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### For the Last Time

and Other Tales

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by Z.N. Singer

Copyright 2011 Z.N. Singer

Smashwords Edition

Sword stock used in cover courtesy of FantasyStock of Deviantart. Her work is available free of charge.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Table of Contents

For the Last Time

The Lord of Thyme

The Cooking House

Gentle Beast

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For the Last Time

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As Mardon had expected, the tracking part was easy. It was a simple matter of following the refugees.

His first encounter occurred as he napped by the crossroads. For those who had the sense to travel with little, their weapons concealed by the drabbest of cloaks, this was reasonably safe. But it didn't protect him from well-wishers.

"Oy, old man! Wake up! You've got to wake up! You can't sleep here!"

Most people took a while to sharpen up after they'd woken, but Mardon wasn't most people: he saw the man visibly start as his eyes opened and focused immediately as if he'd already been awake. He was an earnest, decent looking man, probably in his early twenties. Good. He shouldn't be being called 'old man' that way by people much older than that just yet.

"Sky falling son?" He asked mildly, once he'd determined that whatever threat had the man so flustered, it wasn't here yet.

"This is no time for jokes old man, we've got a new Vampire Lord down east! He's taken several villages, ours latest, and he'll be advancing down this road soon enough if the last few days are any guess. You can't stay here, you've got to move on or they'll kill you!"

"Don't the Order take care of upstart Lords?"

"They're probably sending someone but who knows when he'll arrive? The vampire's too close already, it's too dangerous. Travel with us if you want, but you've got to keep moving the other way till then."

"They''ll arrive," Mardon corrected, getting up. "They don't believe in taking chances, sensible fellows that way. There'll be more than one. Best to finish these sorts right away. They get stronger fast."

"All right all right, fine, great, two people from the Order, wonderful, now lets go!"

"East, you said? So your village, that he just took, it's down that road there?"

"Yes, yes, and now we need to move down that road, there. Come on already!"

Mardon stretched, slowly; the movement swayed his cloak enough for the man to glimpse the weapons beneath: two long slim swords, nil on frippery and heavy with the wear of weapons whose quality of forging has outlasted several generations of owners, in unusually thick sheaths with an odd bit of catch-mechanism about the mouth, each accompanied by a dagger of similar design. Glints of light armor, meant to fully deflect a blow already partially avoided, also came through. Mardon held the pose a bit, valuing the silent communication it made, often so much more effective than argument.

"Well, thanks for the warning lad. Zombies are pretty slow, even fresh ones, so if you keep a nice steady pace you should stay ahead. Now that was sensible advice you were giving, too bad I can't take it, but you'd better take yourse—" His eyes caught sight of a harried looking woman with a child and he changed his words. "Take your family and move along like you were telling me to. Don't bother worrying about me, it's not worth it."

"But—I mean, okay, you're a warrior, I see that, but you're alone, really!"

"Like I said lad," Mardon said, turning down the road. "Zombies are slow."

"I'm not."

"Commander—"

"No."

"But—"

"No, I'm not changing my mind. I'm well aware of the facts, Stevens...but you're going to repeat them to me anyway aren't you?"

"Sir, letting one unaffiliated man take care of a new Vampire Lord with such potential, it is most irregular! And dangerous."

"Mardon may be unaffiliated but he's maintained good ties with us all his life, he can be trusted. And he's the best Master of the Discipline for hundreds of miles around. It's doubtful he'll fail."

"And since when are we satisfied with 'doubtful', sir?" The attendant – senior attendant, but attendant all the same – said with a highly unusual degree of feeling through gritted teeth.

Argon sighed. As a rule, he preferred not to punish that sort of devotion to duty even when it backlashed on him. It was hypocritical. And Stevens' frustration was understandable. The immediate and thoroughly orchestrated extermination of new Lords was one of the key policies that had allowed the Order to maintain its hold over the lands it had cleared and – for lack of a better word – occupied. "As a rule, we are not. However, these are...special circumstances. I have discussed this with Mardon: the details are private and need not concern you or anyone else other than me. We will of course keep close watch on the proceedings, and I have already verified the availability of a Wind Contractor to contain the Lord's advance until help arrives if he fails. I'm sorry Stevens, but I'm going to have to insist that you be satisfied with that."

"I—this is—"

"An order," Argon finished for him. Enough was enough. A commander did have to draw a line somewhere. "Now please go back to work. Oversee the surveillance if it will make you feel better."

After a short, tight lipped pause, Stevens swerved about and left.

Argon sighed, and rubbed his temples. As a rule, using his position for personal favors was an abuse of authority he abhorred. But this was different.

"Good luck old friend," he murmured. "I've done what I can."

Zombies really were slow: it took him several hours of steady travel – at a Master of The Discipline's pace, which was significantly faster than a normal person – to meet the first group, and they had been heading his way.

There were nine; relatively fresh, probably from that man's village. He'd have chosen those as foremost scouts for two reasons, most likely. The first would be that while their bodies hadn't yet finished decomposing into their permanent half dead state, they would be relatively faster than their senior brethren. The other would be shock factor, of course: the psychological hammer of familiar mutilated faces gaping in wide, bestial, unknowing horror behind the hands that sought their throats. It was a sight that would still more than a few filled with that desperate bravery even the most timid can find when caught between life and death. And this was important because the truth was that terror was a zombies greatest weapon. Their fighting abilities were near nil: fodder troops of the lowest order. Beings made by vampires with the self-control to stop halfway through a feeding, they were victims robbed of even the mercy of dying, suspended halfway between life and death by the continued existence of their rent life force, half within themselves, half within their master. They had even less awareness than a beast, utterly lacking the thought or will needed to fight the compulsions their Master would lay on them. All they had left was the awareness that there was something they lacked: something the living around them had, driving them to devour their victims flesh in a hopeless attempt to restore themselves. And that same lack of life force rendered them slow and clumsy enough to be downed by any reasonably strong villager with a chair. They were single minded, hardly even cognizant of the threat of death, and possessed a grip as unforgiving as rigor mortis, but they had to reach you and grab you for any of that to matter, and only fear allowed them to do it. Even in groups, zombies were only dangerous to untrained people. A good warrior could generally handle five at a time. Any mid-rank user of any of the five magics would think nothing of fifteen. Fresh or not, there were nine of them, and Mardon was a superlative Master of The Discipline.

He stepped out into the road and threw back the head of his cloak, revealing his face but not his accoutrements. And waited. Just in case.

The zombies saw him, slowed and then stopped, shuffling restlessly while their master looked and judged from behind their thoughtless eyes. And then, slowly, with the shambling momentum of the dazed, the wounded, or the half-dead, the group moved as one towards him, gaping mouths loosing mindless moans as their fingers reached forward for the first grasp of warm, coveted living flesh, and the unattainable fire it contained.

Mardon sighed. He'd known it was a long shot. With an eye-defying flicker of movement he drew his swords, long graceful blades laced with silver, the metal magic users called the Balancer, which cancels the magic it touches, leveling the ground between those who can use it and those who cannot. Such well forged examples were expensive: these had been in the family for some time. He had intended to give them to his son.

Resigning himself to butchery, he blurred into their midst, swords a swift slashing web of death about him. A Master of the Discipline is a master of the body's true limits, someone who, through intense mental and physical training, has learned to tap into the extreme capabilities of humanity. What most could only find in an instant of terror, an uncomprehending moment, The Discipline can use at will, and over time, train yet further.

Nine humans would have fared little better.

A vampire is, fundamentally, an addict to life-essence. Which, in turn, is best described as the source to vitality, the product, which we all use throughout our lives and which mages use directly in their spells. Vitality was meant to be used and restored: life-essence is not. Only Life Attuned Psychics can touch it, and the first to do so became the First Vampire. A vampire can still be made anytime a psychic is foolish enough to try and drink life-essence, but by and large a vampire comes into being when an intended zombie finds in himself, or herself, the capacity to refill the terrible void left within. With that first drink that saves him from half-death, he is forever enslaved to the life-force of humans. Because that forbidden, concentrated taste of life creates an immediate and overwhelming need that eclipses every addictive substance known to man. At first, they try to fight. But in the end the Thirst always breaks them. And the being that is left at last is certifiably mad, a driven, twitching individual whose deepest morals and foibles have been crushed from within himself. Only fragments of their former selves still linger. No compunctions, and often no sense, remains.

When sense does remain, however, that is a Vampire Lord. And they are the ones that are truly dangerous. Because even if they retain the capacity for human reason, and with it, even sometimes the seeming of their old selves, they are still mad. And so are their goals.

"Dan!"

"Ye-yes, yes yeth, master!"

Getting a vampire underling instead of a zombie was a fluke that often took a while to happen even once. Gordan had been lucky; he'd already acquired two, neither of whom had the capacity to become Lords in their own right. Dan was the lesser of the two. He would have liked to have sent both at once for such an opponent, but that would have effectively meant gambling all his real resources at once. He and Bardeus could take the old man together if Dan failed.

"That man who just killed some zombies down the road; go and kill him!"

"Yes Master!"

He encountered two more groups of zombies before the first vampire underling found him. He gave neither chance for recognition like before: he simply destroyed them. The Discipline enhances all senses and functions: strength, speed, hearing, sight, and even smell. Though this last was a doubtful gift when fighting half decayed corpses. Thankfully it was a conscious function that went both ways – he turned it off instead, almost entirely, so as not to be distracted by the putrid stench that hung in the air behind him and coated the gleam of his weapons. The worst part of killing zombies was cleaning your gear afterwards. It was a gut-wrenching, nauseating process.

Hopefully killing the vampire would leave relatively fresher gunk to remove. Not the Lord. The small one that was almost here.

He may have turned off his nose, but his eyes and ears were tuned to a fever pitch.

Just from the beat of its steps, he could tell it was a cheap one. The rapid pitter patter had the light frenetic tempo of un-ballasted wall-eyed abandon: this one had snapped entirely under the strain of his Thirst and left anything resembling rational thought behind. On its own it would have had a short life indeed, rampaging haphazardly until some magic user killed it. The power it absorbed by nature burned like alcohol: fast, short, and hot, leading it through a ravaging sequence of highs and lows until it finally fell for good, at the mercy of its own cravings till the end. With a Lord to force it into some semblance of rationality, it could be different. Certainly it was near guaranteed to be fresh stocked with life force. But for all of that, vampires like this were usually almost as confounded by being at full power as they were crippled by being without. And its limits would have remained those of humans. A limit he could match.

He reached for his swords, then paused, considering his cloak. Leave it on as a baffle for his movements and his body, or remove it for greater mobility? After a moment, he shrugged and removed it, tossing it aside out of the way. And then he set himself, and waited.

Never rush into an unknown, no matter what it seemed like. That was for amateurs.

There was no hesitation between the emergence of the vampire and its attack: it simply kept running, hands stretched forward and fingers arched like claws; they could rip far better than claws at the moment. Mardon pivoted his front foot and slid back his rear one, turning his body sideways and under the attack, but facing it; his left sword arched up point first in an attempt to skewer the vampire's armpit as it rushed forward; his right sword rose to point towards its shoulder from inside its grasp, posing a twin threat to the shoulder and the arm that rushed towards the leveled edge. The vampire swung wildly around the blades, its speed allowing it to react in time to avoid being mutilated three ways at once. But not in time to avoid being wounded; a long gash ran up the arm that had to avoid the right sword.

Now the vampire paused; it had almost lost an arm and possibly even the battle and it knew it. Mardon's eyes watched it carefully as he stood, his torso shifted slightly to keep the focus of his stance on his opponent; this time there was no inviting broadside of body presented. But what he watched most was the wound, and what he saw made him smile grimly.

The regeneration was slow, not nearly enough to turn the tide of battle. This vampire was even now incapable of sustaining lethal wounds. He would not need his sheaths: cutting it to pieces would do fine.

He could do that.

This man was too dangerous for him to fight himself if he could help it.

"Bardeus!"

"Yes?"

"Take all but a third of our remaining zombies and go face him. Use them to tire him or distract him, your choice. Just use them well. Make sure he is killed!"

"Yes, Master!"

This was the village. A Master of the Discipline did not use magic, and so did not develop a sense for the supernatural – directly. But their enhancement was wrought largely of mental discipline, and this, combined with the overall improvement of their senses, resulted in something that worked just as well, with practice at interpreting it. He could smell the air, feel the atmosphere, taste the faint tremor of danger, of lurking evil that everyone can know, but most can't control.

Here. The Vampire Lord was here.

More importantly though, a great deal more zombies and one vampire minion were here – close enough to fight.

His blades were already drawn, his cloak folded and tied about him, out of the way of his movements and his access to his belt. Up until now, he'd fought in a reactionary style at first, testing the grounds. The time for that was over.

This time, he would need to take the offense.

When everything in the body works together perfectly at peak pitch, the results often defy what many would consider even possible. Without seeing, without hearing, or in any way he could define, Mardon's eyes fixed on the darkness between two buildings.

There.

The six zombies waiting there barely had time to register they'd been spotted; they knew it when their heads flew and their limbs detached themselves to tumble lifelessly away. In the space of three breaths the space was occupied only by their remains and a dying breeze born of his passing: on, toward the next group.

If this had been organized by the minion, he was definitely of a higher order than the last, still capable of rational thought, if not of controlling his Thirst enough to create minions of his own. The zombies had been placed in scattered but tight groups, a formation designed for flexible deployment – and to hinder his ability to dispose of them. If they had been all in one place it would have been easy, but now he had to locate and go to each group in turn, moving as fast as he could to dispatch as many as possible before the real fight began: when the minion would finally intercept him. Then, perhaps, the zombies would be more than a passing nuisance.

He'd underestimated the minion. He was hiding in one of the groups.

His own speed counted against him – he reached the group faster than his senses told him there was something there. Only instinct saved him – he jerked back and twisted with violent desperation to avoid the open fingered strike that would have torn a hole out of his side, and taken his heart with it. And then the real battle was on.

The minion had a clear head: he turned and pressed on the attack with no hesitation or any sign of dismay, managing to salvage some of the element of surprise; Mardon was still off balance from having had to dodge so quickly and was all too easily put on the defense, backpedaling frantically to regain control as he flailed and twisted to turn the strikes coming at him aside. A pure silver blade would have weakened the vampire with every touch but would have been too frail for combat: the light silver lines in his swords could only have a lesser effect. When fighting other swords you blocked with the flat, but fighting vampires you blocked with the edge, and it was only the vampires' attempts to avoid mutilating his own hands that saved Mardon long enough.

A flicker in his opponents eyes and a tickle in his senses were all Mardon needed to know what was to come. For someone less experienced, it would have been the end.

Mardon was very experienced.

At the last possible instant, he turned his back and plunged directly into the zombies the vampire had been driving him towards. Moving at his top speed they may as well have been statues – they grasped dumbly at air while he wove through them and out the other side. His opponent was less nimble: caught by surprise by his quarries move he instead plowed directly into the first one, and then, momentum lost, found himself pressed in on all sides by lumbering half dead. By the time he tore through – disabling no few of his own troops in the process – Mardon was more than ready.

And now this vampire learned the true limits of a Master of the Discipline.

Mardon began at the minion's comfort level and then slowly, inexorably, moved past them. A vampire's life-fueled speed and strength is suddenly acquired and comes and goes – their control is rough, their understanding limited, their effectiveness sporadic. But the Discipline teaches true mastery. The vampire found himself first stymied, then pressed, then pushed back, lips drawing back in a raging grimace of fear as he nearly ran backwards before the assault. He could barely see his opponents motions anymore – Mardon's face was the steady cold center of a blurring unending series of cuts he couldn't even follow. He defended by sheer instinct, could barely distinguish between block and miss – fire traced itself across his arms again and again, with the occasional gash that tore into his legs or sides or face seemingly of their own accord. He was regenerating, but not nearly fast enough – the silver slowed him and the blows came too fast. And then he stepped back too quickly; he landed wrong, teetered, leaned backwards. His arms flung out to balance himself.

Both Mardon's swords buried their tips in his heart.

For a brief moment, time slowed to a lazy crawl, as blood sailed almost negligibly from the wound.

And then Mardon ripped the swords apart, tearing them sideways through his body, cutting him in two. Only a Vampire Lord could regenerate from that.

Mardon paused for a moment to catch his breath. And then he turned to dispose of the rest of the zombies. It would weaken the Lord, if he could delay the meeting until the rush from the liberated half souls faded.

On the thatch roof of a hut in the middle of the village, the onset of noon stirred Mardon from a meditative half doze. When you needed to remain aware for long periods without true rest, that was what worked best, at least for students of the Discipline, whose mental training derived much from eastern monasteries. Since he had not been aroused before this, the Vampire Lord had clearly chosen to go to ground, instead of pressing the attack while still riding on the surge from the devastation of his minions. While a zombie lived, the other half of its life-essence remained stable within the Lord, a source of vitality like his own. But when the zombie was killed, that essence would be released, to burn fierce and then go out, like an ordinary feeding. He would have been frighteningly strong for the first few hours...but by now, the rush would have long died, and the after-effects of the enormous boost would have set it: shakes, weakness, muscle tremors. Not four hours ago he would have been at his strongest: now he was weakest of all, most likely the weakest he had been since his first few successful zombies.

Now, it was time to end it. But first he would have to find him.

The first thing he did was to test the air, sinking into a different kind of trance to sift all the subtle signs there were to offer. He was able to confirm the most important thing: the Vampire Lord had not yet left the village. From that he could infer enough to make a search. Wherever he was would be underground. Vampires are not exactly afraid of the sun, but it rouses a disturbing mix of emotions in them, remnant memories from the death of the First Vampire, like all their other weaknesses. Stronger Lords had been known to ignore it, but this one had not been a Lord long.

He got up. He doubted the Lord had had time, resources, or motivations to make his own underground lair here: he would be in some sort of cellar, renovated for the purpose. What's more, it would certainly be a large one, not the small root cellars most of the people here might have had. That narrowed it down.

The Lord should have used his high to attack. Going to ground wouldn't save him from Mardon.

He started with the largest building he could find, and worked his way down. None of them were it: the cellar must not be under a building. Some calculated guesses guided by intuition led him to what he sought: a trapdoor in the ground. He knelt and put his ear to it, concentrating. Movement, yes, but further down, not waiting in ambush on the other side. Well, if it were zombies, a surprise attack was near impossible, even on someone un-Empowered, and with the time this vampire had been a Lord, it was unlikely in the extreme he'd acquired more than the two vampire underlings he'd already fought.

He went in.

It had been a small village: the cellar had one room, though it was a decent size. It was lit: vampires had no special ability to see in the dark. It meant that the layout he faced was very simple. No room for maneuvering or fancy placement. The Lord stood waiting in a corner with his remaining zombies massed tightly in front of him, a solid barrier even he would have to cut through. Which would restore the Lord's strength – somewhat. So soon after a terrible high, it was a desperate move sure to damage him, even if he won. Their eyes met.

