Chapter Text
Chapter 1: FIVE
James
„Jamie? Jamie, where are you, darling. It’s time to wash up and get ready for bed.” The gentle voice of his mother echoes through the cavernous chamber, slightly distorted by the white pillars so high, James can barely see the top of them where they reach the concave ceiling, which seems miles away.
He’s five years old, and he knows that he’s not really supposed to play here. But it’s his favourite place ever, the sheer magnitude of it almost dizzying, like when you run in tight circles for some time, and everything around you starts to swirl and sway. And as long as father doesn’t find out, he isn’t going to get into trouble. Probably.
Mother will not tattle on him. Whenever she finds him here, she just shakes her head and sighs with a warm, indulgent smile. It’s their little secret. “After all,” mother always says, “your father doesn’t have to know everything, does he?”
James worships his father, who is the High Janissary of the Hall of the Stewards, though he isn’t quite sure what that means. But people come to him for advice – both Janissaries and Stewards alike – and they look at him with admiration and respect which has to mean that it is something important. So James has decided that, when he is old, he wants to be High Janissary too. He thinks it will make his father proud, and James would like that very much.
His mother is closer now, and he hides with his back pressed against the cold marble of a column and holds back a giggle that is sure to betray him. He screeches, when suddenly arms close around his middle and hoist him up.
“There you are, you little rascal,” his mother says.
“Mama, I’m not a baby anymore,” he complains and starts to wriggle in her embrace.
She puts him down, chuckling under her breath. “Of course not, Sweetheart. You’re a big boy, almost a man. And now come, let’s get you cleaned up. It’s getting late.”
*
Will
Will is hiding in the pantry under the bottom shelf, wedged between a sack of dried black beans and a crate containing heavy earthenware jars of pickles and preserves. One of the jars must be leaking, as fumes of vinegar make his eyes burn and tickle the inside of his nose, high, high up, where even his pinkie can’t reach.
It’s pitch black and claustrophobically cramped, but Will has never been afraid of the dark. At five years old, the darkness has never hurt him or made him feel bad. The shadows are his friends. It’s when he is out in the light that he’s scared.
It’s there that all his shortcomings, of which there are many, much more than he can count, are laid bare. Where he cannot hide and her sharp gaze tears him open, makes him feel like a trout helplessly flopping on Chef’s cutting board, before she cuts it up with the sharp point of her kitchen knife.
And still he can’t help loving her. He loves her as desperately, as fiercely as she hates him. Because he might not know much, but he can see it flashing in her eyes, as sharp and cutting as Chef’s knife. And all he can do is try to be good – a good, good boy – and stay out of her sight so he doesn’t give her reason to get angry at him.
He always fails, of course. Eventually. Because he isn’t good. Not really. If he were, wouldn’t she love him, just a little bit?
There is the sound of footsteps, then a creak when the wooden door knob turns. A bright triangle of light slashes the darkness and Will tries to shuffle back, as deeply into the shadows as he can.
Maybe, he thinks – hopes – it’s just Chef, coming to fetch the basket of potatoes to be peeled for supper. He closes his eyes and prays the way Bessie showed him to, when she had still sneaked over to play on the small patch of grass behind the chicken coop. Before Matthew caught them and chased Bessie away.
He thought that maybe, if he just prayed hard enough, Bessie’s god would come and help him be good. But he never did.
A hand grabs his wrist and pulls him out from underneath the shelf. Will’s eyes fly open, and he’s almost blinded by her, surrounded by a halo of pure, unadulterated light.
His shoulder screams in pain when she pulls harder. He scrambles up, first on his knees, then on his feet.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, he mumbles, even though he does not know what exactly he has done to earn her wrath this time. Simply existing seems to be enough.
“Up,” his mother says. “If I catch you alone outside of your room one more time, you little demon, I’ll have to tie you to your bed again. You don’t want that, do you?”
He shakes his head. Shakes it so vehemently that his dark curls whip his cheeks so hard it hurts.
She gives a tight nod. “Get out of my sight.”