Free Undermajordomo Minor by Patrick deWitt

ofher face was backlit by candles, and he could see no flaws about her, not an angle out of place, as though she were a marble figurine crafted by the sure hand of a master wishing only to share an ideal of the purest beauty. Her comeliness was counteracted by the state of her coat, a shapeless, sack-like thing with cuffs gone thin to the point of fraying. But she herself was so very lovely to behold that Lucy wouldn’t have looked away for the world; he couldn’t have. Her black eyes flashed in the stuttering flamelight as she chided her playmate.
    â€œWhy do you do it, Mewe?”
    â€œI don’t know why. It’s like an itch that must be scratched.”
    â€œBut it isn’t any fun for me when you cheat.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œHow could it be?”
    â€œI should think it might be exciting for you.”
    â€œAnd why would you think that?”
    â€œIt follows some manner of logic.”
    â€œWould you like me to do the same to you?”
    â€œI suppose I wouldn’t, actually.”
    She snatched up the cards from his hand, shuffling these into the deck. “Even if you win, you lose, don’t you understand?”
    â€œI don’t know about that, ” Mewe said.
    She ceased shuffling. “Will you or won’t you stop it?”
    Mewe put on a brave face. “I will try.”
    A days-old puppy, black in color, clambered onto the table and arched against an earthen jar sitting between Mewe and his enchanting guest. When the jar toppled, Mewe righted it automatically and dragged the puppy from the table to his lap. The girl dealt the cards and they resumed play, and Lucy had the feeling he was watching a painting come to life; there was something enduring about the scenario, something timeless and vividly evocative, and this appealed to him in a sweetly sad way. The spell was broken when Mewe spied him at the window and said, “Oh, hello, there.” The girl turned to look, and when her and Lucy’s eyes methe was filled with a shameful panic, and he spun away, huddling at Memel’s door, his heart knocking against his throat.
    â€œWho was that?” he heard the girl ask.
    â€œLucy’s his name. We met him on the train. He’s at the castle, now. Gone after Mr. Broom.”
    She paused. “Is he nice?”
    â€œHe seems it. But who can say? Perhaps he’s a scoundrel in hiding.”
    The girl softly laughed, then was silent. Lucy heard the scrape of her chair, and now she appeared at the window. She stood mere feet from Lucy but owing to the darkness had no idea of his proximity. She was pondering some distant thought, a lonely one, according to her expression; when she shut the window and drew the curtain, Lucy stood awhile in the snow, feeling foolish and trembly.
    He turned and knocked on Memel’s door. Memel answered with a puppy in his hand, this likewise black, but with white boots.
    â€œDid you take my pipe?” Lucy asked.
    â€œYes,” said Memel.
    â€œCan I have it back, please?”
    Memel left and returned with the pipe.
    â€œThank you,” said Lucy.
    â€œYou’re welcome.” Memel nodded to the castle. “How are you settling in?”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œWhat have you had for your supper?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œAre you hungry?”
    â€œI don’t know if I am.”
    â€œShall we find out?”
    Memel ushered him into the shanty.

2
    T he front room of Memel’s home brought to mind an animal’s burrow. The floor was dirt, and the air smelled of roots and spices. The walls were made from tin scrap of varying degrees of corrosion, and they shuddered in the wind. But it was not an unpleasant space: a copper cauldron hung in the fireplace, its fat, rounded bottom licked by flames, and oil lamps throwing off a honey-colored light lined the rafters in neatly pegged rows. Lucy sat beneath these at a low-standing table. There was a litter of puppies roaming about,