"So...you've come for me."

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

"I thought perhaps the Order wouldn't let you."

"I talked to Argon."

The vampire smiled. "You never change. This is not the Ritual of Elevation we had planned is it?"

Mardon drew his swords. "This is no ritual of any kind. This is beyond that, straight to the bonds that bind the world. I will let no one else give you freedom from your Thirst. I will put you to rest myself."

"Then so be it – Father. But I won't let you win. You know that, don't you?"

Mardon looked at his eyes. The eyes of his son, once clear and bright with youth and determination. The eyes that had sworn to master the Way and inherit his swords. Now no one would inherit them. They would have to find new owners on their own.

Those eyes were not clear and bright anymore. They were dark and grim, tinged with the madness that is every vampire's curse. Lord or otherwise, there is something indefinable that never survives. To become something who feeds on life, you must sacrifice some element of your own humanity. By the time a Lord climbs from the eternal mad race of self-preservation, finally frees himself from the dangers of becoming a zombie himself, that something has been lost forever. No one had ever come back.

"I know." Mardon said.

For a moment – two, three – no one moved. And then Mardon blurred across the remaining distance.

Never again, he knew, would his swords shine like this: never again would he burn with this same mix of emotions as he fought what he intended to be the last battle of his life, whether he survived it or not. Always purpose had infused his movements, but never had so much feeling pervaded his thoughts in combat: his heart turned his movements into a true dance of glittering silver grief as he devastated the small horde between him and his son, deliberately cutting down as many as possible as quickly as he could, immobilizing his true foe with the rapid fire surge of dissolving force that he was already in poor shape to handle. He flashed throughout the room, the zombies almost seeming to collapse of their own volition in a passing wind, his two blades an elegant silver kiss from the Reaper. And then – just for an instant – he came to a full stop directly in front of his true opponent, the Vampire Lord, his son. And it pained him more than he would have ever imagined to see the one he had trained to react in the blink of an eye stare in stunned immobility, too ravaged and battered by the surges of his new nature to counter-attack in time.

Both arms detached in a spray of blood.

The energy that had built was immediately diverted to the regeneration; as he struggled to replace his arms, more of his zombies fell. And then once again Mardon stopped by him: two deep gashes tore into his chest. There were only a few left now. And then there were none. Mardon and the Lord were alone, as the latter struggled to his feet with arms only two thirds remade.

It was all one sided: before he could regain the ability to fight back, Mardon had drained all the energy his zombies deaths had bought him; the vampire staggered almost drunkenly back as the impacts of the blows hit him, tearing him open, leaving him defenseless. A Vampire is by definition a psychic, but the power they gain is vitality, the domain of a mage. They can only use it within the confines of their bodies, and over that they have little control: when injured, all the power necessary to heal the wound is diverted whether they will it or not. And when Mardon finally stopped moving, the battle was already over. The Lord that had been his son stood weary and bedraggled, worn to the bone, exhausted by his own power, that had now run out. He no longer had the strength to sustain blows, to match speed and power in direct combat with Mardon. He had lost.

For the second time they both stood still and looked at each other. Mardon still strong and resolute, his son now bent, weary and blood stained, one arm clutched across himself. There was a kind of lost smile on his face.

"So much power," he murmured. "So much power I had. And yet it still came to this."

"A Master's strength is not in power, but in the harmonious inter-working of all his being. Remember?"

The vampire shrugged. "That time is behind me now: it belongs to someone else. The time before I had this Thirst is a dream. This is what I have always been. A killer, a drinker of life, a terror to behold. Master of Man. I am...I am...I am someone...someone powerful, I triumphed over my pathetic master, I took his power and made more, you can't end it now! I am the monster I know but still – but still – still I'll beat you!"

His lunge was only somewhat better than a zombie's, a jerking staggering stride forward as the last desperate light of madness carved a bestial snarl on his face.

Mardon deposited his right sword in his heart, slashed open his right arm with his left, and then...still in the same motion...he dropped his left sword to the ground, and caught his son as he fell.

At first, a vampire fights. Then, he succumbs. If he becomes a Lord, for a while, much of the semblance of his former self emerges. In his last struggle before death, often his madness overcomes him again. And then...in the last moments before passing, when all strength is spent...when self-deception and illusion loses all meaning...for a just a few seconds, some of the old light returned to his son's eyes.

"I'm sorry..." he said, the words breathed on from lungs just barely moving. "I'm sorry I fell. Iwasn't strong enough...I will never hold the swords."

"If you had attacked together with your second minion, you would have won," Mardon said quietly. "If you had come after me in the surge after I killed your zombies, you might also have won. Unintentionally you made the choices that led to this. That is the closest to holding on anyone has ever done. You did well, son. As well as anyone can. It's enough." He kissed his son's forehead. "Go to sleep. Go to sleep..."

He was a Master of the Discipline. He knew the instant life left the body he held.

For a long time, he remained there, cradling his son in his arms. He pulled the sword out of his chest, and threw it aside: it gleamed next to its partner in the golden light of sunset pouring through the open trapdoor. And then he got up, and carried the body into the sunlight. To put his son to bed for the last time.

The swords were left behind.

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AUTHOR'S NOTES

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This is the first completed work of any length based in the alternate fantasy universe that will eventually support my fantasy series to come – presently called The Someday Wars, though this may change before the first novel emerges. Further short stories of varying lengths may be written, both to raise awareness and more fully develop the universe, as the first novel is being born. Said novel will be released in thirty to forty thousand word chunks until completion, when a full version will be made available. The first installment may be looked for in three months or so, but that is a tentative estimate.

In the meantime, you may have found this story a little confusing. I have adapted many fantasy classics so that they seem similar on the surface, but are in fact thoroughly re-imagine, and my vampires are the most extreme example of this. The degree of detail to which I have done this is appropriate for multiple novels, since that it what it was intended for. However, for a short story it may have proved difficult to follow - it was not practically possible to explain everything within the confines of a short story. However, articles on vampires and other aspects of my eventual fantasy epic's world can be found and read easily on my website, www.thewordpile.com. However, because it is more or less a flash fiction piece (a less than 1500 word work) in and of itself, I have included the story of the First Vampire's death, which explains their weaknesses, as a bonus. Enjoy.

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### The Death of the First Vampire

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The devastation the emergence of the vampires first wrought can be difficult to comprehend. No one knew what had happened. It took months to begin to understand, even longer to grasp the problem they faced. In that time those weaknesses did not exist, nor any knowledge of their nature: something new and deadly had bloomed all at once in the midst of humanity, and for a terrible time, carnage reined. The people who eventually rallied and began to fight back were grim avengers, united not so much by power as by the will to destroy power. And in time, they were successful. Bit by bit the tide turned, more and more magic users regaining control over their villages. But it was, in truth, a war, and what's more, a war against a king: the Vampire King, the first and only – no Lord since has dominated enough of the vampire race to earn the title. And it took time. But eventually the group that had spearheaded it all achieved the goal they had staked their hopes on: they managed to isolate and capture the Vampire King himself. They knew if they could kill him, the forces they faced would fragment, and the war would fragment as well, into many ongoing skirmishes that were all the same preferable to the organized offensive they faced now. But that was just the trouble – they couldn't kill him. They had managed, by hook, crook, and exhaustive planning, to reduce him to a state they could control, but they could not finish him off: he simply had too much life force. And if they ever let up their assault, he would begin to recover at a rapid pace that frightened them. They needed some way to bind him, some way to hold him while they worked on a solution. And they found one.

First they assaulted him again, reducing him as much as they could. And then they bound him in the most effectively restrictive manner they could manage, with ropes and nails and magic: arms akimbo, flat to a horizontal piece of wood, palms outward, a position almost impossible to exert force from. His body and legs were bound similarly, on a vertical piece of wood that was part of the first, as flat on as they could: the most difficult position to struggle in they could manage.

In short, they crucified him on a cross, over half a millennium before the coming of Rome.

Then they sunk him in a raging torrent, where he would be constantly battered by rocks and the current even as he drowned interminably. And this sufficed to keep him in a state in which he could not break free.

For nine days and nights he was left there. At night everything was equally dark, but all through the daylight hours, as he raged and struggled and was crushed by oncoming debris, he could see the light above him, see the sun glimmering above the surface, taunting him, desired but unreachable. And he hated it.

And then at last, they took him out. They once again attacked with all their strength, reducing him to the weakest form they could take him to, and beheading him for good measure, ensuring he would not recover the strength to fight before they'd finished. And then they brought out a wooden stake. They had labored six days to create a new enchantment with it: cold death would have been overwhelmed by his life force, but the deep steady pulse of a tree, living but oh so very slow, fooled it. Where it pierced, it brought his life cycle to a crawl: when it crushed his heart, the regeneration was too slow to matter, and so he died at last, raging to the end.

The man who pressed it home, the man who had lost all he loved to the vampire race, leaned in and grinned through fierce teeth as he did it. His breath stank of garlic. Even as his vision faded to black, the Vampire King could smell it. And he hated it.

They themselves did not know what they were doing. They still had only a marginal understanding of vampires – the depth of the bond between Lord and minion was still an unknown. The fact that the shared halves of a life did far more than make the lesser will subservient to the other was not yet known. In time, they learned that minions would even take on some of the characteristics of strong Lords – for many of the longer lived, more infamous ones, it became a mark of their followers, the traits they took on. There is a constant pressure of the greater presence on the lesser, and this pressure forms strong impressions over time. But sufficient trauma can sear an experience into the minions connected to the victim – and those minions, in turn, will pass on the effects to any followers of their own that they make. To the very end, there were distinct lines and clans among vampires, formed from such experiences somewhere along the line, creating their own unique set of weaknesses and characteristics.

But it was only then, at the beginning, that it was possible to affect all the vampires in the world at once. Because they all belonged to the First.

The cross, the river, the sun, the smell of garlic – all of these were burned into their minds as synonymous with pain, fear, rage, death. And so they all became things that repulsed them. Strong Lords, with the powerful will that goes with it, could sometimes ignore some, or all of them, but never without conscious effort and practice. And no matter how strong they are, no matter how much life-force they have, no matter how much terrible punishment of any other kind they can take and still recover unharmed, any vampire that feels a wooden stake piercing his heart must die. It is a Law to them, engraved deep and hard where they cannot touch it. It is a part of them forever. And so in killing the First, that early group of hardened survivors made the hunting and slaying of vampires far easier forever after, even arming otherwise power-less people to repel them. The Five Weaknesses were seared into all their race for all of time. And so it has been, ever since. No one has changed it. Most likely, no one can. No one, in fact, has even tried.

***

***

The Lord of Thyme

### ***

The hut was perfect. The old woman had spent days making sure it was. The walls were dark, the ceiling smoky, the air musty and mysterious. The beach chairs and leftover bits of pool noodle had been cleared out and a suitably rustic fireplace made in the middle with some rocks. She been flummoxed when she found the palm decorations were stuck in at first, but some creative work had created a suitably wilted hanging herbs effect. Yes, whoever said the old days of prophesying were gone just lacked the determination to follow through with tradition. Youth these days, wanting everything handed to them. It just took a little work. She settled down against the wall, assumed a wise hunched position, and waited. Fate would soon bring whom she sought.

Ten minutes later, she was forced to get up and stretch her back. Wise hunched positions were hell on your spine. There was a reason that mysterious message she'd left on his phone had asked for punctuality, dammit! No responsibility either. It wouldn't surprise her in the least if he refused to show and the whole world finally fell to evil. To be honest, she'd been expecting it for decades, ever since those silly hippies had gone loose. Children of spring my arse! I've known children of spring. I've made them. And they don't go lying about in a drug haze making fools of themselves with silly philosophy. I'd have spanked them one if I'd caught them at it. Children of Spring are happy, sweet, people who sing in fields and please the forest spirits with their love of nature—

"And street gutters and park benches are not acceptable, dammit! Those louts couldn't have brought a harvest with a ten foot alter, and if they thought—"

"Um...should I come back?"

In a flurry of sand and a surge of protest from her knees, The Old Woman resumed her original place and position with blinding speed and asked haughtily, "And can I ask why you are late?"

"Uh...sorry."

"Well sit down young man. The world will not wait. And we have no time. Or perhaps too much. If you spell it right."

"What?"

"All in good time, young man, all in good time. Sit down and I will tell you the tale of the Lord of Thyme, and what must be done."

"Lord of Time?"

"Yes. And we must hurry, to find the hero with the power to stop thyme, or all will be lost."

"But...I mean...wow. A Lord of Time? For real? How does he do it?"

"I imagine a lot of machines are involved. He's mad of course, that helps too."

"And...and someone who can stop time?"

"Why yes, how else could it be done?"

"But...but won't the hero need a machine too?"

"Nonsense, a good weed whacker will do."

"A weed whacker can stop time? You mean that's why trimming the lawn takes so long?"

"....T–h–y–m–e. Thyme. He was a botanist. Before he went mad. He's some sort of plant genetic nut now I suppose."

"And so we need a hero who can stop...thyme plants?"

"Very big thyme plants," The Old Woman intoned impressively. "Very big, very bad, very dangerous thyme plants. They'll give you a hard time. If not stopped, they will bring bad times."

"Uh...which one do you mean now?"

"Oh just shut and listen! I am going to tell you the tale of the Lord of Thyme and you are going to bloody listen in bloody horrified silence because it's bloody traditional and we don't have time if you don't want to be reduced to a wrinkle in thyme!" The Old Woman paused to catch her breath. "Get it?" She asked nastily.

"...yes."

"Good. Oh hark ye!" She shrieked, noting his jump with vindictive satisfaction. "For I am going to tell you a tale of woe and how evil has come to threaten our happy innocent lives (shut up you), woe is me!"

The Tale of the Lord of Thyme

Doctor Loonatik was a busy man. Too busy. His neighbors wanted to know what was wrong with their precious garden peppers, his wife wanted him to lavish his PhD knowledge on her herb garden, and needless to say, his boss wanted him to spend all the rest and then some breeding new varieties of squash. He was a very frustrated botanist. Very, very frustrated. He was perfect snap-and-take-over-the-world material. He even had a white coat with stains. Green stains, but you could work with that. Plant blood, he could tell people. It was close enough.

Some random angelic flunky decided snap day was Monday. April, for the irony. The fourteenth, because the thirteenth was reserved already for an overworked scientist in a nuclear facility, who was considered very promising and could not be convinced to reschedule. The boss was encouraged to pile it on; the neighbors wailed that now their tomato plants were wilting as well, and then, with the precise timing expected of inhumanly run bureaucracy, his wife marched in, slammed down a potted thyme plant, and said, "I thought I asked you to work on this! Haven't you got time for anything?"

"Time? For thyme? No, I don't have time! Not for thyme, and not for anything else. You want me to work on thyme? I'll work on thyme! I'll give you the thyme of your life! They'll be stomping good thyme! Lots and lots of them. Hahahha, hahahahahah! That's it! I'm not playing around anymore! I AM THE LORD OF THYME!"

"And so," The Old Woman finished. "You must take highway 32 for about ten miles, exit onto Dest-in-ee at the second exit, and hang three lefts to find the Hero Who Can Stop Thyme. You will know him – or her – because he – or she – will be fighting the thyme bravely with a shiny chrome weed whacker. Understand that this weed whacker is no ordinary weed whacker. It is the Chrome Weed Whacker of Dest-in-ee. She – or he – must take it with her – or...oh forget it! You need to write those directions down?"

"Uh...yes, I think so."

"Well, hurry up, get some paper."

So the unfortunate messenger rummaged about until he found a pen and paper and then wrote down the directions to find the Hero Who Can Stop Thyme with a Chrome Weed Whacker of Dest-in-ee. He had to read it out loud to The Old Woman three times before she was satisfied. She did not trust him at all. But no one seemed to respect seers these days, so she'd had to settle for someone she could bully. It was for the greater good.

"Now off you go lad, and make sure you drive fast enough to save the world."

"Uh...I don't want to get a ticket..."

"Hmmph. Just don't be late. You sure you've got those directions?"

"Yes."

"And the instructions and directions to find the Lord of Thyme's Lair?"

"....you didn't tell me that."

"Of course I did!" The Old Woman snapped. "Do I have to repeat everything? Fine. And pay attention this time. Get that pen out."

The beleaguered young man obeyed, and hoped he wasn't going to lose his job at Larry's Hat Rentals doing this. Larry didn't like his employees disappearing.

They say to set a thief to catch a thief. To catch a spy, use a spy.

To stop a mad botanist, therefore, it follows that you would use another mad botanist.

Unfortunately that would violate the principles of opposites oppose, which states, roughly transliterated, that every emerging force of evil creates an equal and opposite force of good that will dramatically triumph despite evil having a head start (often in excess of decades) (well, the triumph part isn't officially part of the rule, but we all know how the deck is stacked). So, instead of a mad botanist, fate spun the wheel and picked a very, very practical herb and flowers shop worker.

So that we can dispense with the politically correct double pronoun business now, our particular hero is female. A heroine, therefore, to be precise. Everyone expects you to be precise these days. Failure to precisely state seemingly obvious details such as 'this coffee is hot ma'am' can lose you enormous amounts of money. But we're covered now.

At the moment, our heroine is pruning daffodils. But she is doing it next to some roses, which makes all the difference, because everyone knows stopping to smell the roses is a sign of a well balanced individual with, g-d bless him (or her – dammit), a working schnoz. If the Lord of Thyme had stopped to smell some roses, he might well have calmed down enough to take a more reasonable approach to solving his problems, such as telling his neighbors and wife to stuff it. He does also have a working schnoz, but even the law of opposites oppose has to draw the line somewhere and we really can't expect her to start maiming herself right and left to keep it up, so just forget it.

As we were saying, our heroine has just stopped to smell the roses when she was supposed to be pruning daffodils. She had not, however, intentionally stopped to smell the roses. I emphasize the 'intentionally' to point out that she was nonetheless stopping and smelling roses. She just happened to be doing it while listening to the sounds of glass breaking and people screaming outside.

It sounded more interesting than trimming daffodils, even if you were simultaneously if unintentionally smelling roses. She was smelling the roses, all right?

Thank you.

Anyway, at this point our heroine decided to stop smelling roses (ahem), and go upstairs to see what was going on, and if her Dad, who owned the shop, needed her to hit anybody again.

He hit the men, she hit the women. They made a good anti-lawsuit team.

Genderless offenders however – she paused to deduce at the top of the stairs – were probably open season.

Besides, plants probably couldn't be represented in court, even giant mobile ones. She sniffed. Mmm, thyme. At least it smelled good when you killed it.

"Hey Dad, those aren't any of ours right?" She shouted over the general pandemonium.

"No, they came out of nowhere from down east, must have come from that old bit of property over the Damn Toll Bridge that got bought two weeks ago and had all the weird trucks and sounds and smells and bought two dozen thyme plants."

