He dubbed himself the Rat King when he foresaw the rodents crawling on his corpse, weaving in and out of his garments like a sensation, like a disease. Now he waits for them down in the ornate sewer home he fashioned. It is a fickle thing, the premo...
The human is in shock. Boidae is sure of it. Her face is pale; she stares ahead without seeing. He lifts his hand to grasp her shoulder, but reconsiders it.
"I will walk you to your room."
It is not a request and she accepts it with a mute nod. It is a stupid thing to do, but Boidae thinks it is better if he makes sure she returns to her room. She is acting strangely.
He did not think the tale was that extraordinary, but it seems to have unmanned her. They reach the winding corridor and she turns toward him, focusing on a point at the center of his midriff.
"Thank you."
He bows curtly and draws a small pin from his pocket.
"If you wish to ever speak with Aldéric or me leave this on my door before dinnertime and we will devise a way for you to visit with minimal risk."
She takes it from him carefully, studying the twisting snake in the candlelight.
"Thank you, I will."
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Tell me again of the Tale of Siduse, he says to her.
Again?she asks, her eyes fixing on the books lining his wall. The dusty, old books, faded with age and disuse.
Yes, yes, tell me again.
And so she tells him and lays her head upon his lap, resting her bones as she speaks softly to the dark. Her eyes find the veiled mirror that flutters with a nonexistent wind.
So Day saves her? he asks when the story ends. Day saves Siduse, and all is well?
Yes.
It dawns on her how easy it has become to lie to him.
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Pavel has gotten paler. Though Boidae won't admit it, there is something frightening in seeing his slow decline. He is slower and when he touches stone, wood, or water his hand flinches, as if the mere impact of such motion sends his mind reeling. His pupils have dilated and he seems to be in a constant state of distraction. He has taken to wandering the halls, something that they cannot afford. An unsuspecting guard will have to be placed outside his door soon so that his wanderlust does not spiral into something darker. It grows everyday—this Boidae knows for certain. There is a sort of ravaged look that seems keener on Pavel's face lately; he has begun to spiral back into Russian dialect, which none but Aldéric understand. He seems to be perfectly calm through all of this. They all do.
