MY TEARS FLOWED. I sobbed.
Then my anger woke up. If he was still alive when we reached Frell, I’d dine on him.
No. If he was sick, I’d cure him. Sobs broke out again. I quaked with them.
Squire Jerrold shifted on his bench. “Can I help, Mistress Ogre?”
I choked out my name. “Mistress Evie. No. You can’t.” I hated my love.
Finally, I calmed. “Squire Jerrold, I killed two ogres, and a giant slew the remaining four. I told the master about it.” I repeated the story.
“Sir Peter’s heads may not belong to the same ogres, Mistress Evie.”
At least he called me by my name. “You wrote to the master that they’re on display. Where? I would recognize them.”
“They’re on pikes on the road into Frell.”
“For people to gloat over.” I’d never pitied my dead band members before.
“They’re ogres!” He realized what he’d said. “Apologies. I don’t mean you should be killed.”
“And have my head exhibited.”
“Certainly not, but if they were the ones you knew, they were trying to eat a giant.”
“They’re thinking creatures with speech. They don’t show off the skulls of their victims or boast of the numbers they’ve killed.” I didn’t mention that they didn’t distinguish in kind between, for example, a meal of human and horse.
“You say they, not we.”
Guess the truth, Squire Jerrold. Guess it!
But he just waited for me to answer.
“Because I never killed any people.” I went on more calmly. “Or elves or giants or gnomes. The only beings I killed were the two ogres.” I chewed a meat stick. “I’ve murdered many fleas.”
He smiled, showing the adorable gap in his teeth. “Did you eat them?”
“Too small. Not worth it.”
“Do most ogres have a sense of humor?”
“The ones I knew did.”
I felt his confusion. “Are you joking?”
“No.” I went back to Sir Peter. “How did he say he killed his ogres?”
“He hardly knows me, but I’ve heard from others that he climbed a tree and watched their movements. Then he set traps.”
“They would have smelled him.”
“He said he rubbed himself with mint leaves to cover his scent.”
“That’s silly! Our noses are sensitive, and we know mint doesn’t grow on trees. We would have looked up and seen him.”
“He could have lied about his method and still have killed them.”
How fair he was. And correct. I should delay judging Sir Peter until we knew. “Do you like him?”
He hesitated. “I don’t usually speak ill of people—but he’s too . . .” He searched for words. “Too good at saying what people want to hear.”
People and ogres.
“Especially what the king wants to hear.”
That was more troubling than deceiving me.
I said, “You should sleep.”
He leaned back, exposing his straight, robust neck.
I tingled. How I hated my treacherous tingle.
He opened a window. My stink! Hastily, I dabbed on perfume.
His breathing evened out. I cried myself to sleep.
In the morning, I woke before Squire Jerrold did. Twenty-three days left. Tomorrow November would begin.
Squire Jerrold’s breathing was even deeper than it had been last night, and his skin looked brighter. Again I dabbed the disgusting perfume here and there.
I took stock of myself. No blight symptoms that I could detect.
When Squire Jerrold stirred, I asked to see his fingernails, where the blight bumps had flattened. His eyes, however, were still paler than I liked. He ate well—two meat pies, devoured with his head half out the window despite my perfume.
Afterward, he questioned me about ogres, and I told him what I knew, concealing only that I’d been thought a beautiful mare.
Was Lucinda watching? Did she notice I’d gone on as a healer and hadn’t eaten anyone? Did she care about a person’s behavior?
Some of Squire Jerrold’s questions were beyond my knowledge. Most strange to him was my ignorance about ogre health and ogre diseases. “You’re a healer!”
My mouth worked, but the words I’m not entirely an ogre wouldn’t come out.
“Grandfather looked the same when he tried to tell me about you. Are you both under an enchantment?”
I shrugged, unable to say that I was the enchanted one. If he thought the master and I were both under the same spell, he’d never get to the truth.
“Will the spell harm him?” Considerately, he added, “Harm you both?”
I assured him the master was in no danger. The best I could do to explain my knowledge of healing was to say that most of my patients had been human, which just added to his bewilderment.
He napped when he finished interrogating me. If he let me, it would be my turn next to interrogate him.
When he opened his eyes, breathed deep at the window, stretched athletically—beautifully—I said, “Now may I ask you a few questions?”
“Yes. Of course you can.” But he was uneasy.
I began anyway. “What do you do to be honorable?” I had to know if I hoped to love him. This was something I should have asked Master Peter.
“If you don’t mind, I don’t boast.”
I pushed down my irritation. “All the same, please educate this ogre.”
He nodded. “I’m courteous to everyone, no matter their rank.” His discomfort rose. “I tell the truth, and, truthfully, I hate to talk about myself.”
Modesty. Another virtue. Or not. I said, “It’s as much a lie to hide virtue as to flaunt it.”
I felt his astonishment, either at this idea or at my elegant turn of phrase.
“Would you let me use my ogre persuasion to ask the questions? Then you won’t feel embarrassed.”
He hadn’t been much afraid of me, but now his fear swelled. Yet he said, “Yes, if you promise I’ll remember.” I must have looked surprised, because he explained. “It may be a useful experience.”
How thoughtful and noble he was.
I promised. Meals didn’t remember only because they were, well, eaten. I softened my voice. “You don’t mind my questions, do you?”
His fear shrank. “No. Not much.”
I grew hungrier and took a meat stick. “What else do you do that’s honorable?”
A list of virtues followed. He helped the feeble, gave to the poor, listened to people . . .
I yawned.
I wondered what I’d think of him if I were all human. To this half ogre, he was honorable, yes, intelligent, yes, but uninteresting—lovable only because he was edible.
“Do you consider yourself cautious? Or brave?” I asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “I hope I’m courageous and not overcautious.”
I hadn’t said over. My healer self couldn’t help saying, “Caution would have kept you home to recover.” Wormy wouldn’t have ventured out so soon.
Good manners and zEEn stopped him from arguing. I asked him to continue listing his virtues, and, naturally, he complied. I noticed how gracefully his lips made words.
He did his duty without delay, was kind to his horse and hound, remembered the birthdays of his friends, practiced his fencing and archery even when he preferred to do something else.
“What would you rather do?”
“Sleep an extra hour, just do nothing, play dice, which is a vice, so I never let myself. I played only once, and I liked it too much. I never let myself sleep longer or do nothing, either.”
“You must be pleased with yourself for resisting.”
“I wouldn’t be pleased if I did what I disapprove of.” I felt his annoyance. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“Yet many people do those things.”
“It’s their right. I don’t think there should be a law against them.” He paused. “Maybe there should be a law against dicing or a way to stop people from losing all their money. It’s something to think about.” He smiled charmingly. “Thank you.”
What else did I want to know that I could learn only by zEEning? Nothing came to mind, so I changed my tone. “I’ve finished.”
Alas, I failed to think of the question that—with or without zEEning—would have yielded the most important information.
“Why are you interested in my honor?”
What to tell him? “The master fondly thinks you perfect.” I smiled.
He recoiled at the sight of my fangs.
Hastily, I added, “He seems to be right.”
“If I’m good it’s because I was taught by example.”
“Your grandfather is extraordinarily kind. Not many people would take in an ogre.”
We rode in silence, and I pondered love.
My recipe for a love potion called for mashing together periwinkle leaves, marigold petals, leeks, and an earthworm, and then thinning the paste with cherry juice. I’d administered it twice, to good effect, according to my satisfied buyers. What was love, really, if swallowing earthworm pulp could produce it?