Gertrude nodded. Figures. A nice big piece of property, a little run down but lots of potential if you had a mind towards investment, and who moves in? A nice millionaire with a penchant for gardening? An up and coming candy making company? Nooo, you get a mad scientist. Did they have a disclaimer to cover the sale of seed material to megalomaniacs? They'd have to make one up.

"So what do we do?" She shouted. Please be advised that all responsibility for any acts...

"I thought we'd just lock the door and wait it out," her dad shouted back.

That may be undertaken with any of our products – "Are you kidding? Franks Flirty Flowers will have us the scapegoats in no time. Besides, they're trashing Mrs. Kudowoodo's lawn, she's a regular customer!"

"So what do you think we should do?"

"Kill thyme." Gertrude declared heroically.

"...that's what I said!"

"No, kill thyme, the plants."

"Are you kidding? We haven't got any weapons!"

"They're plants Dad, all we need is a weed whacker, where's that new jumbo model you ordered?"

"Down the hall next to the big box they stenciled it just like I asked Chrome Weed Whacker of Dest-in-ee ain't it rich can't miss it."

Gertrude heroically pounded down the hall, leaping two potted banana peppers that had become un-potted. Maybe they could sue the scientist when this was over? Oh yeah, that's right, uh...please be advised...no, that was no good, not strong enough – The Father Daughter Plants and Fodder Shop is a distributor only. All of our products are legal when they leave the store and we are not responsible for any further action taken by or with them, legal or illegal, regardless of the means. As such you, the customer, are fully responsible for all repercussions, consequences, and legal ramifications for any actions you may undertake that...

Gertrude paused, turned around and ran back down the hall.

Involve any of our products in any way...hmmm, any loopholes? She couldn't find any at the moment, but you never knew. She'd have to ask a lawyer.

Gertrude paused, turned around again and headed back the way she'd started. This time, she remembered to stop when she reached the weed whacker.

"Oh yeah," She said, eying the oversized instrument of floral destruction. It was a beaut, all right, and the stenciling looked good, even if it was an awful joke. But she'd heard worse. Heck, with all these thyme plants around, she'd probably hear lots. She might even make a few herself in self-defense.

She picked it up, hefting its mighty length with both hands. A thrill of destiny overcame her as the metal shone and the engines heavy weight promised green shredded mayhem. A long awaited realization overcame our heroine.

She'd always wanted to abuse one of these.

Gertrude pounded down the hall and out the door like a force of anti-nature. She revved the motor with a maniacal grin. Her eyes flicked alertly about, searching for an ideal first victim. There – that wimpy one! She howled and ran towards it, Chrome Weed Whacker of Dest-in-ee held ferociously overhead.

"Yee ha! A thyme to kill!"

The evil thyme plant cowered away, but the adrenaline high Gertrude was having none of that – she lopped it in half and then did it twice more because it felt good.

"Hey, it's easy. Ok, where's a bigger one...hey, I and my dad spent two DAYS on that lawn!"

No longer was it merely duty or the excuse for power tool mayhem that drove her – this was personal. She leaped into the midst of the vandalizing herbs spinning her trusty C.W.W.D. in deadly circles, shredding four thyme plants into salad.

"Haha! Who'd have thought killing thyme was such an awesome way to kill time?" Gertrude exulted. She snatched up a thyme head and flung it into the air and sliced it in half. "There, see? Now run you lousy plants, or I'll give you the time of your lives! Get it?"

They got it. They'd already left.

"Huh. That's right, leave a hero dangling. Heroine," she corrected herself. Pity she couldn't sue herself. "Why I've a good mind to follow you back to that lair of yours and give you a piece of my – machinery!"

"Uh, actually, I think that's what we're supposed to do next..."

Gertrude blinked and glanced to her right, where a thin, harried looking five foot five wimp in a suit had sidled over. "Sorry? What we, and where did you come from? You're not with those plants are you? You look just like a megalomaniac's terrified underling to me. Maybe I should lop off your head."

"Er...would that work? I thought they were people safe..."

"One way to find out."

"No no no, I'm with the good, I mean, the crazy, I mean, the Seer sent me, see?"

"See-er? Well I like that. I don't know just where this creep has been 'see-ing' me, but he can just...oh. That kind of Seer. So I'm prophesied huh? Cool. Who do I kill? Misusing this thing is awesome."

"....uh, I think we're supposed to stop...well, I guess you could kill him...uh, the dread Lord of Thyme doth threaten this realm with dire mayhem and misery and it is up to you, oh hero – ine – to put an end to his evil!" He said, belatedly remembering his highly detailed instructions. It would have helped if his voice hadn't wavered like he was speaking through a fan. He really wasn't cut out for this stuff. Plant blood made him dizzy.

"Oh well okay, if you insist." Gertrude said with a shrug. A neighbor like that would be bad for business anyway. In fact, good lord, what kind of publicity would a mad scientist using their thyme plants be? She had to get rid of him fast!

"There's no time to lose! Uh...many doll – people are in peril! Where do we go?"

"Uh, across the...uh...." The wimpy young man scrambled in his pocket and pulled out a bedraggled bit of paper. He squinted at it. "Uh...we have to...cross the terrible Bankruptcy bridge and brave his many minions through labyrinth halls...uh...that's it."

"That's it?"

"Er...yes. That's it."

"...Who gave you those directions?"

"The Seer."

"The same one who said I was the hero – I mean heroine?"

"Er, yes. Ah, she did know about the Chrome Weed Whacker of Destiny," Harry pointed out tentatively.

"She did?"

"Yes. She did. So, she, uh, can't really be a fraud, right?"

"She told you where to find me too?"

"Those directions were a lot more detailed," Harry said fervently.

"Well, these are lousy."

"Uh, yeah, they are."

"Well, what are you going to do about it? You're the guide, aren't you? I don't suppose you're insured."

"Er, not for this."

"No use suing you then," Gertrude muttered. "Okay, I see I'm going to have to take care of this. Wait here a minute."

"Uh, right, okay."

About ten minutes later, Gertrude came back out of her shop carrying a small stack of print paper and a satisfied expression. "I thought so," she declared. "He bought the place two weeks ago after all, and he's been doing these mad scientist things the whole time. Google maps was bound to have listed him already."

"Er...you google mapped directions to the Lord of Thyme?"

"Yes, of course, what does anyone do when they need directions? Look, see, right here: Mad Botanist, 381st Soul Boulevard. Let's see, it's right over the Damn Tollbridge allright – only they've renamed it Bankruptcy bridge just like those directions of yours say...huh? That can't be right. Google never messes that sort of thing up. It's elementary."

"Er, is there a problem?"

"Yeah, any idea what this thingy is? Where the toll amount should be."

"Ahh...I think...I think that's the Greek omega."

"...doesn't that stand for infinity?"

"Er, yes, I believe it does. Infinity symbol, used in physics equations and—"

"How can you have an infinite toll booth toll?"

"Bankruptcy Bridge..." Harry said tonelessly.

Every mad megalomaniac has his pet peeve. Most of them have typical, petty ones like minions not carrying out tasks perfectly, or being rude, or not killing the hero for them when they had the chance. The Lord of Thyme, however, was a more introspective, soul-searching kind of man. The kind of man who asks questions of himself, questions his own actions endlessly and is tormented by the conclusions. He is a man who rages at himself, despises his own actions, though propelled, nay compelled, to go on.

Namely, he cannot believe he really chose to do this with thyme plants.

"Anything else, I swear!" He raged, pacing up and down in his evil headquarters. There was not a minion to be found – even plants, which eat dirt for heavens sake, know better than to be in the same room as a mad megalomaniac when not prompted by sharp or metallic objects. "Tomatoes, peppers, gods blest petunias. Anything that didn't into such a bad, blamed, bloody pun. I'm a laughingstock, a joke, a comic gag, a mockery! A creation for the twisted amusement of some sadistic cadre of smug immortals. I suppose they think this kind of torment is funny!"

Speaking of torment...

There was a terrifying knock on his door. That is, the minion found it terrifying. If this madman killed him, his death wouldn't even be cool gruesome. It would just be weird gruesome, or, worse, comic gruesome. Insult to injury.

"What is it?"

"Ah-h-h-h- Sir, I-I-I-I-I-"

"Oh just spit it out, what is it this time?"

"Er – which thyme, sir? I can't tell them apart."

"Not that thyme, and neither can I! I just call them all plant! And they do what they're told! Plant kill, plant run, plant get the bloody hell out of my sight, how well do you obey orders eh? Spit it out!"

"Er, we believe a hero has arisen..."

"Oh, okay."

"Er...is that all sir?"

"Well what do you expect me to do? Rant and rage and talk about what a fool he must be to challenge me? I use plants. I suppose he's going to come after me with a hedge trimmer."

"Er, it's a giant Weed Whacker, sir, actually. Of Dest-in-ee."

"Oh good. At least I'm not the only joke."

"Sir?"

"Just keep track of him for now minion. There's always the occasional hero in this job. You just watch the bridge, make sure the toll booth is still working. That should stop him."

"Er – her, sir."

"Huh?"

"The hero is a her, sir."

"That's a heroine, you moron! Do you want to get us sued!?"

"N-n-n-n-no sir, sorry sir!"

"Good. Don't make me do a 'mad evil boss act' on you. You remember the way to the security room, right?"

"Yes sir, going sir!"

Dr. Loonatic sighed as the annoying guy left. Truthfully, he wouldn't have done a 'mad evil boss act' on him. Not because he was merciful – he was a megalomaniac for heavens sake – but because the evil minion temp agency he'd gotten him from would have given him more trouble for it than it was worth. They had rules about stuff like that.

"Er..." Harry said as Gertrude finally came back. It was a stock phrase of his.

"Yeah, we're ready to go. I got the bridge covered. Google maps says it's not too far to walk. Convenient huh? Dad's gonna want that car, we're bound to get loads of business out of all that mess those plants made."

"Er, yes, of course. Very fortunate," said Harry, who hated walking anywhere. He preferred to spend his day sitting down somewhere with a nice, relaxing pile of forms to verify. They didn't bully you. Why were all the women he met today so – vigilant? "Uh, what about after that?"

"We improvise. Not much choice, is there? Luckily I can always use the back of this thing if I need to beat up some people. Man, I love doing this, it's like a dream come true. I can't believe I'm actually going to get immortalized for getting violent with one of these."

"Er...well. I don't really know about..." Harry began, not at all certain whether significant immortalization of any kind was in the offing.

"What?" Gertrude asked belligerently.

"...Nothing," Harry said meekly. "Er...when are you changing?"

"...huh? Why would I change?"

"Well, I mean, er...." Harry floundered. He was in rather unfamiliar territory here. "What I mean to say is, ah, most heroines, I mean, I think...have less clothes?"

Gertrude looked down at her thick baggy work pants and shirt, complete with short brown heavy boots. "What's wrong with these? They take dirt and all kinds of beatings, and that's exactly what we're heading for right?"

"Well, yes, I mean, those do seem practical, but all the covers...pictures...you know. I think the standard is some kind of metal bikini?"

"Ridiculous. Where am I supposed to get one of those? Besides, what's the point of a metal bikini? It's not going to protect you from anything. Everything else is wide open."

"Er, yes, I always have wondered how they managed, but the fact remains they're all wearing them..."

"Publicity stunts," Gertrude said dismissively. "They just drew them up that way afterwards. I'll bet you anything they really fought the battles kitted up like a tank. I would, if I was facing that kind of stuff. No way I'd do it in a bikini. That's got 'please tear me up' written all over it. Shut up and lets get walking. I wanna be back in time to watch myself kick plant rear on the eight o'clock news."

"Er, right. Okay. Lets go."

"That's this way."

"...right. Of course."

"Security? What's the status on that heroine?" Dr. Loonatic buzzed over the intercom. Not because he cared, but because he had little better to do. It was like checking email.

"The heroine is approaching the bridge sir," said whatever minion was manning the cameras. They all looked alike to him, and besides, he'd only gotten them yesterday. He'd ordered them two weeks earlier of course. The things he was going to say to the Better Business Bureau about that temp agency when he was through with all this...

"Very good. Be sure to record her reactions when she hits it. I could do with the entertainment. Are you sure we can't get cable out here?"

"Er, that wasn't me sir. But, uh, maybe satellite?"

"Hmmph. Whoever invented all this was better at diabolical than me. I'll look into it. Back to it, er..."

"Humphrey sir."

"Right. Evil minion Humphrey. More camera watching."

"Yes sir," sighed Humphrey. He always got the weird villains. He suspected it had something to do with his name.

"Well there's the bridge."

"Yup. Whatcha stoppin' for?"

"Well, about the paying..."

"Hey, I said I got it covered."

"Well, if you say so..."

"That's more like it. Here we go. Hey guardman, comin' through, evil megalomaniacs to slay."

"Yeah, tell me another one. Even if you could pay this toll, which I doubt, there's no way you're a heroine, see? I read the comics. I know what heroines look like. You've got way too many clothes. At least show some midsection if you wanna pull that off."

"Yeah yeah, believe what you like," Gertrude muttered, suspecting that this was not the last time she'd hear this.

"Hey hey whoa, you haven't even asked what the toll is."

"Don't need to," Gertrude grinned, and reached into her pocket.

"You don't mean," the guardsman blanched.

"You didn't bring a..." Harry gasped.

"Oh yes I did," Gertrude crowed.

"Security? How'd it go? What? What? What do you mean, you forgot to take out the E-Z Pass lane????"

"Er...Miss Gertrude?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Well, I just wanted to say...well...that is...I, I apologize for my opinion, I thought, well – I really never imagined you'd bankrupt yourself to see the Lord of Thyme overthrown, and I have to say that I really – "

"Huh?" Gertrude interrupted. "Who's bankrupted me? I sure didn't."

"But...that E-Z Pass..."

"Oh that. That wasn't mine. That was Franks. Frank's Flirty Flowers? He's our rival in town. I took it off his windshield. He never bothers with the garage. Lucky for me."

"....You bankrupted your business rival?"

"Anything to overthrow the Lord of Thyme," Gertrude reminded him smugly.

Harry felt very strongly that despite the words being almost exactly the same, the meaning of the argument had changed drastically. But he was a man of very little backbone, and to say he folded would have been – to be brutally frank – to suggest he'd started standing up.

"Er...of course. Right. Very good."

"Well, so long as that's settled. Come on, eight o'clock is coming up fast."

Were heroes supposed to think like that? Harry had so many doubts about this adventure. But he knew, down deep in his soul where all difficult but necessary truths reside, that if he skipped out on this, Gertrude and the Seer would kill him. And that could not be allowed.

He persevered.

The Lord of Thyme was not amused. "The plan was perfect," he raged. "All they had to do was make a tollbooth no one could afford to pass. And they go and put in a bloody credit option! I knew I should have sprung for the administrator minions! 'Drones are prone to comic errors' huh? I'll give them comic errors! I'll comically throw them to the thymes! I don't care if they blacklist me! I'll hire minions elsewhere! Competent ones! BRING ME MY THYMES! I WILL TEACH THESE FOOLS THE LESSON OF A LIFETIME!"

"Oh, very good sir! Thyme and time!"

"Shut up!"

You just can't flatter megalomaniacs these days.

"Er, Gertrude?"

"Yes?"

"There seem to be a large number of thyme plants heading our way. The mutated ones, I mean."

"Sweet."

".....uwha?"

If you had asked Harry before whether he could be nauseated to the point of throwing up by the evisceration of plants, he would have said no. That was because he'd never seen Gertrude do it.

"Man, you are such a wimp."

"...blurarrk." Said Harry.

The guards at the entrance to the lair of the Lord of Thyme were perfectly suited to their roles. They were, after all, the products of a highly professional training and leasing agency. They were big, imposing, and had a brutish appearance that suggested that they were just waiting to pound the snot out of whoever tried to get in without an 'evil minion' ID card. Underneath that appearance, they were cowardly suck-ups with three brain cells apiece.

The Lord of Thyme, when browsing the more economical package deals, had clearly failed to read the fine print.

Really, lack of attention to detail has done in finer villains – take that Witch who left a bucket of water lying around. Everything had been going her way right up until then. But just one tiny error, that no doubt seemed insignificant and harmless at the time – oops, there's a bucket of water lying around, but I don't want to fetch a minion to get rid of it now, I'll do it later – made an end of a potentially brilliant career and handed the victory to a Kansas farm girl. It doesn't get more ignoble than that.

Anyway, getting back to the guards.

One of the advantages of being stupid is that being bored means less to you, because lack of brain activity is a given. For this reason, stupid but intimidating door guards will guard all day and not complain. Their expressions will not change, and nearly everyone will be scared away. Many a evil overlord has managed to last all through their early days with a cut-rate door guard set with no trouble. It's that rare exception you've got to watch for. If they try to win it with brains, you're doomed.

Gertrude was not the brightest bulb around. But she was a hell of a lot brighter than they were. And she had serious brass. Door guards have trouble processing brass.

"Right you lot, stop standing around like a bunch of statues and get out of the way of the door will you? I've got an appointment."

Five seconds later, the guard on the left said, "Huh?"

A second later, the guard on the right said, "Huh?"

He was the dumb one.

"I said, I've got an appointment. You in the habit of making people late?"

"Uh...anyone without an appointment may not enter on pain of being brutally beaten and used as a—"

"That's why I said I have an appointment, stupid. Move over will you? I want a word with that boss of yours. I mean, testing my skills is one thing, but that was an awful lot of trash to throw at me before we've even had an interview."

"Uh...what?"

"An interview. You stupid or something? Your boss is new right? He needs good hands right? I'm here for a job. Unlike you lot, I'm a professional freelancer, and I'm worth ten of you. So budge over, and I'll be nice when I get my uniform. He does have a uniform right?"

"The Lord of Thyme utilizes Bargain Bad Guys custom design service logo, uniform, and complimentary brochure," both guards promptly declaimed in unison. "Come to us for ALL your evil overlord start-up business needs." They were very proud of this speech. It had taken them three weeks longer than everyone else in their class to learn it right. That was how they'd gotten to be door guards.

Bargain Bad Guys takes pride in the fact that their doormen are so exemplary that not a single one has ever figured out they were handed the short end of the stick.

"Right. Well, so long as he's got one. Look, just let me get inside will you? I'm late."

"Uh right," said the guard on the left. He was the leader, because he was smarter.

"That's the spirit pal. I'll put in a good word for you. See you in the next briefing." Gertrude sauntered past. Harry attempted to follow. The two guards closed in front of him with a sound remarkably like a door closing.

"Anyone without an appointment may not enter on pain of being brutally beaten and used as a—"

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

"Anyone without—"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first two times, but he's with me you idiots, what did you think he was trailing me around for? He look like a pro minion to you?"

"............" Said the guy on the right.

"Uhhhh." Said the guy on the left.

"So? Let him in."

"Uhhh...what's his appointment?"

"He's my lawyer of course. Never sign a contract without a good lawyer, especially a contract with an evil megalomaniac. You wouldn't believe the kinds of little footnotes these guys will pull trying to get permission to kill you if they don't like you or get in a bad mood or whatever. You remember that for when you go pro – you gotta watch your own back once you leave the agency. You got it?"

