Ring, ring, ring.
“Sod it all!” Marlowe yelled. “What the hell do you want?”
“I already told you. I know it’s unfamiliar territory, but you’ll get it. I have faith in you.”
“This is ridiculous! I don’t have time for—”
Click.
I went over to the small stretch of counter by the stove, to help Gessa make sandwiches, and ended up getting handed a bucket of boiled eggs. It looked like we were all having sandwiches for dinner, and Gessa was putting some of each kind on the boy’s tray as she finished with them. I pointed out that it probably didn’t matter—he hadn’t seemed picky to me—and she nodded. But then kept doing it anyway.
“Slavers feed gruel,” she told me, after a minute.
“Okay.”
“Back in Faerie, also eat gruel.” Her eyes darkened. “And anything else.”
Ah.
“And now you’re having fun feeding him all kinds of different tastes he’s never had before.”
She didn’t answer, but looking at the determined slant of her chin, I didn’t think I had to worry about the kid going
hungry.
“We’ll add some hand pies, too,” I told her, and she smiled.
My butt cheek did the mambo again, and I considered throwing the phone out the door. But it didn’t belong to me, and besides, that wouldn’t make the asshole go away. That would make him come down here, and then I might have to murder him.
“What?”
“All right, all right! I’m . . . sorry.”
It sounded like the last word got caught on something in Marlowe’s throat, probably his overweening pride.
“What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”
“You heard me! I’m tired of playing these stupid games! I need—”
Click.
I mushed up maybe three dozen eggs in one of Claire’s huge mixing bowls, added half a jar of mayo, some salt and pepper, some diced onions, and some Dijon mustard. And made a face after tasting it, because it was missing something.
Sven, who was stalking the kitchen like he was afraid we’d eat it all, passed me some brown sugar, because he used it on everything. Literally. How he still had teeth I didn’t know.
“Thanks, but I don’t think that’ll help.”
Sven looked like he was going to argue, but Reiðarr intervened. He put a spoon in my mix and sniffed it cautiously before taking a tiny taste on the very tip of his tongue. And wrinkled his nose.
“It’s mostly just eggs,” I said defensively.
“Tasteless eggs.”
“I could add some pickle relish. Or some bacon?”
Sven perked up at the mention of bacon. He liked to add brown sugar to it while it was cooking to make what was essentially meat candy, so it was always a hit. But Reiðarr disagreed.
“Vinegar.”