Remi plays with a fork on the table, spinning it with one finger. “What’s he like?”
“The venatre?” I shrug. “He was reluctant at first, but I think he’ll do a thorough job.”
“How thorough?”
Again I shrug, this time to hide my unease. “I guess I’ll find out when I answer his questions.”
Or avoid answering them.
“You’d best let the magister know you’re here, Remone,” says Mistress la Fontaine abruptly. Her use of his full name leaves no room for argument.
I glance at the plate in front of him. Not a crumb is on it, so he must have licked it clean. No doubt he missed his mother’s cooking.
Remi stands and stretches with a groan. “It’s good to see you again, Kitten,” he says. “We’ll catch up later, eh?”
I hate when he calls me Kitten. “Goodbye,Remone,” I retort, wishing I had a better name to torment him with.
After he vanishes out the door to the workroom, Mistress la Fontaine turns to me, chopping knife in hand. “You be careful what you tell the venatre today,” she says. “I don’t like the look or sound of him. Foreigners should have no business in our affairs.”
Odd she would take such a stance when her late husband was from Tauria, which isn’t even on this continent. No one who looks at Remi could doubt his foreign father’s business inheraffairs. “Prezia isn’t exactly far,” I say. “Less than a week’s journey.”
“I don’t like his eyes,” she insists. “They aren’t natural.”
I roll my own at her superstition. Then, remembering Remi’s comment, I ask, “Have my eyes changed like Remi said?”
“No.” The housekeeper turns back to her vegetables with a series of viciousthwacks. “It’s just the light.”Thwack.“Nothing more.”