"Yeah!" Both guards chorused in unison. They were thrilled. No one else had ever suggested they'd be able to go pro one day before.

"Well, best of luck and all, so let Harry in will you? I went to a lot of trouble to come prepared."

"Yes ma'am!"

"I think it's thyme for a change of guard," the Lord of Thyme said.

"Uh, Gertrude? Do you know where we're going?"

"Yeah, I just don't know if it's the right direction."

"...doesn't that mean you're lost?"

"Nah, I've been here before, I just don't know where he's put everything. Could be we're heading his way, could be not. We might even be walking right into the thyme den."

"I assume that will be time to run?"

"Nah, they'll be mostly thyme to attack...oh. No, are you kidding? That's time to go friggin' berserk! You think I'm gonna get another chance like this working in a flower shop?"

"....right," Harry said in a very small voice, slowing down to put more distance between himself and the Heroine as she turned a corner.

"What the....yaaaaaaaahoooooooooo!"

Harry sat down against the wall, closed his eyes, covered his ears, and counted slowly to one hundred. Then he cautiously his hands away from his ears. No noise. It was over. In the comic creep of a city boy born and bred, he inched his way to the corner and peered around it.

In the midst of a sea of strewn bits of dismembered monster herb, Gertrude was posing experimentally with various adornments fashioned from the remains. "Oh, there you are. Hey, what do you think? Gertrude of the Jungle! Terror of thyme everywhere."

"Err...I don't think there are any jungles on this continent..."

"Ah, you're hopeless. Remind me to come back and collect these later. Trophies, you know."

"Um, right."

"Okay, onward. Come on thymes! Good thymes, good thymes, come to mamawithagreat bigweedwhackerofdeath."

"Of Dest-in-ee."

"Right. And their destiny is death. Same difference. Come on, I'm right here...hellooo?"

Harry decided to keep ten yards of space between him and Gertrude at all times. That is, all times until after the quest was over.

Then he'd make it ten miles.

The Lord of Thyme was beginning to sympathize with the archetypal frothing-at-the-mouth frustration so many villains went through. He'd always thought they were over-reacting. I mean, what did you expect? Of course a hero would come along, and of course he might win a lot, since he'd come planning to get you. No sense getting upset. And he still wasn't. But he understood now: he'd never given them proper credit after all. Perhaps he'd been hasty in refusing the starter course that guy in a hood had offered. Or even throwing away the pamphlets Bargain Bad Guys had mailed him. All he had to go on now were his childhood comic books and television shows. He wasn't sure that was a good idea.

"Okayyyyy....I think....right about now...oh right! I flip out and call up my trump card and confront them in person."

"No wait...or is it that first I call out my trump card, and then confront them in person if it fails...damn. I knew I should have looked up some re-runs when I started this. Decisions, decisions....ah hell, she's getting on my nerves anyway. Hey, minion number 393...whatever! Whoever's got the keys to the big cage. We're going Big Thyme!"

"They're filming us already? That's wonderful Lord T!"

"T-h-y-m-e. That Big Thyme. Now go get it."

"Yes Lord T!"

"....what did you call me?"

"Er...L-l-lord....T—errible!"

"Liar. You called me Lord T didn't you?"

"........." Said the minion, whose name was actually Tod.

"Well, okay, that's not so bad, but don't do it where those heroes can hear you okay? Go get the plant."

"Yes Lord T!"

"Er, where are we going now?"

"Can't hear you back there you big wimp. Come up where I am already."

Harry sidled about three feet closer and repeated his question. Gertrude gave up. "We're heading for the biggest room. There's got to be something there."

"Er, yes. Er, mightn't that something be, er....especially dangerous? Since the room is so big?"

"Now you're talking my language!"

".....oh."

"Oh thank goodness, they're heading for the big room. It's the only one this thing will fit in."

"Okay, here we are. Let's have a...oh wow, that is awesome. Hey Harry, get a look at this! It's like fifty feet tall this thyme. How'd he do that?"

"I really couldn't say," Harry's voice echoed from three turns back.

"Some sidekick you are. Come out and fight."

"No."

"Okay, okay, but don't complain when I won't give you part of the stem to take home. Hey, Lord of Thyme! Come out, wherever you are."

"I'm right over your head, woman! Behold, above!"

"Behold, Lord T?" Tod murmured from their position on a balcony above and behind the Big Thyme's head.

"Hey, I'm allowed a little posing after all this frustration aren't I?"

"I suppose so Lord T."

"Good man. Lo, Hero, here I am!"

"Heroine!" Tod hissed, horrified. They could get sued!

"Thanks," the Lord of Thyme muttered. "Lo, Heroine, here I am!" He repeated. "You have caused me much frustration this day, and destroyed many of my floral minions. But it ends here!" Wow, the comic books had it right after all. This felt great. Nothing like just coming out and doing some grand shouting after a long day of fending off a stubborn hero – ine. "You may have defeated the plants that I sent to your town, and you may have passed my Bankruptcy bridge, and even defeated many within my own castle, but you won't escape this thyme! GO THYME!"

With a terrifying rustling sound, the giant thyme moved to attack.

"Go thyme?"

"Yeah, maybe I should have rehearsed it first," the Lord of Thyme muttered. "Oh well."

Plants are not the sharpest knives in the drawer.

In fact, despite a profusion of varieties sporting all kind of sharpened weaponry, and even various forms of chemical warfare, plants display not even the most rudimentary conception of evasion or offense. They will not get out of the way of your lawn mower, even with a twenty-four hour evacuation notice. They remain, despite millennia at their mercy, unconcerned by the approach of hungry bovines until the very act of decapitation. Their reaction times remain suicidally sluggish no matter how many times you slap them. They are just the slowest form of life you could ever wish to meet.

The Lord of Thyme had only marginally improved matters.

"Ooh, what a beauty," Gertrude observed, taking a slow, leisurely half step backwards. "Magnificent stem, nice green leaves no mold or holes or spots or anything – hey, Lord of Thyme, what kind of fertilizer do you use?"

"Haven't you got other things to worry about?" The Lord of Thyme responded.

"Nah, not yet – I've got plenty of thyme, see? Come on, answer the questions, I'm dying to know."

"You're supposed to defeat it!"

"Yeah, well, I appreciate the time to plan and all, but I don't think I'm gonna bother. This guy's too slow to worry about." Gertrude grinned, ran lightly forward, leaped up and grabbed the end of one of the Big Thyme's branches. The Big Thyme made a sorry attempt to shake her off that was actually a belated attempt to avoid being grabbed in the first place. Gertrude used the motion to get the rest of the way on.

"Sorry Lord T," she said, crouching.

"Hey! Only I'm allowed to say that!" Tod yelled.

"Shut up!" Lord T yelled. "That was a secret!"

Gertrude leaped up, grabbed the very end of a higher branch, and then let herself hang: the branch stretched downward until her crouched legs hit the floor, pulling the entire plant into a temporary bow shape.

Very temporary.

"Guess you should have picked minions with – spiiiiiiiinneeeesssssyyyyyeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaa oonnononononononononOUCH!"

"And let that be a lesson to you," The Lord of Thyme said sternly to Gertrude's spread-eagled form, then plastered to the ceiling over his head. "To never try anything genuinely dramatic in a comedy."

With a grim, groaning wrench, Gertrude broke out of the half mold of herself that been keeping her up. The Lord of Thyme stepped judiciously aside so as not to obstruct her fall.

Gertrude hurt. She hurt all over. Plaster was tougher than it seemed in movies. But she knew what she had to do. She got up. She used the rail and slipped twice, but she got up. She stood straight, and looked straight at the Lord of Thyme with fire in her eyes.

"Lord of Thyme!" She cried.

Lord T sighed. He supposed she was entitled to her own speech too. "Yes?"

"Lord of Thyme," she repeated, her voice ringing proud through the room. "Be informed that The Father Daughter Plants and Fodder Shop is a distributor only. All of our products are legal when they leave the store and we are not responsible for any further action taken by or with them, legal or illegal, regardless of the means. As such you, the customer, are fully responsible for all repercussions, consequences, and legal ramifications for any actions you may undertake that involve any of our products in any way!!!"

The echoes died away to make room for one of its evolutionary successors, the awkward silence. Finally the Lord of Thyme said, "Um. Okay. So?"

"So nobody can sue us!" Gertrude declared triumphantly.

"So? I was going to conquer them all anyway, remember?"

"Oh yeah...but I'm going to stop you anyway! So there!"

"But you aren't going to stop me anyway, so there."

"Am too, so there!"

"Am not, so there!"

"Am too!"

"Am not!"

"Am too!"

"Am not!"

By now, The Lord of Thyme and Gertrude were face to face – red face to face. They were locked in a fierce and ancient form of the battle for dominance. Only one could win.

"Am too!"

"Am not!"

It looked desperate. The Lord of Thyme was winning.

"Am too!"

"Am not!"

It is impossible to explain how someone could get the last word in such an exchange, but without question, somebody does. And this time, it was the wrong one.

"Am too!"

"Am NOT!"

His fight ending shout echoed through the room and brought sudden silence. Smug triumph lit the evil plant lord's face.

It made Gertrude mad.

"Ammmm," she shouted, bringing the Chrome Weed Whacker of Dest-in-ee up over her head. The Lord of Thyme was in reach, the Lord of Thyme was off guard. He didn't even have time to shout 'no fair'. "TOO!" She bellowed, and cracked the flat end down on his head. He crumpled like a desiccated twig.

Tod rushed over to fall to his knees next to his Master's prostrate form. "No! Lord T!"

"Oh shut up. Don't make me hit you too."

With a sniffle, Tod obeyed. He'd been beginning to really like this new evil Lord. He'd heard about it happening sometimes. Never get too attached to your boss, they told you at the agency. You never know when he's going to lose and you'll be back here and re-assigned. Oh well.

Down below, Harry, who had stationed himself up until then at what he'd considered a sufficiently safe distance down the hall, crept uncertainly back into the room to check that the cessation of loud noises did indeed mean that the violence was over with.

"Er...is everything all right up there?" He called hesitantly.

"Yeah we're fine."

"We?"

"I mean, I'm fine. The Lord of Thyme is out cold and his assistant buddy is having a sniffle over him."

"I'm pretty sure he's supposed to do that."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I think. Either that or he's supposed to fall on his knees and thank you for saving him. I forget. I, um, didn't really read much about it."

"I think it depends on the bad guy. Hey, weepy minion guy, was this a mega-cruel tyrant type bad guy or a miss-understood genius guy?"

"He was a really great megalomaniac who let me call him nicknames. And, uh, I'm pretty sure he was miss-understood."

"Oh okay, keep crying then."

"Thank you."

"Uh, Gertrude?"

"Yes? Oh for heaven's sake, it moves like molasses, stop cowering like that.

"You're quite sure it's safe?"

"If you're not a turtle, yeah."

"Oh. Er, so, do we just let it loose then? Or...do we also need to protect turtles?"

"Let it loose? Are you crazy?"

"Well, I did think it would be a bad idea. Fifty foot plants would cause all kinds of traffic accidents."

"No kidding it's a bad idea! Who'd pass up that kind of opportunity huh? Why, I'll bet we'll be the only plant and flower with a real fifty foot high plant for a mascot in the history of the universe! It's gonna be great! We'll make mega bucks and open up a chain! Rich, rich, rich and famous, yahoo! Hey waterfall, how did Lord T make them do things?"

"Er, I think he had some sort of device on him...agency beginner classes said to never learn too much about how your employers power works because he'll either kill you or you'll be captured and tortured to tell someone else. It's bad rep for the company if one of us is responsible for a client's defeat."

"Makes sense," Gertrude said absently, already rifling through Lord T's clothes. "Uh, no, wait no, that can't be it, yuck that's gross, boys and their pockets I swear...oh, here we go! Thyme plant control module, keep on person and think green. Okay, I can do that. Awesome! National brand name publicity, here I come!"

"Uh, aren't there a lot of, um, smaller ones around too?"

"They'll work at the stores as advertising and free help," Gertrude said blithely. "I mean really, what better work conditions could they ask for than a plant shop? Man, I like this hero stuff, it totally pays off! Not like crime. Okay, we're done, good luck with some other bad guy Sniffle-man."

"Thanks. I hope to get a Marvel deal next."

"Yeah, well, good luck with that. Come on Harry, we're leaving...hey, wait a minute! How do you get this giant thing outta here?"

"Er, I'm sure I couldn't—"

"I'm not talking to you useless, I'm talking to the minion guy! Hello? This is my ticket to the big-time we're talking about here."

"Er, he was grown in the building...I don't think Lord T actually ever meant to take it out...it was just supposed to guard the really important stuff."

"...like what?"

"Well, the lab, his office, the new home media system—"

"The what?"

"Apparently being a megalomaniac is very boring."

"Cool, what size screen did he – no! How do I get him out? Come on, I'm serious, I need that plant!"

"You could always make do with the little ones."

"No, no, NO. Just a bunch of small ones is not good enough. Look at that guy, what could possibly compete? There's gotta be a way...I've got it! I'll cut him up and replant the pieces! We'll have even more Big Thyme! The only question..."

Harry began to back away.

"Is where to start..."

Gertrude's attention was fixed on the victim. The former right hand minion didn't care. Harry ran for it.

The quest was over. He didn't have to watch anymore.

"And so the Lord of Thyme was stopped by the mighty hero - INE! - with her Chrome Weed Whacker of Destiny and Thyme restored to its normal functions, that of adv...er, was restored to innocent cooking material and...happily ever after!" The Seer snapped, and turned off the dictation software.

She hated filing reports.

***

***

The Cooking House

### ***

Bernard lived in a good house. But you wouldn't have known it to talk to him.

It was very homey, warm and inviting. It was large but never felt empty. It had nice land around it. In fact, most people would have happily decided it was perfect, or at least close enough.

Bernard was an inventor, or so he fancied himself. He believed it could be improved.

Actually, what he believed was that houses could be improved in general. It was the year 1889, in England, and the bounds of what was and was not possible were being stretched daily: society was turning itself inside out about the various wondrous innovations that were being brought into the world. It was a time of exciting possibilities, and Bernard – with the help of a small private income – had his notions about how to bring this to the home.

The problem with homes, the eternally single man had decided, was that the people living in them had to do all the work.

Cleaning, cooking, and all the rest, what good was a home that didn't do it for you – he asked of the world in general and his home in particular – instead of relying on those females who didn't even understand his life's passions? None, he imagined the humble response to be. Yes, that's right. You're useless now, like all the rest. But it isn't your fault. It's mine. I haven't finished my invention yet. Then you will be perfect.

His automated home, being a product of the late nineteenth century, involved a great deal of cogs and wheels. He'd experimented with steam and the like but found that trying to run such a thing in a home made for an atmosphere that distinctly lacked peace and relaxation. So, clockwork it was, and a complicated mess it was turning out to be. And of course winding the mass of contraptions was still quite a chore: he supposed a certain amount of regulated effort to maintain it was acceptable, as nothing was going to make the house take its own initiative, but ideally this process should not take too much longer than it would to, say, eat a piece of toast in the morning.

Ah, toast. Yes. That was his one great success so far. The clockwork for cleaning, laundry, pest control, and all the rest still plagued him like the Devil's Advocate, but the cooking mechanisms – ah, those had worked marvels from the start. No matter how the rest of the house confounded him, he had only to look at that culinary success to know he would eventually succeed with the rest too. How could he not? He merely had to properly understand what had gone right, and apply it. Indeed he spent nearly as much time studying the cooking mechanism to solve this mystery as he did tinkering with the rest of it. For it still seemed to him, no matter how he pondered and tweaked and poked, that there was no significant difference or reason why the cooking machinery should work so well while all the others merely spat back oil at him, or threw parts of themselves about their respective rooms. It was simply beyond him, at least for the moment. But it was his own creation, and he was sure he would get there in time.

And while all that was going on, at least he had three meals a day, plus teatime, exactly as man should: served and waiting for him, done to perfection, and without the nuisance of some fawning thing to thank or acknowledge or otherwise bother with. Yes, this was how life should be. And once he'd had his way, this was how all of his life would be. And everyone else's. And _then_ he'd see what those snarky fellows at the pub had to say.

It was his friend who gave Bernard his first clue. His dedication and focus were far out of proportion to his talent, with the results that he forgot to actually insert ingredients into and wind the gears of the machine three times out of four. But the only way he ever noticed his absentmindedness was when he found himself suffering the consequences of it, and so he never realized that most of his meals were actually happening in spite of himself. In addition, his shopping trips had always been last-minute binge affairs triggered by an empty cupboard, and so the fact that he hadn't had to buy food for over a year never quite made it through his head. In short, Bernard was quite capable of ignoring all the myriad signs that something unnatural was going in his everyday life, and, theory, could have continued this blissfully oblivious pattern for infinity – but then one day he invited his friend to dinner.

Bernard only had one real friend in the village. Everyone else just labeled him a nut, but Frankie was different. Frankie had been willing to consider that Bernard might be capable of what he said, and for that he had become the sole witness to Bernard's success, and had eaten its creations several times in the past. Whenever Bernard felt the need to restore his confidence or spirit – not often – he would invite Frankie over and, over the course of the meal, watching someone else enjoying and praising the fruits of his labors, he would be restored. Frankie, in turn, enjoyed being the only one to know. They got along quite amiably. Today the machines he had been working on had been so rebellious as to undo weeks of work, and Bernard felt the need for an emotional pick-me-up. He went out to find his friend.

"Tonight? Sure, I can come. Mary isn't due for weeks and cooking is hard for her, she'll be glad to have that much less to do. Usual time?"

"Usual time. What's the order?"

"Oh, I'll leave it to you. That wonder of yours always gets it right anyway, doesn't it?"

And Bernard smiled, and agreed that indeed it did, and went off to buy ingredients for a more elaborate meal than he usually bothered with. He felt better already.

His mood overflowed into his work, as it usually did. As the smells of success wafted from the kitchen, he set to work on the somewhat wrecked remains of the cleaning mechanism and found that being forced to work from scratch had its advantages: he was seeing things he hadn't before, was breaking patterns of problem-solving he hadn't even noticed he'd fallen into. Immensely pleased, he set to work, buoyed by the sensation that rather than remaking what had been lost, he was in fact re-inventing, and with great success he was sure. Perhaps today would be the day he made another part of his (eventual) automated house work.

As usual, he stopped not at a particular time but at a particular state of hunger. But by now he knew around when this usually happened: 'the usual time' was planned around that, and sure enough, glancing at the clock, it was roughly fifteen minutes to when Frankie would arrive. Brimming with self-esteem, Bernard wandered into the kitchen to gaze on the night's feast. He stopped.

The food was perfect. The table was set.

For one.

