looked almost completely identical to the last dark hallway. But this one had a large door at the end of it. Rattles, bangs, and various steamy smells came from the door.
“There you go, Petra. I’ll see you tonight. Enjoy your first day in the kitchen.” Sadie smiled. “And try not to throw any knives.”
The kitchen was a flurry of activity. Men and women were shaking pans over a brick oven fueled by wood-burning fires below. Several pots large enough to take a bath in hung in the fireplaces. Petra felt sweat spring immediately to her forehead. The other workers in the kitchen did not seem to notice the sweat dripping down their faces as they scurried around a large wooden table that took up nearly the entire room and was loaded with meat, vegetables, and cheese.
Petra asked a girl if she could speak with Mistress Hild. She was led toward a broad woman with a meat cleaver in her hand. Mistress Hild’s face looked permanently irritated. Wrinkles fanned out from her small mouth. When the servant girl introduced Petra as the new kitchen maid, Petra uneasily noticed that Mistress Hild’s right arm was more muscular than her left, the result of hours of chopping. When the woman set down the cleaver, Petra relaxed.
Mistress Hild placed damp hands on Petra’s shoulders and pushed her toward one end of the table, where there was a mountain of dirty onions. Petra stumbled. One of the kitchen boys snickered.
“Peel them,” commanded Mistress Hild.
“All of them? Alone?”
“Of course, you stupid girl. Everyone else is busy. Tonight there will be a great feast for thirty people, including ambassadors from Italy, England, and the Ottoman Empire.”
Petra looked longingly at the other servants, who were stuffing small quails, chopping celery, grating cheese, and mincing meat. One lucky woman was blending butter, eggs, sugar, and a dark spice. Several of the kitchen workers gave her smug looks, glad to have escaped the worst task of all. Petra searched Mistress Hild’s face for some trace of pity. She found none. “Where’s a knife?”
“You will peel them with your fingers only. When you are done, you may have a knife to chop them.”
Petra looked with despair at the huge mound of yellow-brown balls. “But what are they all for?” She couldn’t imagine what dish required so many onions.
“Genovese.”
“Jeno-what?”
“Jen-oh-vay-zay.” She pronounced it slowly, like she was talking to someone who had been dropped on her head as a baby. “Genovese is made with onions and meat. It’s a dish from Italy. You have heard of Italy, haven’t you?”
A snicker came from a scrawny girl.
Petra shot a dangerous look in her direction, then replied, “Most of Italy’s wealth comes from taxing ships that come into its ports. It often gets attacked by pirates.” She paused, and Astrophil silently helped her. “Italy is composed of city-states. It is divided into several different regions, each run by a duke.” Petra became aware that the noises of chopping and scraping had stopped. Everyone in the kitchen was staring. “Italy—”
“Enough.” Mistress Hild pushed her into a chair and handed her an onion. “Peel.”
When she had walked away, a freckle-faced girl leaned toward her and whispered sympathetically, “At least you get to sit down.”
After a couple hours of peeling, Petra was covered with papery onion skins. Her fingers were black with dirt. The table now held countless bald onions. Mistress Hild passed by. She handed Petra a knife and an enormous pot. “Chop,” she said.
Petra chopped. She cut the onions quickly and with a grace that was noticed by some of the girls around her. But Petra did not see their admiration, because tears leaked out of her eyes from the tang of the onions. She sniffed to ease the burn in her nostrils and wondered if the prison guards ever used this form of torture on the unfortunate people under their lock and key. She tossed the chopped onions into the pot.
She split open one onion and saw, instead of white rings, a pool of black, reeking goo. Its smell hit her like a slap in the face. Petra paused, wrinkling her nose. Then she deliberately (and naughtily) swept the bad onion into the pot.
Genovese, she discovered, must cook for many hours. After Petra finally finished her task, Mistress Hild set the full pot over one of the kitchen’s fires, adding a few hunks of meat. Then she steered Petra toward a sink heaped with oily dishes. She tipped a kettleful of boiling water into the sink. “Wash,” she said.
Petra washed. To say she was bored would be an understatement. But she was at least somewhat entertained by Astrophil’s continued report on the details of Italy, and by imagining what would happen to Mistress Hild once the Italian ambassador tasted her Genovese.
But Petra was denied the pleasure of seeing Mistress Hild fired, or demoted to Dishwasher-in-Chief or Chamber Pot Scrubber Supreme. Mistress Hild passed by the bubbling pot and dipped in a wooden spoon. She slurped a spoonful. Gagging, she spat into the fire and grabbed a pitcher of water. She gulped at it, and water spilled over her stained apron. She coughed and spat again. Then she whirled around and saw the woman who had been in charge of selecting and cutting the meat. Mistress Hild whacked the woman’s arm with the wooden spoon. The woman howled. “It ain’t me, mistress! That meat was fresh, I tell you!”
“It was her!” The scrawny girl pointed a long finger at Petra. “She popped a black onion in the pot! I saw her do it!”
What is happening? Astrophil lifted the edge of Petra’s cap and peeked out.
Mistress Hild faced Petra, the wooden spoon still in her fist.
Oh my, said Astrophil. I think you are about to be fired.
Petra grabbed a large glass of hot, dirty water and faced the cook. Not without a fight.
But Mistress Hild’s chief assistant crossed the room and began to whisper in the cook’s ear, darting her eyes in Petra’s direction. As she spoke, the cook’s mouth grew into a little smile. And this Petra decidedly did not like.
“You,” Mistress Hild pronounced, “are going to the Dye Works.”
15
In the Dye Works
I’LL TAKE HER!” The girl who told on Petra thrust her spindly arm in the air.
“Me! Me!” cried a boy with pig grease on his fingers.
Several of the servants clamored for the right to take Petra to the Dye Works, whatever that was. Petra was wondering about the source of her newfo
und popularity when Mistress Hild’s response clarified things.
“You all just want to get out of work,” the woman sneered.
“I’ve finished my task,” the freckled girl said timidly. The cream she had been ordered to whip was thickened into white, pillowy mounds.
Mistress Hild nodded. She scribbled a note, passed it to the girl, and jerked her head toward the door. Petra reluctantly set down the glass of oily water. She followed her guide out the door. Astrophil sighed in relief. At the risk of sounding disloyal, I think a fight between you and Mistress Hild would have ended one way: with her turning you into mincemeat and serving you for supper.
So long as mincemeat doesn’t involve onions, I’d say that there are worse fates.
Once they were in the hallway, Petra sized up her companion. The girl’s greenish eyes and dappled skin made her look like a woodland creature. Her head was lowered, her eyes focused on her small feet. She seemed a little lacking in vim and vigor, but Petra was very glad to have escaped the company of Mistress Hild and her sidekick, Miss Toothpick Arms. “I’m Viera,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Susana.” Her country accent, like Petra’s, was as thick as tree syrup. “You’re from the hills, aren’t you?”
“I’m from Okno.”
Susana stopped looking at her feet and gazed at Petra with delight. “Really? I’ve always wanted to go to Okno. It’s supposed to be so lovely. I’m from Morado, but I guess you’ve never heard of my village.”
“Of course I have.” Morado was not far from Okno. Petra had only ever heard of Morado as a town where you would never want to stay longer than the time it takes to ride through it. But she thought that saying so would hardly be polite.
My arm is getting tired.
A little corner of Petra’s cap was still sticking up in the air, propped up by one of Astrophil’s tin legs.
I cannot move. The spider poked Petra’s head.
“Ow!”
“What?” Susana looked at Petra, confused.