Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(16)

“Maa-ma,” he whined in the disappointed voice every boy used at the notion of cleanliness. “But Caliban isn’t done eating.”

She smiled tightly. “I’m sure he’ll be fine with Maude.”

“And you aren’t done eating, either,” he pointed out earnestly.

“I’ll finish the rest of my meal later.”

She rose and walked to the small fireplace, where a kettle had been set long before supper. It was gently steaming now. She caught up a rag and reached for the handle, but another, much bigger, hand got there first.

Lily gave a tiny jump, watching wide-eyed as Caliban picked up the hot kettle as easily as lifting a twig. At least he’d had enough sense to shield his palm from the heat with a rag.

He stood blank-faced until she pulled herself together.

“In here.” She stepped gingerly around his bulk and led him into the little bedroom. A tin hip bath was waiting, laid beside the bed on some old cloths. It was already half full of cold water. “You can pour it in there.”

He lifted the hem of his shirt to hold the bottom of the kettle and she caught an unsettling flash of his stomach.

Hastily she looked away, her cheeks heating.

“Mama?” Indio stood in the doorway.

“Come in,” she said briskly to her son, and then to the man: “Thank you for your help. You can go back to the table.”

Without a word he turned and left the tiny room, closing the door behind him.

Indio stuck a finger in the bathwater and swirled it around. “Why d’you talk to Caliban like that?”

Daffodil trotted over and placed her front paws on the rim of the tub to peer in.

“Like what?” Lily asked absently. She rolled up her sleeves and tested the water with an elbow, making sure it was neither too hot nor too cold. The bath was barely more than a shallow basin. She could use it herself by standing or crouching in it, but she missed the bigger copper half-bath they’d had to sell.

“Like he can’t understand,” Indio said.

“Start undressing,” she reminded him.

Indio sighed heavily. “He can.”

She placed her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow.

“Caliban’s smart,” Indio insisted, his voice only slightly muffled by the shirt over his head. He pulled it all the way off, making his hair stand on end, and looked at her.

She bit her lip. “How do you know?”

Indio shrugged and sat on the floor to push off his stockings. “I just do.”

She frowned, thinking. Caliban had presented himself as dull-witted the first time she’d seen him. Was it a ruse? And if so, whyever would…?

“Mama,” her son said with all the exasperated patience of a seven-year-old. He’d somehow taken off everything but his smalls while she was woolgathering.

“Yes, dear.”

“I’m old enough to bathe myself.”

That was actually debatable, since though Indio could wash the more obvious parts of himself—such as his feet—he had the tendency to forget anything else, such as his neck, face, knees, and elbows.

But she sighed and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll check back in a bit, then, shall I?”

“Yes, please,” he said, scrambling out of his smalls.

Daffodil immediately attacked them as Indio got in the bath.

Lily opened the door. “Maude, would you—”

She cut herself off. Maude was nowhere in sight, but Caliban was across the room, holding a page of her play to the light of the fire. His eyes were intent, his brow slightly creased—and he was quite obviously reading the page.

Quietly she closed the door behind her and folded her arms on her chest as her heart began to beat faster.

She lifted one eyebrow. “Who are you?”

Chapter Four

Nine months later the queen was brought to bed with the king’s firstborn. But the child was horribly deformed, with the head, shoulders, and tail of a bull, and the remainder of his body human, the skin overall as black as ebony. When the queen looked between her bloodied thighs at the monster she’d birthed, she fell insensible, never to fully recover her wits thereafter…

—From The Minotaur

Apollo turned slowly and stared blankly at Miss Stump. He’d been so enthralled by the wit of the play—a play he suspected she’d written—that he hadn’t heard the door open until it was too late. Perhaps if he made no reaction to her words…

She huffed and crossed her arms. “I’m not an idiot, you know. If you’re reading that”—she tilted her chin at the sheet of paper still in his hands—“you’re no half-wit. Who are you and why have you been pretending to be mute and a fool?”

Well, it’d been a last-ditch effort anyway—and not a very good one. He let the paper drop to the small side table and crossed his own arms, looking back at her. Whatever she might think, he really couldn’t talk.

She frowned—rather ferociously for such a small thing. “Tell me. Are you in hiding from creditors or the like? What’s your name?”

That was perilously close to the truth. Best to divert her before her imagination ran wild. He sighed and uncrossed his arms to draw out his notebook. He flipped to a blank page and wrote, I can’t speak.

He handed the notebook to her.