Bernard's good mood vanished entirely. " _Whyyyy_?" he howled. " _Why NOW_?" Years, for years now it had worked perfectly, and now, when he was about to have company – _now_ , for the first time, something goes wrong? Oh Frankie would probably understand, say something like 'well, it was bound to happen sometime right?' But Frankie didn't understand, it wasn't his creation. It was _supposed_ to be _perfect_. It had _been_ perfect, till now. And now his night was ruined and he would have to figure out how to fix it when he still hadn't figured out what made it work better than the other machinery in the first place. What if he broke it for good? _Damn bloody machine!!!_

Muttering furiously, eyes wild, Bernard stomped towards the door to head off Frankie and explain why dinner was canceled. Someone knocked on the door as he reached to open it. He yanked it open with a snarled "What is it?"

On the other side of the door, Frankie's son Ben jumped back and said as quickly as he could, "Father said to tell you Mother's water broke early and he can't come sorry got to go!"

It was a clue, but one Bernard did not recognize until later. Some men might have been spooked, but Bernard was a man of science and reason, and he scoffed to interpret coincidence as anything but freak convergence of chance. So the machine had broken at an opportune time after all. Very well, he would not complain. Discovering that Frankie need never know anything had even gone wrong went a long way towards soothing his nerves. He ate the food – still perfectly cooked, he noted, already thinking about just where to find the problem – and went back to work, this time on the cooking mechanism. He did not allow himself to think about whether he might break it further. He had studied it un-endingly, knew it inside out. If nothing else, he knew how to put it back together again exactly as it had been. He only needed to find the part that _wasn't_ how it had been. Anymore.

Except he couldn't. The machine still looked perfect, just as it had after every successful attempt to cook for company. He couldn't even find the food remains from the extra ingredients that _should_ have been around somewhere. He experimented. He put in enough for two, three, seven, eight. Every time, he got meals that were enough for one person: himself. He was utterly distraught. What had gone wrong? And what could he do about it? Yes, to him, a machine that only cooked for one was quite sufficient for most things, but he knew almost anyone else would consider it a severe defect. How had this happened? And why now? It had never failed to cook for other people before, but now he couldn't get anything more out of it at all. The idea of trying to cook more when he had invited a proportionate number of guests never occurred to him, because he was still almost quaintly ignorant of his situation. Bernard's work became steadily more infuriating, and he still couldn't solve the problem.

That is, until the beef.

Bernard loved meat. He craved it, but couldn't afford it – all his money went into the needs of his inventing. As a rule, he buried all such dissatisfaction with his larder under work, with images and innovations in cogs and wheels and fan belts, coming to view his meals merely as restoration. But the longing was still there, and one day, unable to take another day of futile tinkering on the one thing he thought he'd perfected, he did something he hadn't done for two years: he took a day off. He left the house in the morning, and spent the day in nearby London. He browsed through shops of various gadgets, fiddled with parts that interested him, and had lunch – however cheap – at an eating house. And, inevitably, wandering about with his thoughts unfettered by metal gears, he found himself thinking about food in an obsessive way he had not done since his last vacation. And, also inevitably, what he thought about was food he could not have: beef. Perfect roasted meat, a succulent slab in gravy, no silly vegetables to spoil the carnivorous fantasy of ripe red flesh. He had, in fact, forgotten to even set the cooking machine at all – again – but he'd forgotten that. For the last hour and a half before going home, he thought of meat, and dreaded, as he went home, the much simpler and less desirable fare he knew was waiting for him. All the way to his door he thought this. As he opened his door he thought this. As he imagined the smells he thought this.

Then his thoughts stopped cold, as if everything in his head had suddenly frozen solid.

The smells were real.

Slowly, like a sleepwalker, he went into the kitchen.

Beef. Perfect roasted meat, a succulent slab in gravy.

He had never bought any meat. There was no meat in the house. No one he knew would pay the expense and time to leave it for him. No malfunction could create food that hadn't been there.

It was impossible. But it was there.

Hunger forgotten, Bernard fled to the cooking mechanism in a frenzied panic.

Bernard felt dazed.

There was nothing wrong with the machine. In fact, there wasn't _enough_ wrong with it. Where, he now suddenly wondered, was all the dirt, the caked bits of food, the crumbs, the stain spots? The gears looked as if nothing had ever touched them: pristine as the day he'd installed them. As if they'd never churned dough or baked bread or cut vegetables. In short, as if they had never been used at all.

He opened the cupboards. It took some effort. The smell was atrocious. He had, he realized, been absentmindedly taking the ingredients from the first place he saw them: on the counter. But he'd never put them there. In fact, judging from the almost mobile remains, there hadn't been edible foodstuffs in the house for months at least.

That he'd put there, that is.

The gas stove in the mechanism was full: he'd never refilled it. The pots – or the parts of the machine that served as pots – still shone bright as the day he'd bought them. There was no sign that the machine had ever been put to any use at all. Logic and observation, at last applied to his own stocking habits, said there had been, for a year and a half at least, no means to put it to use with.

In short, every meal he'd eaten over the last year and a half at least had been fundamentally impossible. But they had been there. He had eaten them. And there was the beef, the impossible beef, still staring at him from the table. It was still warm. It had been joined by a draft of his favorite ale, exactly what he'd been wanting most as he'd begun to comprehend the depths of what he faced. He had no idea when or how it had gotten there.

When had he installed a mechanism to put the food on the table? He hadn't.

When had he installed a mechanism to _set_ the table in the first place? He never had. He'd made it to cook, only to cook. But he'd come, seen the food on the table, and ate without a second thought.

It was getting late. But he couldn't sleep. He stared at his creation – or rather, he realized, what he'd _thought_ his creation – from the doorway, tentative and wide-eyed, ready to bolt, half expecting it to start moving. It did nothing. Bernard was not reassured.

The weather was warm. He slept outside.

The next day, he began making plans to sell the house. He didn't care what he got for it. He'd return home and take the job his father had offered him years back. It didn't seem so demeaning anymore.

He never did sell the house. Eventually he moved anyway, but no one wanted a house filled with mechanisms. Bernard had taken walls apart, made unconventional openings and spaces, and generally turned the entire place into his experiment. Now no one else wanted to live there. He didn't dare tell them the house's most unique feature: infinite food, cooked to perfection, always precisely what was wanted, and in correct proportions.

He couldn't tell them, because he no longer knew why it was so. And so for many years, the house had no one to cook for.

It was very lonely.

In 1940, someone found it again. Several someones, in fact. Very small someones.

It was World War II, and the time of the terrible bombing of London: right and left children were being orphaned suddenly and brutally, and all the best efforts of the nation could not have hoped to find and help them all in such chaos. The city of London struggled to survive alone against a monster that threatened to devour the world, and amongst its streets, gangs of such young ones also struggled to survive their own trials in their own way. Three of them – two boys and a girl, all siblings – decided that the best way to do this was to leave London entirely. They were unsure how to do this, but the bombs clearly did not distinguish between those who had houses and those who didn't – they could as easily be killed in a raid as anyone else, and possibly easier, with no shelter. They didn't dare go too far from London, but they thought perhaps they could find some abandoned place not too far outside it, where they could still reach places with food. The Germans would not bother to drop their bombs outside the city proper.

Bernard, in his dreams of fame, had picked a house as close to London as he could manage.

On first sight, to the ragged children, Bernard's now long abandoned home seemed like a dream come true. Yes, it was clearly abandoned, old and neglected. But abandoned was exactly what they needed, and for all it had been neglected it was still in good condition, if you just looked at the essentials: solid walls, windows, unbroken roof. Even the doors and window shades seemed sound. It was almost too good to be true – which made the older brother suspicious.

"Stay here and watch," the oldest, George, told them. "Run if I say so, or if something happens." They were familiar instructions – both boy and girl nodded immediately and solemnly.

George approached the house slowly: he looked around him, and down, as he went, trying to find signs of someone who'd been here before them. He was sure anyone who had managed to find it first would have laid claim to it, and such people were often reluctant to share. But in the end he couldn't find any signs that anyone else had been here, even when he got up to the door and examined it. It was locked, and the handle was stuck in a way that made it clear he was the first for some time to try turning it. He was still couldn't shake the uneasiness that everyone surviving difficult times develops when faced with unseemly luck, but so far as he could tell his suspicions were groundless. He waved the 'all clear' to his siblings, who promptly ran all the way up babbling ecstatically.

"Calm down, calm down!"

"We're really gonna live here?" Grace squealed.

"Maybe, we haven't gone inside yet," George said, feeling helpless to dampen her enthusiasm with his own unfounded skepticism. "We have to check it out properly, and _carefully_ ," he said sternly. "Stay quiet and no running around without me, okay?"

Grace pouted but nodded. She was only five. Peter, eight, who loyally trusted every word his older brother said, also nodded, but much more firmly.

As it turned out, just getting the door open took work. They could have broken a window but then they would have had to live with it, and the glass might have hurt Peter or Grace. The handle had stayed just as it was for possibly decades and did not seem to see why it should have to move now. The door barely budged when slammed. Finally Grace had the idea of taking the doorknob off, which, with some further effort and creative use of available material, they did. Thankfully, there was no deadlock or anything else like it to deal with on the other side, out of reach of tampering.

The door opened with a slow, reluctant shriek of now long somnolent iron hinges being forced to fulfill their function. There was dust of course: dust everywhere, so thick that George realized that there was no way anyone could have hidden their passing. Either the signs of their passage would be clearly written on the floor, or the places where dust had been wiped away entirely would be even more obvious.

"Okay, we're going to check the inside to make sure no one else came," George said quickly, before his younger siblings could run off to explore. "We're going to stick together, and we're going to make our way all around the house on this floor. If we don't see any changes in the dust besides for ours, it's probably safe."

"What if they climbed in through a window on the second floor?" Peter asked, trying to be helpful.

"Then we'll still see signs of them when they came down to this floor," George told him. "But good thinking," he added, knowing Peter was looking for approval. Peter had tried very hard and been very good for all of this, so George always praised him when he wanted it. No one expected Grace to earn anything. She was just their baby.

So they started to make their way around the house. It turned out to be a fascinating trip. What had been little more than a source of bewilderment and horror to prospective – not to mention adult – buyers fascinated the children: all the cogs and wheels and chains joined together in vast configurations that awed even George. Peter opined that an mad old scientist must have lived here. Grace, with the odd prescience of the innocent, said that if he'd really been any good he would have made his house keep itself clean. Peter loftily said if it had really been a he then he'd have had more important things to do. George hastily moved to interfere before Grace could turn that into an unholy sibling squall.

"Hey, what do you think that..." His brief pause to decide on what to say next trailed off into a longer, stranger silence as he incredulously turned his face towards the kitchen and eating room.

"What are those... _smells_...?"

"That's _food_!" Peter crowed, ecstatic and already half crouched like a sprinter off the starting line.

"No wait!" George shouted, grabbing his siblings shirts before they could run headlong for the source of the aromas.

"Why? I'm _hungry_ ," Grace whined.

"Yes, but where did that food come from? We didn't put it there, and it wasn't there when we passed through the rooms before. There's something wrong, I don't like it."

"But we _do_ need to eat," Peter pointed out, trying his best to be reasonable, even though his young patience was strained almost to the edge trying to ignore the mouthwatering aromas. He was so hungry, hungrier than Grace probably, since she was a girl and he was still growing and all. Mama had always said boys his age should have more food, right? He hadn't had a proper meal for ages, and he could smell all his favorite favorites.

George sighed. They did need to eat, and poor Peter was at his limit. "Okay, slowly though. With me."

So they approached the entrance to the kitchen at a creep, George putting down each foot slowly, eyes never leaving the entrance. Grace impatiently waited for each step to finish, then crossly took two quick little steps of her own. Peter imitated his brother's stride meticulously – step by slow, careful step until they reached the doorway. And there...

....was a feast.

Every favorite each of them had been fantasizing of, every drink they had missed, it was all there, perfect, laid across the table with three place settings. If the food was best hot it steamed, if it was best cold there was condensation on the outside of its container. It may as well have materialized out of their dreams.

George just stood stock still, knowing it was impossible and not daring to trust it, even though his own mouth watered just as badly as Peter's. The truth was that _he_ was the hungriest one, because he was the one who had gone without whenever there wasn't enough. Peter stayed in the doorway because his brother did, but he felt like he could have inhaled the food from where he was, he was so hungry. It was so hard not to beg.

Grace squealed "Pudding!" and dove headlong for the table.

George tried to catch her but wasn't fast enough: he had to chase after her as she clambered up onto a chair and leaned across the table for the pudding bowl.

"Let go let go let go, I want it, it's not fair, it doesn't even belong to anyone, let go! I want the pudding!"

"Grace, you can't trust it, it's not natural!"

"It's _food_ , and I'm _hungry_ , you stupid George, just because you don't like it—"

"We don't know how it got there!"

"It was put there, _stupid_."

"Yeah, but how? By who? There's nobody here! And it wasn't there two minutes ago!"

"The house put it there for us. So we could eat it. So let me eat it! It made me my favorite pudding!"

"A house can't make anything!"

"This one does, the mad scientist must have taught it."

"That's not possible Grace."

"So how _did_ it get here then? Stupid brother."

George stifled his growing annoyance enough to say, patiently, "If we don't understand it, then we shouldn't eat it. We don't know what will happen."

"It's there so we can eat it, who cares about anything else!?"

"We can't!"

"I hate you!" Now Grace was really furious, her little face scrunched up and red and blotchy while tears leaked out of her eyes. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! I'm always hungry and cold and thirsty and now you won't let me eat anything, I hate you! Stupid George!"

George realized it was useless to argue. He picked her up and forcefully began to carry her across the room as she kicked and screamed. "I hate you, I hate you, I'm hungry, it wants us to eat it, it even says so!"

By reflex, even though he knew she was just ranting, George said, "Don't be silly, it doesn't say anything."

"Yes it does stupid brother, it says right on the table!"

"Grace—" George began, now preparing for a good and proper telling-off.

"George," Peter interrupted. "....it – it really _does_ say something on the table."

George stopped, stared, turned. He'd been holding Grace under his arm and facing backwards, so now he was seeing what she had been.

On the table, a space had been cleared among the dishes for two words, spelled in bright green jelly beans.

PLEASE EAT

George stared. Slowly, he went back to the table. He stared some more. Slowly, and almost against his better judgment, he picked one up, and nibbled it.

Lime flavor. Grace's favorite.

"Look, this...this just...this just proves that none of this makes sense! Something is weird here, that must be why it's empty, we need to go, now! We can't stay here, it's not safe!"

"But it _wants_ us to George," Peter said, finally buckling in to begging. "It wants us to, and it's right there, please George."

"Look, we can't—" George's voice cut off. In the exchange he'd turned his head back towards his brother. And in the two seconds he'd looked away, the words had changed.

PLEASE STAY. PLEASE. LET ME COOK FOR YOU.

I'LL TAKE CARE OF YOU.

"But—why?" George asked softly.

This time, he saw it. Or rather, he saw that there was nothing to see: one moment one way, one another.

I'M LONELY. PLEASE STAY.

The words were written in green and red and yellow: green lime jelly beans, red chewy candies that Peter adored, and lemon drops. George loved lemon drops.

George chewed his lip. "But—"

PLEASE. PLEASE.

George turned around. His hungry siblings stared with identical expressions. George took a deep breath.

"All right – let's eat!"

" _Yeaaaaaahhhhh!"_

So they survived the war after all, and on royal fare. The house was solid, and no one else ever came. The bombs missed them, just as they'd hoped. And they had no need to take the risk of going back into town. Because they had food. _Such_ food. Even though it always knew how much they could eat, at first the house kept making too much anyway, it was so happy to have people to feed again. The children dreamed of more food than they could eat, lots of everything they'd been wanting, and the house delightedly gave it to them. Eventually both they and the house calmed down and meals became less extravagant, but no less exquisite. That was something the house would always excel in. And so it went, for nearly three years. But everything must end, even – perhaps especially – war. At some point the children realized that they just couldn't keep hiding in the House anymore. Life was returning to normal in London. They might have relatives who'd survived. They needed to go to school (largely George's concern actually). They couldn't just stay in an abandoned house on the outskirts of the city for the rest of their lives. So they returned. There were a few false starts. They got put in places they didn't want to be, like orphanages. Relatives weren't showing up. Each time, they fell back on what they now called The Cooking House until they could start over again. Eventually, life settled into a shape that suited them. They were, in the end, in an orphanage, but it was a good one, and they agreed it was time to accept it and move on. George worked part-time jobs steadily as he studied, his goals twofold: become solvent enough to support himself and his siblings together, and acquire The Cooking House. It was just an abandoned house, and he was sure few, if any, knew its secret. It would be cheap, if he could only find the owners.

It was a bit of a tangled path, but George had two years before he graduated and all the odd lines provided by his various jobs to follow. Bernard, failing to sell the house to a proper buyer, had eventually passed it up to an Estate Agent for pittance. The Estate Agent, in turn, had been regretting the deal ever since. It was now a dusty file in the agency's cabinet, and it took some steady convincing for them to dig it up. Somewhere along the way, he managed to make some good impressions with the right people. When he graduated, he had a lease-until-acquirement plan worked out, and a job. The siblings moved in.

Well, not officially, not at first. Grace and Peter still had to stay at the orphanage most of the time, but they visited frequently, as in fact they had all taken turns doing in secret ever since they'd left. Because they'd come to understand something about the House in those three years they'd hidden there. Whatever it was that gave it life, that life had one purpose, one wish: to cook. So long as it had people to cook for, it was happy. And so they all made it their responsibility to be sure the House was never long without dinner company. They owed it so much, after all.

And besides, the food was always perfect.

Three more years passed. George wrangled Peter a part-time job at his company, where he steadily built credit towards a permanent position on _his_ graduating day. George's own hard work paid off in the usual way: he was slowly but surely moving up in the company, and was now beginning to have to make more important decisions, and meet with other people of business. As Peter's graduation year approached and Grace's string of admirers wrought havoc on her older sibling's hair, George found himself responsible for something quite, quite serious. He needed to get this exactly right.

Of course, he thought of the Cooking House.

It had always set for the food as well as cooked it. When George asked, by the simple method of standing in the kitchen and worrying about it, it assured him classier settings were well within its power – the meal would lack for nothing. Grace was given severe warnings on the penalties of bringing _anyone_ , boy or girl, over that night (she sulked for a week). Peter, a member of the company in any case, however low-ranked, agreed to perform as server, thereby helping to cover for the fact that the food was essentially being conjured into being. The House, after some very carefully focused worrying, agreed to manifest the food in the adjacent room, where Peter would fetch it out. Everything was arranged.

The day – or rather night – arrived. The House was as good as its word: the table looked wonderful, and the client was duly impressed. Peter, smartly dressed and scrubbed painfully clean, did a credible job as waiter, carrying in dishes so perfect they might have been created just so an instant before. Which, of course, they had, but the client wasn't to know. Everything went exactly, _exactly_ as they'd hoped.

