Of Blood and Bone (Chronicles of The One #2)(24)

Light and shadows changed, shapes formed like a sketch blurred behind rippled glass.

Then his voice rang out, his arms snapped wide.

“Open now what I closed. Reveal here what I cloaked. For this is the place of my making. And The One is come.”

The blurred sketch sharpened, took on form and color and shape.

Now in the clearing stood a cottage with a thatched roof and walls the color of sand. Smaller than the farmhouse, larger than the cabin, it had windows facing west and a thick wooden door. Beside it a small stable with a pitched roof held double doors, and close by a small greenhouse shimmered in the stream of sun.

Like the cottage doors, protective symbols had been carved around the frame of the stables, the glass door of the greenhouse.

A statue of the goddess, like the one at the cabin, stood beside the cottage door in a pool of polished stones.

She’d seen her mother’s magicks, had practiced her own. But she’d never witnessed anything approaching the power needed to conceal and conjure on such a scope.

“See to the horses,” he told her. “They’ve had a long journey.”

“You’re pale.”

“It’s more difficult to open than to close. See to the horses,” he repeated, “then come inside.”

He took his pack, walked into the cottage, and shut the door.





CHAPTER FIVE


She tended the horses, an easy enough task. Though the stable held only two stalls, they had fresh straw already laid and tools for grooming organized. Both mounts seemed content to settle in with some hay in the basket and the water she fetched from the stream.

She left them to it, carried her duffel, the weapons she’d taken, and what was left of the food her mother had packed to the cottage.

There she paused, remembering, and took her canteen, dribbled water for the goddess on the stones before she opened the cottage door.

It seemed larger inside, and the oddness of it gave her a strange, disorienting sensation. The ceiling rose higher than it should have, the walls spread wider.

A fire burned in the hearth with two sturdy chairs facing it. Rather than a sofa, the room held a wide bench covered in dark brown leather. Candles stood in iron holders on a table. A woven rug spread over the rough planks of the floor.

What served as the kitchen ranged across the back. It held a second, smaller hearth, a worktable, a sink with a window over it. Dried herbs hung in clumps. Jars of roots, berries, mushrooms, and seeds stood together on a wide plank.

She hoped he planned to conjure a stove and a refrigerator. And the power to run them.

But for now he sat by the fire with a glass of what she assumed was wine.

“You have the south-facing room. Leave the weapons on the table. We’ll have some food when you’ve put away your belongings.”

“There’s no stove, no oven.”

“There’s a kitchen fire.”

“No refrigerator.”

“There is the box charmed to keep food cool.”

She had a sudden and very bad feeling. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“You have a water closet for that need, and both a stream and a well with water for washing.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You will, most certainly, find yourself in places without the advantages you’ve known until now. You’ll learn.”

“This already sucks.”

She dumped the weapons and, more shocked than angry—no bathroom?—stomped off to what would be her bedroom.

If she stayed.

At least she didn’t have to face lame bunk beds or ugly plaid, she thought with a frowning scan of the tiny bedroom. The bed was a mattress on slats with four short posts, but the blanket on it felt thick and warm.

In lieu of a dresser she had a chest, but she liked the shape of it, liked the painting of three women—goddesses maybe—over it. She had an oil lamp and a rug and a small, square mirror that showed her tired and dissatisfied face.

Still, the window—no curtain—looked out to the woods. She spotted the stone well, which would have saved her the trips to the stream if somebody had bothered to mention it.

She noted a chicken coop, so fresh eggs, and, to her surprise, saw a cow.

So he could do all that, but he couldn’t add a damn bathroom?

She didn’t bother to unpack, but went back out to complain.

“I want a bathroom. This isn’t the seventh century.”

“Then you’ll have to learn enough to make one. For now, we have what you need to make a stew for dinner, in the cold box and the cupboard.”

One shock followed the next. “You want me to cook?”

“I provided your breakfast,” he reminded her as he sliced a loaf of bread. “And we have bread and cheese for midday. Your mother taught you to cook. She is an exceptional cook.”

“And what do you do when I cook?”

“Eat. We have a cow for milk, chickens for eggs—and meat when needed—a forest for game, and plantings in a greenhouse. You’ll eat well enough.”

Because she was hungry, she took the bread and cheese. “We need to make a hive. We need to keep bees for honey unless you have a source for sugar. Where do you get the flour and salt and yeast or starter for bread?”

“I barter for it. We’ll tend the stock and the plantings together. I have no knowledge of hives, so that will be your task, then you’ll teach me how to tend it.”