Mad Honey

Chapter Six

The rest of the day goes like this, I ask him a question, he deflects and teases for a few minutes, I threaten him, and he gives me a half answer. I don't know his name, or where he's from or why he planted spies to watch the academy, but I know his favourite color is cream, he hates to write in cursive, and he thinks that I would look good in a dark blue corset. I slapped him across the face for that one. But as infuriating as he is, the answers are giving me a little insight as to where he's from. I have no idea why he's been watching us, but I think I know where he learned to withstand this kind of interrogation. I've been questioning him since seven in the morning, and it's past noon now.

"Darling?"

"Don't call me that, boy." 

"My apologies you nasty harpy. Is that better?"

"Much." I'm a bit snappish by now, dissapointed by my progress. 

"I need water, and perhaps food. It's been nearly a day since I ate and I feel quite faint. If I continue without food I may not be able to speak out of sheer hunger." This bitch. I'm hungry though, and a bit of food might loosen his tongue. And then a wonderful idea hits me.

"I would be delighted, absolutely honoured  to cook for you honey, food's coming up soon!" He frowns a bit. I guess I'm not amusing when I'm playing along. He likes a fight. I walk out of the parlor, hips swaying, and don't look back.

I love food. That's all I can think as I enter the kitchen. All kinds of food. At the academy we take turns cooking suppers and breakfasts and that's all fine and good, but you can't experiment much when serving nearly two hundred girls. When I was very young, when I still lived with my blood family, we cooked the most delicious foods anyone had ever concocted. Breads with orange and cranberry or olive oil and olives and basil, soups with spices an inch deep, pastries filled with cool cream or raspberry compote, and always had tea or lemonada or cider in our cups. Though it's been awfully lonely, staying out here for the past few weeks away from home, I can cook with spice and foods that the other girls don't enjoy. My spice rack here is packed, with little ceramic and glass jars of salt, peppercorns, coriander, cinnamon, bay leaves, nutmeg and cloves and more. I have several delectable cheeses wrapped in brown wax paper sitting on the wooden counter tops, as well as loaves of crackling bread, eggs, and as many vegetables and fruits as possible within my budget. I grab some milk, eggs, cheddar and stilton cheeses, leeks, and let the gas stove tick to life. In a skillet, I scramble the eggs, salt and spice them, and melt the cheese and leeks in, while cutting thick slices of bread slathered with butter. On my plate, I pile the eggs high and help myself to two slices of bread. The boy gets the leftover eggs, and a thin, wilting piece of bread. We both get water, mine in a glass and his in a tin cup just in case the idea popped into his head to cut himself loose.

"I have your dinner!" I call, bustling into the room. His head pops up, eyes sharpening in on the plates in my hand. I pull up a second stool, place his plate next to me, and sit and eat. He stares.

"Are those eggs?"

"Mmmhmm." My mouth is full so I wait a minute to answer. "Yes, it's scrambled eggs with leeks and cheese. It's excellent if I do say so myself." I think he might be tearing up.

"Can I have mine?" His? Oh no, he didn't earn these.

"That wasn't very polite, perhaps if you asked more politely, I would be inclined to share them." His teeth grind, and he glares up at me. I smile at him, and bite off a piece of bread with my teeth, and lean towards him.

"May. I. Please. Have. My. Eggs. Please?" He spits the words out. Feisty! Now this is fun.

"These eggs are yours?"

"I believe so."

"You must be mistaken. I'm supposed to deliver these eggs to a boy, but I don't know his name, so until I am reminded of it, the eggs must stay with me." His hands are straining into fists.

"I see." His voice is ice. The chill makes me giggle. I hop off the stool and walk over to him, stopping a foot away, and lean down to his height.

"You see boy, I can do this all day. In fact, this can go on for much longer than that. I have plenty of food here, could last weeks. The problem is, I think the last time you had a sip of water was more than twenty four hours ago. The human body can only go three days without water, and by that third day you're delirious and quite sick. Some people never recover, and dehydrated corpses are quite ugly. No one would recognize you and you would slip away, forgotten. I would love to give you these eggs and a cup of water, but I need a name, a real one." He's glaring, and I turn my back and go back to the stool. 

It's been three hours, and I'm munching on an apple, swinging my legs and looking at him. He's not looked up from the ground for hours now but his head is swinging a bit. We're almost to the tipping point, time to dance on the edge. I grab my now empty glass, and fill it with water. Then I stand, and stare straight at him. My hand wobbles a bit, as the water streams onto the wood floors. His head slowly lifts, and just watches the water meander past his feet and dribble along. He looks at me and then back down, silent I groan inwardly, turn around to grab the pitcher and walk towards the door, leaving him. But then,

"Wait." A voice rasps. My heart is going wild with excitement, finally! I turn slowly.

"Yes?"

"My name," He sighs heavily, "my name is Leo."