Then the client choked on his food.

Both George and Peter were horrified. The House had never produced a dish that had so much as an imperfect texture, let alone something you could choke on. And yet there their client was, desperately trying to dislodge a large lump that had inexplicably found its way into his dish and then disastrously down his throat. Much desperate pounding dislodged the object, but the client was weak and rasping: it seemed to have done some damage on the way out. Shaken and stunned, George arranged for an ambulance: the client was escorted away with assurances that he would be fine.

George, however, was not.

In many ways, it resembled the day Bernard had found only one place setting for his guest. But unlike Bernard, George understood the true nature of the Cooking House, and the implications of what had happened. Surely only some horrible accident could have caused this, but what? He refused to contemplate that the House had deliberately sabotaged him. He and his siblings had come to see it as a family member, a close friend and benefactor. And until today, the shoe had fit. Why, he wondered, standing in the kitchen. Why had this happened?

HE WAS LYING

"...what?"

HE WAS LYING

George stared at the words for one second, two, three.

Then he bolted out of the house to do some research.

By the time the client had been released from the hospital, George had confirmed what the house had told him: the client had lied about the property. Carried out, the deal would have been a disaster. He presented the information to the company: they agreed that things had worked out quite fortuitously all around, assured George that they did not consider any of the mess his fault, and commended him on his detective work. Life went on unchanged, and most importantly, unharmed. Even his reputation at work was intact.

In fact, the only thing that changed was George's decision to hold _all_ his business meetings at the Cooking House.

The decision paid – literally. Apparently it was only a short step from knowing who would come and what they'd want to eat to knowing which ones brought trouble with them. It did not seem to matter whether the client even knew there was a problem: the House simply found less violent means to show it. A drink that was too warm or cold, a dish with a little too much salt – when your standard is absolute perfection, any variation stands out. George never had any trouble spotting the signs. George's business record became impossibly spotless and his reputation in business circles began to approach legend. Everyone, of course, wanted to know how he did it, but no one could quite bring themselves to credit the Food Test, as it came to be known, at face value. Wild rumors circulated, ranging from connections with M15 to a pact with the devil. The company heard it all but merely shrugged. George's results were both spectacular and profitable – so long as it wasn't illegal, it really didn't care how he did it, so long as he could do it to order. And, rumors of illicit use of government intelligence aside, legal it seemed to be. George continued to work hard, and he was now the most reliable employee in the company. Promotions came regularly.

George dealt well with his success. He had always been organized and steady, so his new responsibilities didn't faze him. He was intelligent and likeable, so he had no trouble with his employees either, or at least no more than expected. And for all the hard decisions, he had The Cooking House. It never steered him wrong. The company rose in the world, and George rose with it. It soon looked likely that eventually, George would _be_ the company.

And then one day, something changed. He invited a new client to dinner, and the client brought his daughter, Annette, a young and charming women with a warm smile. She seemed to get along with Peter as well, and had a calming effect on Grace, who had of recent years been driving both her brothers to despair. But even more than any of that, for the first time, The House began to make changes to the meal that weren't mistakes. Annette's dishes would have some extra little touch – a flower in her napkin, a sampling of some favorite of hers that wasn't in the other's dishes, some extra pink vanity that never failed to bring a smile to her face. The House was never wrong. Before long, George was bringing her for meals without her father.

Six months later, George, with a ring in his pocket and a terror in his heart, invited her to the most important meal of his life.

If she could accept the truth of the Cooking House, he would ask her to marry him.

The meal, of course, was perfect. Like always. Soft candlelight, flowing napkins and fragrant flowers, everything a wooing meal should be. They were both nervous, so nervous it was hard to eat even the House's cooking. They both knew what this meal was, and both knew the other knew. But neither had any way of knowing what the other would really do.

For something so important, any uncertainty can feel like doom.

So when George brought in empty plates at dessert time, Annette was immediately and irrationally frightened. Because so much hinged on tonight, and she didn't know what it meant. Everything seemed like a prelude to the moment of truth – hard or soft. Good or bad.

It was the not knowing that was so hard.

He put a dish in front of each of them, and sat down. She could tell that somehow, this was important. She hadn't thought she could possibly be more nervous.

"Make a wish," he told her softly.

"Wh..what, anything?" she asked. Confused, and almost afraid to show it. What if it was a test?

"No, for dessert. What do you want to eat?"

She looked at him, then at the plate, then at him again. She still didn't understand. But she was afraid not to go along.

"Well...I suppose I've always been partial to this cake and cream dish our cook makes..."

"...It looks good," he agreed.

She almost fainted. Her empty plate had been filled.

It was perfect. She could tell without even tasting it. Just like everything else she'd ever eaten here. She's always marveled at it.

None of it, she suddenly realized, had been natural.

"This is the secret, Annette," he told her quietly. She just stared at him, eyes wide, just barely realizing through her shock that he was trusting her with the biggest secret of his life. "The perfect meals, the Food Test – this is the secret. Do you remember me telling you about how we survived the War?"

"Yes. I remember."

"That was the version I tell everybody. But this is the truth. Or at least, the extra truth I always left out. I never actually told any lies: I just left out the most important part. I let everybody else assume we scavenged and stole for food like all the others like us at the time, and for a while we did, but we never had to steal food again after we found this place. It...it _adopted_ us, Annette. It saw us, three starving children, after it had been alone so long, and it couldn't resist. It set a table like we'd never seen, and when I was afraid to trust it, it begged. It _begged_ us to stay."

Georges eyes had grown distant. " 'Please let me cook for you,'" he said softly. " 'Please stay. I'm lonely.'"

Annette realized she was staring spellbound. Her mouth was open... and there were even tears in her eyes.

"It was so happy when we stayed Annette. It had waited so long to be found again. It's the only time it cooked too much, it just wanted us to eat and eat, eat and eat, it couldn't get enough of us eating. It had been so long since anyone had eaten for it. It needed us so much...and because we were there for it, it...it loved us, Annette. It took me a long time to realize it, but it's true. The House – this house – it loves. It loves us. It loves those it cooks for. We're its family now. And it looks out for us."

"Annette – this place is alive. And I know it's strange and at first it's frightening, because everything too new and strange is frightening, but all it wants...all it wants is people to cook for. For people to be here, happy, eating its food. That's all it wants..."

"Annette. There's nothing to be afraid of. There's nothing, nothing at all. How can you...how can you be afraid of something...that just wants you to be happy?"

Annette looked back at her plate, filled with unnaturally perfect food, on plates and settings and table. All perfect. Perfect – for her.

"George...if you never cooked the food then...all those times..."

"The House wants us to be happy," George said quietly. "And it always knows...it always knows what we want, even when we don't know it. And it's never wrong."

His eyes never left hers, as he reached into his pocket, and took out a ring.

"Annette...marry me. Join my family."

She stared. Then looked down at her plate again. There was a fortune cookie there. It hadn't been there before. She opened it.

PLEASE JOIN MY FAMILY.

She folded the note back up with trembling hands. It was all so hard to take in...but she understood the most important thing.

"It does love," she whispered. "It loves you all...and now it loves me."

"There's nothing more human than that."

She smiled at George: shakily, and with tears in her eyes. But honestly.

"I'll marry you." She said. "I'm not afraid."

And she took a bite of the cake.

So the family of The Cooking House at last began to expand. The House could not have fit all the guests for the wedding, and they could never have hoped to hide its magic from so many anyway. But it made them a wedding cake like no one had ever seen. And when their honeymoon was over, they returned to a welcoming feast that said, even more clearly than the words written in icing and marzipan roses on the centerpiece, just how much they were 'welcome home'.

The Cooking House was happy. And so was everyone else.

Time rolled on. The business continued to flourish, as it only could, with George now the CEO, and The House still behind him just like before. The family flourished as well. Peter did well in the position George had given him, and was now looking for a wife of his own. And Grace had at last begun to grow up, and her boyfriends were no longer boys that were wild and fun, but young men that she could take home. Which, when she found one that she thought just might be special, was exactly what she did. Just like Peter.

The House was their matchmaker, and it was never wrong. And when Annette began to get morning sickness and strange cravings, she was pampered for both like no other woman ever had.

The House was _blissfully_ happy.

But time rolled on yet farther, and things could not stay perfect. Three siblings living in a house was one thing, but three married siblings was quite another. Eventually they reluctantly realized that they would have to choose one family to live in The Cooking House, and the others would have to be satisfied with visiting, however frequently. George was the inevitable choice. He would be keeper. Legally, he was already the sole owner.

But the truth was they all owned the Cooking House. The same way it owned them.

The House missed them badly at first, but a new baby had arrived, and The House was quickly delighted with him. For the first time, Annette and George discovered that The House did indeed have a flaw: apparently, it had no concept of nutrition and the debilitating effects of sugar. They found themselves hard put to convince The House to stop providing an unending stream of sweets, cakes, and chocolates, especially when Harold began crying for them.

HE WANTS IT. HE'S CRYING.

"Yes, I know, but you see, _children_...oh! It's just not good for him, all right?"

HE'S CRYING. I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

They coped. Overall, things were still good. Changing, and sometimes in ways sad and nostalgic, but ultimately for the best. Life was like that, after all.

But time kept rolling on. And good times eventually change to bad.

Harold grew older, and the world grew smaller. The seventies had arrived, and overseas travel had changed dramatically from when his parents were his age. George was beginning to eye the global market, or at least the American one, and toyed with the idea of expanding the business for the next generation. And so, to prepare Harold, he sent him to college in America.

Harold did very well. He had his father's gifts, and they served as well for college as they had for handling management responsibility. And he learned, oh he learned a lot. His grades were stellar, and his parents were thrilled. And he learned about America and American thinking, which also pleased them. Everything seemed to have worked out wonderfully. They were sure Harold would make an excellent heir to the company – and everything else as well.

But unfortunately, away from The Cooking House and surrounded by the intellectual elite, he'd also learned one other thing they'd never, ever wanted him to learn.

He learned not to believe in magic.

He hid it at first, because he loved his parents, and didn't want to upset them. But now he was like Bernard, only worse – rather than simply being oblivious, he deliberately refused to believe in magically conjured food and a House with a living awareness. He had excluded such things from his world, and now they couldn't get in no matter what they did. Nothing could make him believe anymore.

And now the insistence of everyone around him to believe without question ate away at his soul. He had left it behind, but somewhere inside of him was a part that knew that what he'd really done was betray: betray the benevolent being that had given him everything he had, and snuck him candy and chocolate at night. A being that loved him, then and now.

But he'd left belief and magic behind. And so, tormented by what he would not acknowledge, but unable to bring himself to break the hearts of his parents, he hid it, and hid it well, for many years, stewing all the while. Burning under acid guilt, until they finally died, unaware of the change that had occurred in their son, to the last.

But once they were gone, he couldn't stand it anymore. The House's very presence was an accusation, the meals it made a torment to his new resolutions. The House refused to abandon, acknowledge, or resent his inner estrangement: it continued to care for him as if nothing had changed. It demanded, in pure silent tones, that he remember the love he'd once had, the wonder he'd once known. That there was magic in this world, magic for him. Reminded him every day that it was all still there, if he would only open up his heart again.

And because he would not, would not let the memories return, it haunted him instead.

"Tear it down," he told the construction company.

Time rolled on, and the bulldozers and the backhoes rolled in. The foreman thought it was a pity – it was a remarkably well preserved old house, it could have been saved. But that was life, and he saw it all the time. People just weren't willing to take the time for these outdated places. He shrugged, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"Let's rock people."

The machines rolled in...and over, and through. Timbers creaked, cracked, and gave. Roof timbers stretched and collapsed. The dining room where so many meals had occurred disappeared under the rubble. And something...something indefinable...trembled, and began to lose its hold on the place it had kept for so long.

Somewhere far away, as far as he'd been able to arrange, Harold clamped his hands over his ears. And told himself that it was impossible for him to hear it.

A part of himself that would never die, no matter how many years he tried, did not believe him. It never did. It never would. Nothing he ever did would make it go away.

Harold was indeed a haunted man.

Doug, one of the workers, was in a bad mood. He'd been up late the night before, and overslept the next morning. He'd had to skip breakfast and had only been able to slap together the barest lunch to bring with him. He was tired and he was hungry, and there was little prospect of relief from either for the day. He grumbled his way through the wreck of the kitchen, mumbling about the irony of helping to ruin a kitchen when that was exactly what he needed. Why, if he had that kitchen whole right now, he knew what he'd do with it. A nice juicy ham and cheese sandwich, dripping hot and toasted, so moist you didn't even need any condiments, because they'd have been an insult to the meat. He could see it so clearly he could almost smell it. Suddenly he stopped.

He could smell it.

He looked right. He looked left. He looked down. Slowly – still trying to figure out what was going on – he got down on his knees, and lifted a slab of rock.

A juicy ham and cheese sandwich, toasted and moist. Perfect, and pristine within several layers of saran wrap. It steamed slightly in the morning air.

He stared. He looked left. He looked right. He looked down.

He took the sandwich.

It was the best ham and cheese sandwich he ever tasted.

Six months passed. And somewhere in London, a wearied widow hurried home from her second job – there was a third later that night – to prepare what food she could for her children. They were such good kids, bright and never complained, but this was the best she could do these days, trying to get along without their father. There was no point marrying recklessly, so she worked all she could, and came home in time to have dinner for them whenever she could. Not that she could afford much. Poor things could have eaten far more and far better, and so could she. But they would be all right, she told herself as she opened the door to her apartment. They'd all be alright. In time. With hard work and time, things would get better. She was sure of it. She walked into the kitchen.

The table was set. The table was full. Full of all their favorite foods.

And all of it was perfect.

"....impossible...."

There have been many tales of The Cooking House.

This was one of them.

***

***

Gentle Beast

### ***

She first met him in the morning.

She'd been cheerfully running down the stairs at the time. She'd woken up feeling quite peppy, and since there were no appointments for the day, she had nothing more substantial on her mind than some idle wondering of what the house spells had made for breakfast.

There was a Beast in her living room.

Sarumah was a magus of the highest order, and experience with spells and summonings had given her steady nerves. Still for all of that he had a frightful appearance: hunched massive shoulders and a fang-filled muzzle with thick fur and a head that topped hers by half her height again. Finding him so suddenly in her house, she very nearly cast a spell out of reflex, but she managed to stop herself in time. She knew the spells of protection on her land very well – she maintained them regularly. If he was here, right in the heart of her home, then he was nothing to be afraid of. It was as simple as that. But it was hard to view his presence calmly. Her living room was a cozy place designed for comfortable reading, and his presence clashed dramatically with the rich carpet, wood paneled walls, and fireplace that characterized it.

She stayed on the stairs, and worked to control her voice. A magus was at the service of whoever might request her aid – in return, a magus was a person who could weave luxury from dirt and stones, and wielded power no king could control, though he had all the armies in the world. Both by practice and by nature, a magus could not refuse a righteous petitioner if it was within her power to help.

"Are you..." she had to stop and clear her throat. "Are you...here for yourself or for another?"

The Beast laid a paw on his chest – though actually it was not so very far from a hand. He stood very quietly, she realized, posturing in a distinctly humble, almost submissive way. In fact, from the way he was doing it, why...he was trying to calm her! She felt a smile tug on her mouth, and finally finished descending the stairs.

She had no fear of a gentleman Beast.

"And is this your natural shape?" she asked, fairly certain of her answer.

The Beast shook his head. Even when he was not consciously trying to be less threatening – he had relaxed when she had – there was a distinctly gentle air about him that did not match his appearance. The more she watched, the more sure she was of what this was about.

"Then, you wish to be returned to your rightful form? You are a man, aren't you? That's no animal in your eyes." She had approached him properly by now, and without meaning to, she reached up to lightly touch the skin beside his right eye when she said it. She had to reach on tiptoe. But the look in the Beast's eyes – first astonishment, and then the wide soft pain of something best uncovered – told her she'd been right to do it. After a long moment, he nodded.

"Very well then. I will do all I can for you. You cannot speak?"

He nodded.

"Then we will start there first. It will be much easier to help you when you can tell me how you got this way. I have heard of magi changing cruel men to beasts as punishment but I do not think that is your story. This way – I haven't yet had breakfast, so you can take it with me. Then we'll see about restoring your voice."

The Beast appeared uncertain.

"Oh, you won't be any inconvenience. The house spells have fed all manner of guests, they will adapt to you just fine. You will see. It may take days to help you, so you had best get used to the hospitality here." He still seemed a bit reluctant. Feeling a bit giddy with her own daring, Sarumah took hold of a hank of hair between his shoulder and his neck and tugged him along behind her. "Come on. The doorway will accommodate you just like the others did on the way in. Just walk through."

He came of course. Looking – if the description could be applied to such a face – rather comically bemused.

As always when she had unusual guests, Sarumah took great interest in the arrangements the house spells conceived for him. She had expected his food to be mostly meat, but to her surprise it was only the serving arrangements – and the sheer volume offered – that differed from the food she'd been served herself. A low, sturdy bench lay in front of a solid pedestal of sorts topped by a large shallow bowl near the flagstone table and padded stone bench (part of the wall) where she usually ate – apparently the Beast was most comfortable squatting low on his haunches. There was a wooden spoon, but the Beast quickly found that even though his hands were indeed capable of using one – they were in fact remarkably dextrous – his mouth was not: he simply could not serve himself through those teeth. Sarumah felt a twinge of sympathetic humiliation as he was reduced to lowering his head to eat from the bowl like a...well, like a beast.

Sarumah ate as if it was normal, and, when he was done, did her best to smile encouragingly without stepping any harder on his pride.

"Don't worry. I'll soon have you changed back."

Sarumah's spell room was a place designed for concentration, focus, and the containment and focus of power. Inscriptions in the floor, usually unnecessary but nearly always helpful, guided the energies of life in those ways peculiar to the magus' art. There were no books or jars or herbs, though there were tables – all of those were stored elsewhere, where they would not interfere when not wanted.

"Stand here – in the middle. This will only take a minute, but it may be quite uncomfortable. I'm afraid I can't promise it won't hurt."

The Beast nodded slightly: his stance was steady and calm, his eyes set. He was ready.

Sarumah stepped back ten paces from him, then closed her eyes. Her arms raised, and the world, ever so subtly, trembled: there was a sense that where she stood, the world deepened, becoming a well of swirling, soft heavy strength. It flowed both around and through her, the currents of life, causing her clothes to billow slightly, slowly around her, and her hair to undulate down her back.

It was a sight both awesome and unspeakably beautiful. And it was only enhanced by the soft smile she wore as she opened her eyes and lowered her arms towards the Beast, spreading them to include him in the midst of their span, releasing the magic towards him in a gentle, massive wave.

Virtue is its own reward. And so is magic.

The Beast's head tilted back and a low growl, almost a rumble, came from his throat as the magical energy engulfed him and set his own hair to waving like the sorceress's own tresses. But most of all he felt the changes occurring in his throat, his mouth, flesh induced to shift and flow under his skin by the warm pressure. It did not hurt. He looked almost as pleased as Sarumah.

