Free Undermajordomo Minor by Patrick deWitt Page B

from the water, there was nothing in his hand. He returned to his room and re-emerged with another puppy, making once more for the barrel. Why this was being carried out in Lucy’s presence, and just prior to eating, Lucy could not fathom. Whatever the reason, he felt impelled to intervene. When he spoke, he was not motivated by any one thought or combination of words, but inresponse to a kind of pain, much in the way one involuntarily cries out after being injured:
    â€œStop it,” he said. “If it’s come to this, then I’ll take him.”
    Memel came nearer and deposited the puppy in Lucy’s palm. “Her,” he said, and moved to the table to ladle out the stew.
    The puppy was the runtess of the pack. Sleekly black, her head tottered creakily, as though she were feebly aged. She peered up at Lucy and opened her mouth but no sound came out; lowering her head, she closed her eyes and Lucy tucked her into the breast pocket of his coat. Her snout pushed proud of this, her tiny jaws ajar. Lucy rubbed the fuzz above her nose and she licked his fingertip, which prompted a flutter in his stomach. There is an instance of import when one experiences the conception of love, he realized. It was as though you had been waiting for it all along; as if you’d known it was approaching, and so when it arrives you reach out to greet it with an innate familiarity. Behind him, Memel said, “All right, Lucy, the stew is cooled.”
    When Lucy turned to face the table he gave a start, for Klara and Mewe had snuck in and were sitting upright, hands laid flat before them, a portrait of obedience but for the hint of mirth clinging to their lips. Lucy suspected their sneaking in was a prank played on him, some bit of mischief for his benefit or at his expense. It was harmless enough, as pranks went; but why did his face burn so as he sat down? Klara, spoon in fist, covered her face and silently shuddered; Mewe produced a series of discreet snorts. Memel, sitting, took note of their good humor but had no inkling of its origin. He leaned forward on his elbows and asked hopefully,
    â€œIs there a joke?”
    â€œNo,” said Mewe and Klara together.
    â€œThere’s not a joke?”
    â€œNo.”
    Memel tried to let it go, but could not: “Oh, tell us the joke, already.” He was genuinely curious; he himself wanted to laugh with the others—he wore a smile on his face, in anticipation ofthe introduction of something amusing. But when they offered no explanation, he grimaced, and told Lucy, “This is rude behavior.”
    Lucy stared at his stew, waiting for the painful moment to pass. Quietly, he told Memel, “It’s something private between them, I suppose.” Klara sat up alertly when he said this, as if she’d been stuck with a pin, and now she scrutinized Lucy for such a length of time that he thought nothing else would do but to face her.
    When their eyes met, and held, he felt once again the instance of import, only more powerfully than before. There was in him an actual reverberation, and his blood hurried every which way. He could not intuit what Klara was experiencing, if anything, but there was something in his expression which alarmed her, and she suddenly looked away. When she did this, his heart caught, and he wished to reach out to her, to take up her hand in his own. Now it was her turn to blush, he noticed.
    Lucy settled into his supper. The stew was deliciously spicy, so that sweat beaded at his temples under his cap, and his tongue was singed with a pulsing heat. Memel poured him a glass of water but Lucy, recalling what lay at the bottom of the barrel, opted for wine. He only rarely drank alcohol, and it birthed in him a feeling of jauntiness, and he decided he might have some small celebration with himself. By the time he had finished his stew he was working on his third glass, and a confidence or sense of ease settled over him. Mewe and Klara