And then the magic ceased, as gently as it had come. The waves, the flow, the warmth, the sense of weight that had filled the room, all swiftly dissipated. The Beast almost seemed to smile despite the monstrous shape of his face, eyes alight as he opened his mouth to thank Sarumah properly.

But even as he opened his mouth, he felt the changes unraveling inside him. His eyes changed from warm and glowing to the sharp poignant brightness of desperation as he worked his mouth, trying to speak as the means fled him despite himself.

"N...n....uuurrr..." his voiced trailed off into the growls of a Beast.

Sarumah looked as shocked as he did. "The spell...it worked. I know it did. I don't understand...it undid itself?" But her expression quickly settled into determination. "A fluke," she said firmly. "It must be, I've never heard of such a thing. I'll do it again. I'll have to do it a bit harder this time, so be prepared. This time I know it won't be comfortable."

The Beast nodded, but there was a tension in him now that hadn't been there the first time.

This time Sarumah's expression was not half so dreamy; she frowned slightly and directed the magic with care. It showed in the magic's feel – instead of gentle engulfing waves it gathered in focused, guided turbulence in his throat and mouth: it was not painful, exactly, but his expression was similar to the sorceress's.

This time, he almost managed two words before the changes reverted entirely. "It's no...kkkk...."

Sarumah's arms dropped to her sides, her expression bewildered and lost. "I...I just don't understand. The magic...it's never failed me like this before. The spell...whatever has changed you...it's still active? It must be. It's countering the changes I make. I can't do anything to you without breaking the core magic entirely. I don't understand...I've never heard of anything like this before. Oh no Beast, please, please don't look like that." The fear, the despair, and most of all, the disappointment that showed in his face cut at her deeply. She'd never failed anyone who'd come to her before, and she'd always loved seeing their expressions when she helped them. Now for the first time she found herself looking at the face of someone she'd failed, failed at something that meant everything to him, and she couldn't stand it. She walked swiftly over to him and grasped the thick fur on his arms as she turned her face up. "Listen to me Beast, please, I swear I'll help you! This isn't over yet, not even close, I haven't even tried to understand what happened to you. I swear I won't let you stay this way. I won't fail you. I promise I'll change you back. All right? Please stop. It's going to be all right."

The Beast looked down at her face, and the despair was replaced by warmth. He believed her.

Sarumah smiled, both relieved and gratified. "Thank you. Come on, we're going to have to take this to my library."

The library, of course, was immense – it was a multi-generation effort. Bookshelves three times her height, broad and heavy to support their own upward mass, spaced themselves from wall to wall. The true spaces between them would not have admitted even her – the broad isles that allowed her and the Beast to walk about were created entirely by the same magic that allowed the Beast to use the halls and doors. It made for a disconcerting effect, when you stood back and tried to take in the full expanse – you knew there were more than should fit in the walls, if they really were that far apart, and yet no matter how you looked, you couldn't quite find where things were going wrong. Your eyes knew they were being tricked, but it was impossible to catch the magic at it.

The Beast was suitably awed – he stared about, head back, neck craning, taking it all in as best he could. The look he gave her when he stopped was one of slightly stunned respect.

"It is very good, isn't it?" She agreed, smiling, pleased that he appreciated it. Had he been educated as a man? So few commoners were, but then, she had no reason to assume he had been one, other than sheer statistics. "Can you read, Beast?"

He nodded. Sarumah smiled. "Marvelous! You can help me look, and the books can help keep you occupied while you're here...what?"

The Beast held up his hands – three times the size of a man's at least, covered with hair and callused at the tip. Sarumah winced a bit. He was right. The hands were very dextrous but he almost certainly could not turn pages safely. And books were precious commodities – many of the ones here would be very difficult to replace. "Well..." her voice drifted off. She felt very awkward, having uncovered something else he could not do as a Beast. "Well, all the more reason to hurry," she finished finally. And, to her mind, somewhat lamely. "Come on. You can answer questions while I look for the right section. I think we can still narrow things down, even if you can't speak."

So they set off down the impossibly large halls created by the towering bookshelves. Ladders were periodically spaced to allow access to the ones higher up. As they went, Sarumah posed questions to the Beast, doing her best to stick to ones that could be answered with a shake of the head.

"Was it done by a man? I mean, is this a magus' spell?"

The Beast shook his head. Sarumah was relieved. If the answer had been yes, it would have meant one of two things. Either the Beast had in fact been a bad man after all, or someone had somehow managed to learn how to cast dark magic again. She would have hated either one. If it had been the second, then as the one to discover him it would have been her duty to hunt down the rogue, and as for the Beast...she glanced over her shoulder at him, following slowly behind, for all his great size probably meant outpacing her would have been all too natural. His eyes wandered over the shelves, and their expression was quiet and awed, an intelligent being wondering at the riches around him.

No. The Beast was no criminal. She was sure of that.

"Then, was it related to something you did? Did it happen right after you did something, or something occurred around you?"

The Beast shook his head without changing its rotation as it continued to scan the long lines of books.

"You must have loved to read, when you were a man."

He nodded. A tinge of regret came to cloud the wonder, and Sarumah wished she hadn't said it.

"How about a place? Do you think a place had anything to do with it?"

Now the Beast paused entirely, his head coming to rest directly ahead as he gave thought to the question. He met her eyes and nodded.

Now Sarumah stopped too, turning to face him, drawn, as he was, by the uncovering of a clue. "It was a place? Man-made or natural? Oh sorry, sorry!"

The Beast sort of seesawed his shoulders, that slight tilt to his mouth and head that made her think of a smile combining to say, as clearly as any words, that no offense was taken at all. Really, he was remarkably expressive despite being silent. It was intriguing. Just how much, the scholar in her suddenly wondered, did you really need speech to communicate? Possibly not nearly as much as it was used, judging by the Beast.

"All right – was it a man-made place?"

The Beast shook his head. Now Sarumah was beginning to feel downright excited. "It was a natural magic then. Was it...was the land open?"

The Beast shook his head.

"Closed land..." She paused, trying to think how to word the next question. "Was the...was it closed in by...living things?"

The Beast nodded.

"A...forest? You changed while in a forest?"

The Beast nodded, rapidly – both of them were getting excited.

"How long did it take? Oh, I did it again, I mean – did it take a long time? More than a day?"

The Beast paused. A strange look came over his face. Slowly, he lifted his shoulders: a shrug, and a very uncertain one at that.

"You...don't know? Then...you didn't notice the change at first at all?"

He nodded.

Sarumah frowned, but it was a thinking frown. "Were you...aware of time at all?"

The Beast shook his head, a slight cloud in his eyes his attempts to remember the vague period in which he'd somehow become something else.

"Well...all this does narrow it down. And it's given me enough so I'll know I've found what we're looking for when I see it. But Beast...it is still going to take a while. The library is vast, and so is the world. If you were unaware of time, very little is impossible. Strong magic places can...swallow those who go there, and regurgitate them far from where they should have been – and what they should have been, as well. Beast, did you know the forest was magic when you entered it?"

After a pause – a slightly embarrassed one, she couldn't help thinking – he nodded.

"Then...why did you go in?"

But this was beyond even the Beasts ability to communicate silently. Sarumah finally put a hand on his arm, stopping his efforts. "It doesn't matter. I'm sure you had a good reason. I will do my best for you, Gentle Beast, but it will take time, and my time is not my own. I will receive requests, ones I already know how to solve. I'm sorry, but those will have to come first. Especially if I get one from the King. I'm sorry. Please trust me."

The Beast laid a huge gentle hand over the one on his arm. Sarumah smiled. "You must have been quite the gentleman as a man," she said. "All the more reason to return you to one. For now I seem to have the day to myself, so lets see how far we can get. No..." she glanced around slowly. "This isn't the right section. We need books on places with strong ambient magic, strong enough to powerfully influence what's in them. Magical geography, essentially...this way." And she headed off down the labyrinthine lanes.

The Beast followed. One got the impression he was rather impressed with Sarumah's ability to navigate the place.

They spent quite a bit of time in there, wandering through halls as Sarumah followed her memory, and the map of subjects that appeared to exist only in her head. The Beast felt rather lost, surrounded by book stacks so high it was easy to believe they were in another world, one where beings that moved and thought were the exception rather than the rule, an alien incursion meandering, stunned and awestruck, through this alternate universe of books. For anyone but a magus, such a collection would have been absolutely beyond comprehension – no, even half would have been impossible, just to own, let alone navigate. And yet Sarumah seemed to know her way about always.

"Everything in this house is regulated by magic," she told the Beast. "My family has held it a long time, and there is almost nothing left to do except maintain the spells doing everything else. So I spend a lot of time here. I like reading, and the more I know, the better I am at what I do. There's always more to learn – as this place proves!" She added with an impish smile, gesturing to take in the entire impossible expanse. "But I'll admit I am being helped by magic a bit – I actually can't get lost here at all. It's like – an external sense of direction."

The Beast was content to simply follow in her wake, and help search the areas she found. Unlike Sarumah, he didn't need ladders: he simply stood his highest to read higher titles, and could even reach most of them. His hands, untrustworthy with pages, were perfectly safe for removing the books themselves. With his help, they were able to amass a sizable collection of starting material.

"This is the long part," she said, a bit out of breath, putting her pile on a table. "It's going to be rather boring for you – you don't have to stay."

But the Beast seemed perfectly happy to sit and watch her read, and Sarumah found that she was quite happy to have him there. He was remarkably patient: he simply sat, a large silent presence, and managed to be, not an uncomfortable source of attention, but a warm sense of company. Besides for the occasional petitioner, Saruham was used to being alone, especially in the library. She found that she enjoyed having an audience, stopping to read aloud the interesting bits, gesturing and explaining while he watched, clearly listening closely. And in the end it all went by much faster than she'd expected.

"Goodness, it's dinner time," she said suddenly. The Beast, startled, glanced about, probably reflexively seeking something he could deduce the time from. But there was no such thing there. He looked back at her.

"Yes, more magic. Come on, let's see if the kitchen has thought of anything new for you."

The kitchen had. Instead of a large shallow bowl, he now had a deeper bowl that was actually rectangular, with a tapering lip at one end that formed a kind of slide: the Beast could pour the food into his mouth in what was at least a semi-civilized fashion.

"There, see? Isn't that better?" The Beast indeed seemed pleased. Held with both hands and used with decorum, the new bowls allowed him some measure of dignity when eating. It took him a bit longer than Sarumah to finish though, since he needed so much more. Sarumah watched patiently. His form still fascinated her – it was not quite like any animal she'd read of, and she'd read of quite a few. That might be another way to research his problem, she mused. Search for animals that resembled him, try to find what he'd been turned into, exactly.

"Ready?" She asked at last. The Beast nodded. "Good." She got up – and paused. "Beast...do you like gardens?"

The Beast liked gardens very much – and not just for sitting in or staring at. From the moment they reached it, the Beast no longer followed her – she followed him, as he walked among the plants, fingering them gently, examining the soil, taking inventory as only someone who made gardens would do. Her tour was disrupted, but watching the monstrously sized and shaped Beast examining her plants and flowers with such tender care made up for it. Somehow he fit here, among the plants, as he had not in the house. His silhouette seemed as natural here as a tree or a large bush might have been. She was smiling, she realized. She was happy to see him feeling so at home.

"You approve?" She asked quietly. "It's maintained by spells as well I'm afraid. I suppose you don't approve of that. To you the labor itself is part of it, isn't it? Part of the magic."

The Beast nodded, without taking his eyes off the flowering bush he was investigating. While the books in the library had awed him, the contents of her garden fascinated and enchanted him – for the first time since he'd come, the Beast was utterly and subconsciously at peace. It set off something warm inside her, something that had made her the magus she was. The part that made her glad to offer her magic to the needful. She was happy this part of her home could do so much for him.

"If the research takes too long, I could give you part of this to care for," she said quietly. "I can disable the spells for just a small part for you. If you'd like."

The Beast looked at her with a smile like warm fire in his eyes. His mouth opened reflexively – but only a growling grunt came out, and the fire died. He looked down and away. Sarumah walked over to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder for a few moments. "How about I bring those books out here?"

But she didn't find what they were looking for that night, or the day after. Sarumah spent nearly all of that time browsing through one book or another. Even she would normally have been exhausted by this but the Beast's presence, and their regular relocation from the library to the garden, went a long way towards sustaining her. She'd be rather sorry when he changed and left, she thought. She was becoming used to him being here. But if she liked his company that much, who was waiting for him? Surely he had a family, perhaps even one of his own making. No, the sooner the spell was broken, the better. She owed it to him. Him and whoever loved him.

That there might be no one like that for her Gentle Beast never occurred to her. It simply didn't make sense.

On the third day, she got her first request since the Beast arrived. Ironically, it was the key after all.

A villager arrived carrying a little girl and with tear stains on his cheeks. "They said it can't be cured," he rasped hoarsely. "Say it ain't so Mistress. You're magic, say it ain't so."

Sarumah had her laid down on a couch, examined her, with both hand and eyes and magic. "I think I know this," she said. "Or of it. The cure is very rare but I have it. Wait here."

The Beast had been watching from a discreet location: without her having had to say anything, the Beast had known to keep out of sight. His present form was something that few would easily understand. Concern hovered around him like a cloud, making Sarumah smile. He was so very kind, her Beast.

"I have to check in the library first," she told him. "This isn't something I've ever seen directly before. In fact I've only read of it briefly."

It took her a few minutes to find the book: the disease was greatly feared but very obscure, and the right tome was in fact a specialized study of such dangerous but little known diseases. But she did find it, and after reading a few minutes she closed the book and got up.

"We can fix her," she told the Beast, smiling because she was glad, and because she knew he would be glad. "This way. This requires a herb you can only get to with magic, and that's why it's so rare, and so many people don't know about it. But one of my predecessors made sure we had plenty. This way, you haven't been to this part before."

Sarumah did not visit the herb and powder room very often, simply because she didn't often have use for it. It didn't look it though: the house spells did not discriminate in cleaning efforts based on use. Rather it showed in that unlike the library, Sarumah had to really look to find where she needed to go, and consult an inventory book, checking numbers against the labels on the shelves. She noticed that the Beast was getting shifty.

"The girl's state won't change for at least a day," she told him. "We'll have her first dose well before sunset. There's no need to worry." The change was visible.

"Gentle Beast," she murmured, turning to the correct shelf. Correct, but long, and filled with many other candidates. And when she finally did discover the right jar, it was to find that the reason she'd had trouble spotting it was because it was placed several feet higher than her fingertips could reach. "Oh bother," she muttered, glancing absently further down the row for a ladder, as she was used to doing when anything was out of reach in the library. But it wasn't the library, and the room's one ladder, she remembered, was tucked in a corner somewhere. "Drat and bother," she muttered, standing on her toes and straining as if those scant few extra inches could bridge the thirty or so between her and the taunting jar of dried leaves.

Large, strong hands wrapped carefully around her waist. Sarumah started. And then, slowly, and so smoothly she was hardly aware of moving, feeling almost as if she were floating rather than being held, she found herself lifted up until the jar was in easy reach.

Her hands grasped the jar, but she didn't take it off the shelf right away: she paused, taking in the sensation of being held so high, of having hands that strong and large, that could so easily kill her, holding her up here so gently that she felt as if she was there by her own power. She looked down. Definitely the Beast's hands, secure around her waist. She looked over her shoulder: the Beast's face was almost directly behind her. She smiled, and took the jar off the shelf.

"Thank you," she said, and he put her down, as gently as he'd lifted her. But for some reason, the moment didn't end. It just kept going, with her standing in front of him, jar in her hands, face turned back towards him, and he with his hands still gently, gently clasping her waist. Until finally, he slowly removed them, and the moment slowly let go of them both. Only then did the Beast look away from her own face, towards the jar she held.

The hands that had lifted her so slowly snatched the jar from her hands so fast she hardly realized what had happened for an instant. The look on his face was so terrible, so urgent, for a moment she forgot who he was, and was frightened. "Beast...Beast, my Beast, what..." But the Beast could not answer her in words: after staring at the jar, at the contents inside for an endless moment of taut, frenzied scrutiny, he could only look at her with urgency in his eyes, shaking the jar towards himself in an impotent gesture to replace the words that rumbled urgently in his chest and mind, but had no means to escape. And slowly, comprehension dawned in Sarumah's eyes.

"That herb...Mengever's Root...you know it? That disease...and you...gods defend us, you must be joking. The Innexian Forest? You were changed in the Innexian Forest?!

But the energy and conviction with which he nodded, hand still emphatically waving the jar of Mengever's Root, was no joke. Sarumah shook her head in slow disbelief.

"I've never heard of this..." She took the jar from his hand. "We'll take care of the girl first," she told him. "Then it's straight to the library. I don't think this will take long. I've never heard of this directly...but I've heard many things about that forest that this might explain."

The man nearly collapsed, tears streaming down his face like fountains, when Sarumah came in with the jar and told him his daughter was going to live. He was also, once he'd recovered enough to be, almost embarrassingly grateful, abjectly swearing every form of recompense he had, even though Sarumah told him repeatedly that none was required. "Bring her to visit when she's well," Sarumah told him at last. "Seeing the results of my work will be my payment." And, after a great deal of convincing and the entire process of administering the first dose and portioning out how much more he would need, he finally accepted this. He walked backwards out the door, thanking her all the way.

Sarumah closed the door and, with a slightly guilty sense of relief, hurried towards the library, where she knew the Beast was waiting.

The Beast was indeed waiting: he was pacing up and down before the shelves like the proverbial caged lion, more beast-like in his agitation than Sarumah had ever seen him.

"Not a lot is known about the Innexian forest," Sarumah told him as they walked, her in the lead, towards whatever books she had in mind. "That's because no one who goes in without magical protection ever returns. No one's even really sure what they're protecting against – obviously the forest has powerful ambient magic, but the only way to find out exactly what that magic is really doing is to leave the protections down...and no one who's done that has ever left. Magi who plan to return use everything they've got, and leave no wiser then when they entered. All we know is that expeditions must be carefully planned and overseen by a magus strong enough to protect everyone with him from beginning to end. But that herb, Mengever's Root – it grows nowhere else, and it can do things nothing else can, much of it medical in nature – that's only one of several lethal diseases it can cure. Which is why that ancestor I mentioned made his expedition: it was a gathering trip, and he planned it to be the last we would need to make for as long as was humanely possible. But of course once they were inside they also observed as much as they could, and searched for signs of what had happened to everyone who'd failed to leave. His account of the trip is as good a source of information on the place as you'll ever find, if not the only one you'll ever see – there aren't many, and copies of any of them are prized to magi. Here. The tenth shelf up, left side. Rough leather binding, stenciled title."

The Beast reared up and pulled the book in question from the shelf and handed it to her. Sarumah took it back to the nearest reading table, the Beast lumbering close behind.

"I don't remember a great deal about it," Sarumah said, putting down the book and thumbing through it while still standing. "It's been a long time since I last read it – but I do remember two things at the moment that matter to you. One was that they never found any signs of struggles or bodies – no remains of those who'd come before of any sort. And...there was some strange kind of beast that dwelled there. They only ever saw it at a distance, never got a good look, but he was sure it was unique to the Innexian forest. Even though he was never able to examine one properly, he made a sketch as best he could. It should be somewhere around this part..." Sarumah's voice trailed off as she turned a page; for a long moment she just stood there, gazing at the open book, her eyes strangely blank. Then she closed her eyes and bowed her head, and silently pushed the book forward towards the Beast.

The rough sketchy lines would have been almost impossible to recognize alone. But with the Beast standing next to it, the resemblance was unmistakable.

"So now we know the secret," Sarumah said tonelessly. Her head remained bowed, hair falling down over her eyes. Her hands, after moving the book, had fallen back limply to catch palms down on the table. "The forest doesn't kill – it possesses. It engulfs the mind and bodies of those who enter, and makes them part of itself. Changes them into its own unique inhabitants. But you were able to retain some awareness of your humanity, so you left. The fabled secret of the Innexian Forest – now we know. I am the first to know – I will be put in many books for this." A strange, wavery gasping sound emerged from behind her hair, and her arms straightened and stiffened, strained and trembling against the wood.

A tear fell from behind the curtain of tresses, to splash against the wooden tabletop.

"We are the first – and the only. The only ones..."

Abruptly, Sarumah flung herself onto the Beast's right arm, hands buried and clenched in his fur as she sobbed into the space below his shoulder. "Oh Beast, Beast, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please forgive me I'm sorry, I can't keep my promise, I can't keep it! Nobody knows...nobody else knows anything about what's happened to you, anything at all! Nobody knows – the Innexian Forest was a complete mystery until today. Nobody knows, nobody can help, not a single book in my library can help, and I – I hardly know anything either. I don't know how...I don't know how to change you back...and now there's nobody else to turn to anymore. Nobody knows...nobody knows anything about you."

"I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry...even though I promised you...even though...I've never failed anyone before...oh for Life's sake forgive me Beast, I don't know how to change you! I may never be able to change you. I've failed you...I've failed...I'm so sorry...forgive me...oh please Beast forgive me..."

At first he only looked at her, looked down at her as she sobbed, his face a mask of disbelieving grief as her words slowly permeated through his mind. His left hand came up, almost absentmindedly, to cradle her against him: his head bowed till his chin hit his chest.

And then he raised his head all the way to the skies and let out the first truly bestial noise Sarumah had ever heard him make: wild, grief laden pain roared out of his mouth and echoed off the walls, a lament of the wildman, the overwhelmingly lonely tone of the wolf and the harsh pain of the wounded tiger blended with his soul, the soul of a man, and filled the room from his mouth; again and again, he screamed his pain to the world, as he held as tightly as he safely could to his only comfort, crying with him, doing her meager best to embrace his vast form in turn.

"Oh Beast...oh Beast...I'm so sorry. Oh Beast. Oh my Beast...my Gentle Beast..."

"You may stay here as long as you wish," Sarumah said, some time later. After the Beast's grief had run out and turned to silence. Somewhere along the way, their positions had changed: the Beast now half crouched, half lay on the floor, and Sarumah was curled in the space between arm and neck, cradling his head with her arms and body. It was the best she'd been able to do. "I know it is not what you came for, but if nothing else I can offer you safe haven, a home where you will be treated as the human you are. Anything else I can give you...I will. I cannot return your form – but I won't let you endure it alone. You will stay, won't you Beast?"

The Beast turned his head slightly, leaning into her embrace. "Good," she said, softly. "Good."

"I'm glad."

They stayed that way for a long time – all the way until the dinner bell rang. It was a gentle chime, almost apologetic – the house's way of saying 'aren't you going to eat at all?'

"Come on," Sarumah said, getting up. "We can't do this forever. Come on, get up. It will be all right, you'll see. I'll find ways to make you happy here. And who knows...what's possible may change over time. It often does, you know. Get up."

And, slowly, the Beast did.

After dinner, both of them settled back, quietly at loss. Until now there had never been any doubt what would be done next. There had been a clear goal, an agenda. Now Sarumah found herself wondering what one did together with company really. She'd only ever played host to them – this was a sort of social situation she'd never dealt with.

"I know – lets go to the garden. I promised you a share, remember? I think it's time you picked one."

So they did – they went outside and wandered together through the many rows of plants and flowers and vines. Sarumah found herself wishing the Beast could tell her his thoughts – she was sure he knew all kinds of things about her own garden that she did not. Even though it had been here all her life, just by walking through it with him, it seemed different. Seeing his wonder, his tenderness as he parted or patted leaves and stems with monstrous hands, it unfolded the beauty of it before her, and she had never wished so much he could talk. And yet...in some way...he really did seem to talk. She was amazed how much could be said with silence, with expression and poise and gaze. She found herself slipping into his language, the one his form had taught him. It was a good language. It was a language with many words. She was sorry she'd never spoken it before.

When he stopped by the glade, she knew he'd made his choice.

"Here, then?" She asked, to be sure.

He nodded. It was the space that surrounded the back entrance, a low doorway in the walls that surrounded her property, closed by metal grate doors more decorative than functional, as befitted a house protected by powerful magic. The space immediately in front of the door bloomed outward in a round enclosed glade floored in paving stones, before wandering off in two thin lines through the garden. The door was not often used, but it was her favorite way in or out when she did have occasion to leave.

The Beast moved to stand in the middle of the stone space, evaluating the area around him. Here the plants had been grown tall, thick luscious bushes and vines along the walls. The bounty extended overhead: the two paths leading out were framed by roses that twined thickly, climbing high and bulging outward, dangling their petals about. The space between the two paths was the source of the vines, linking the two with varicolored blossoms. It was a wonderful place. She could see the peaceful satisfaction on his face, and did not begrudge him jurisdiction over one of her favorite parts of her garden. She was sure he would take care of it. Why, he could even reach the high parts!

"Do you want anything else, or will you just take care of this area here?"

The Beast paused, then reared up on his hind legs to look out beyond the green wall. He made a spread fingered gesture vaguely indicating that he would like the no-spell zone to extend a little ways further in from the glade edge. "All right, as you wish. Anything else at all?"

The pause this time was different – the Beast was thinking, not about what he wanted, but whether to ask. Slowly, he returned to his usual four legged stance. And then, he gestured towards the gate, fingers pointed to indicated the space beyond.

"That land? It belongs to no one, you don't need my permission to do anything there. If you stay close to the walls you shouldn't meet anybody either. But why, what do you want it for? Do you want to have something you started yourself?"

But this time, the Beast's language was inexpressive. His reasons were his own. Sarumah bowed to that wish.

"Very well. Just as you ask then. This area will be left alone by the spells – everything that happens to it from now on will be your doing. Take good care of it, it's my favorite place here."

It always amazed her how something who looked like he did, could so clearly and sweetly smile. He hardly even used his mouth.

It was his language.

Over the next few days, Sarumah adjusted to the idea of a permanent companion. The truth was she'd lived alone in the house since her father died five years before. Aside from the occasional visitor, she'd been left to spend her time as she wished. She could still spend it as she wished, but the presence of another had a much stronger influence than she'd expected. She'd used to spend most of her time just quietly poring through pages. She still spent a lot of time with a book, but her progress was much slowed by sharing it with the Beast, who never grew tired of hearing her explain. She should have been annoyed by the delays, she thought. Study was important to a mage.

But she wasn't. Instead, when he wasn't in the library with her, she'd take a book out to the garden to be with him. Often those times were spent in silent reading while he tended the garden, but somehow reading in the sun with the Beast moving about nearby was entirely different from reading the same book at the table in the library. And it was a difference she sought. At some point she had to confess to herself that rather than resenting any of the effects he'd had on her life, she was wondering how she'd never thought to feel lonely before.

Somehow, evenings had become their reading hour. Oh, reading occurred in some form all the time, but evenings were when she picked a book especially for reading aloud, and went out into the garden, where the Beast would crouch in an empty spot near a bench, and she would sit and read to him. When he laid out like that, his head was not much higher than hers sitting. Sometimes, when they wanted to read where there was no such convenient convergence of space and seat, the Beast, crouched, would crook one arm, and she would sit nestled within the hollow it created, leaning back against his shoulder and neck. It was a very warm and cozy way to sit, and she was rather disconcerted to discover one morning that she had fallen asleep that way, and spent the night with the Beast's head laid in front of her, enclosing her almost perfectly in his warm thick fur.

It was disconcerting, but also very peaceful. The morning sun had only recently come of a height to meet her eyes, and had laid wavering plays of light and shadow over her and the Beast's great head in front of her, and all around as well. There was something magical about it, and Sarumah found herself wriggling out of the snug little Beast nest as quietly as she could to savor it alone. Walking slowly along the line of roses between the paths, she admired the fine color and vibrancy the flowers had gained. Plants did everything so gradually you didn't notice right away, but now that she was looking so closely, examining the effects of this new light, she was sure that the flowers were doing even better than they had under the spells. They seemed almost aglow. Life shone out from every color, every leaf and petal. The more she looked, the more she marveled. However had he had such an effect so quickly?

It was only once she'd actually thought the question that she was actually confounded by the lack of an answer. Brow wrinkled slightly, she walked a little more quickly, heading for the nearest of the two paths and going along it until she reached the border between the Beast's garden and hers. The difference, now she looked for it, was immediate and obvious. She walked further, until she found another patch of roses. She examined them, then hurried back to the Beast's clearing to see the ones he'd been tending again. Fingering the leaves with gentle wonder, there was no longer any doubt.

"Oh my Beast...no wonder you were able to leave the Innexian Forest. It's magic could never have fully deceived one such as you." She turned to look at the Beast, eager to share her discovery and hoping he was awake. He wasn't, and she had to resist the urge to wake him up quite hard. Instead she sat herself where she would be the first thing he saw when he woke up and waited. Her eagerness must have still been very obvious when he did, because he immediately raised his head and looked at her in an inquiring way as if to say, 'what?'

"Beast, have you compared your flowers with the others?"

He looked puzzled, and perhaps a bit tense. He hadn't, and was not sure why she'd asked. He half rose, his gaze slightly more intense. He hadn't ruined them had he?

"Oh no, nothing like that Beast, the opposite. You must look for yourself, it's amazing. Have you ever compared your gardening this way before? No? I thought so. It is amazing, you must look, I want you to see for yourself."

So the Beast was bemusedly led on a brief tour – one that ended with him much more alert and prepared to pay attention.

"It's magic Beast, there really is no other way. It's called the Green Touch, and it means plants respond to you: they are happier, grow more and faster, are healthier, just do better in all ways when you care for them. It's usually mutual," she added, a warm tease in her crinkled eyes and quirked mouth. "The results can be very remarkable when you put your mind to it, just look at what you've done in only three days. It's a very rare gift, Beast," she said, smiling at him. "And very special, at least to my mind. A subtle and beautiful gift of life. It suits you."

At first, the Beast smiled back at her, in his own unique way. Then he looked back at the flowers, and a distant look of bittersweet thought crossed his face, and stayed there, as he slowly reached out to lightly touch the swaying, bountiful blossoms of roses. Sarumah watched, slightly concerned, as he looked in the direction of the flowers, and yet so clearly saw something else. Then the Beast looked back, towards the gate through which he'd occasionally left to work on something, something he had not wanted Sarumah to see. When he finally looked at Sarumah again, she knew he wanted something important. Unconsciously, she mimicked his language, letting the tilt of her head and the slight widening of her eyes tell him she was ready to hear. The Beast turned back to the roses and – after a brief hesitation to think – he mimed plucking motions, and gestured behind him.

"You want to pick flowers for something?" The Beast shook his head, and gestured towards the roots. "You want to transplant some? To grow more somewhere else?" The Beast nodded. She had no idea why this brought such a serious expression to his face. But if it meant something to him, she was happy to grant it. She could only offer him so much less than he wanted, after all – or deserved.

"Of course. Take as many as you like. With you tending them they'll grow back soon enough anyway."

She'd thought he'd simply scoop a few up and go, but apparently you had to be much more careful when transplanting flowers, and it took him a few minutes to gather the samples he wanted – six small bundles of roots and stems, only a few leaves and blossoms apiece. She waited patiently, hoping that now would be the time that the Beast would allow her to see what he had made beyond the gate, that lay so close to his heart. When he finished, he met her eyes for a moment – and when he turned away towards the gate, she knew she'd been given tacit permission to follow.

At first, she didn't understand at all. While she'd really had no idea what to expect, three mounds of earth and rock, one larger than the rest, did not seem to fit. But then she saw the Beast begin to plant the flower around the bases of the mounds, and she understood. She felt tears gather in the corner of her eyes.

Cairns.

There was no one waiting for her Beast after all...not anymore.

"Oh Beast....this is why you went into the Forest isn't it? But it stole your sense of time, and you arrived too late. This...is a monument to your family."

Watching him carefully plant the roses about the mounds made her heart ache, and thinking about what they meant made her fingers itch with the need to contribute, to use her magic to add some touch to these memories of the Beast's family, who had meant so much to him. But at the same time she knew, without even needing to ask, that it was not wanted. This was the Beast's labor, to be made by his hands alone.

All she could do, in the end, was the same sole thing she'd ever been able to offer. She stood by him, and let him know he felt nothing alone.

The graves would look very beautiful, she knew. Once the roses had grown to cover them.

The graves were beautiful. Within a week, the vines of thorns and blooms had crawled up over two thirds of the mounds, and already they looked beautiful. The Beast tended it often now that he was no longer trying to keep it private, but Sarumah generally left him alone there. But she would read in the glade, where he could see her, and know she was there. And if he stayed too long, sometimes she would go in with him, and stand next to him, one hand on his shoulder, until he was ready to leave. It was not a signal to hurry: they both understood that very well. It was just what she felt she needed to do. And after this long of his silent language, she felt certain she'd know if he'd resented it, if he wanted her to leave. He was that good at conveying his mood, his feelings. So she came in to him, whenever she felt it right, and stayed by him, for as long as he took. Because his silence said he was grateful.

His silent language.

Very few of Sarumah's visitors came by an appointment. They were nearly always requests for help, and there was no putting emergencies to a schedule. She honestly never knew when she got up in the morning if she'd have the day to herself or spend it all helping the nearest king and perhaps a few peasants in the bargain. Despite that, days to herself were actually fairly common – she was freely available to all, but no one asks the help of a magi lightly. If something other than her magic could suffice, it was tacitly understood, then that something should be made to. You didn't bother someone whose time and aid were so valuable with trifles. There were exceptions however, and unfortunately her own most common exceptions were not entirely welcome. Sarumah was a magi, but she was also a beautiful and elegant young woman of intelligence who was currently eligible. Hence, she had suitors.

They weren't bad people, mind you, but she just wasn't interested. She also just didn't have the heart to go cold on them and convince them to go away. Eventually most of them picked up on the situation of course, and then generally they'd wander off in search of more receptive women, but by then somebody else had started in, and it seemed in the end the number she dealt with was always the same. Oh, none of them actually said they were courting her. They made up excuses – something they were worried about on their estate, or whether there would be trouble with the crops this spring, and so on. Far and away the most popular was a request for an enchantment on their weapons or armor – most popular because such enchantments had to be renewed regularly, thus making a perfect chain of excuses, one alibi covering many visits, potentially for infinity, or until – so they no doubt fantasized – she confessed herself smitten and rode home with one of them. Thus far, none had come even close to evicting such a thing from her, but she had at least four with regular appointments for their enchantment to be refreshed. All – as was usual with her suitors – were younger knights of varying degrees of birth. Marriage was as much a matter of politics in her country as in any other, but the power and prestige of a magi marriage meant this deterred few. Sarumah was the noble younger sons ideal marriage catch, and she was all too aware of it. She was still searching for some excuse she could use to make a permanent end of the farce – preferably one that she could still get out of later if she changed her mind or finally did meet someone. So far, none had occurred to her. And so, realizing that today was one of those days, Sarumah resigned herself to several hours of polite talk with a well meaning but really quite dense young knight whose sense of chivalry was more endearing than impressive. He clearly saw himself as her shining noble protector to be, which was really quite ridiculous considering the things she could do, and the fact that he didn't realize it only made it clearer how unsuitable he was. The sooner he did realize it the better – but there was little hope of it happening today. Sarumah resented it even more than usual this time, because she at last had other company that she'd far rather keep, even if he was currently very hairy. Frankly, the Beast was a better conversationalist.

She did not worry about what might happen if the thick Knight – she found not remembering names helped speed up the process of disillusionment – met the Beast, because the magi's law of peace was both ancient and sacrosanct. Because a magi's spells kept out all evil, all within a magi's lands were by definition innocent, and what's more, by definition, they were innocents in desperate need of aid. For someone who had come for her hep to be harmed on her grounds was unacceptable: to attack a person innocent enough to successfully seek her aid was by any respectable code of honor reprehensible. That knowledge was known to all: it had been the case since her great-great-great parents had settled here, and it applied to every other magi's home, wherever they might be found. So it never occurred to Sarumah to worry about the Knight. The idea that the Beast might be in danger from anyone, even him, was inconceivable.

She had underestimated the Knight.

It happened suddenly: as she was walking through a hallway she felt the magics of the land go into such violent turbulence as she'd never felt before: fear and shock and horror reverberating through her from the spells and wards as the knowledge came that the unthinkable had occurred: blood had been spilled on her land.

But as horrifying as that was, the bestial bellow of pain that followed was even worse. Only the Beast could have made it.

Sarumah wasn't even aware of tapping into the network of magics that encapsulated her grounds, so long attuned to her line that she could twist even time and space if she so wished. She was only aware of the all important need to be where the Beast was, right now, immediately.

It was like one of those bad dreams, where all the villains have familiar faces, and the victims as well. There was the Knight, waving his bloody sword and shouting; there was the friend who often accompanied him, clutching his sword arm and shouting at him. And there was the Beast, sprawled beside his flowers, blood splattered across the fur she'd spent so much time holding, brushing, smelling.

Sarumah – gentle life loving magi Sarumah – abruptly learned the meaning of true rage.

Sarumah let loose such a scream as she would have never believed could come from her throat: fury, pain, hate, revenge, all boiled from her in a wave of magical force that bent the very air around her and set every grain of dirt and blade of grass in the grounds to shaking; all the vast power at her disposal turned to express her unspeakable rage, churning everything within her walls into a terrifying maelstrom; the sky darkened as the lashing wind sent both Knights tumbling madly across the lawn. The only calm place was where the Beast lay: his fur waved slightly but nothing else disturbed his form.

Sarumah thrust out a hand: the force focused on the guilty Knight, closing in to crush him from all sides: he dangled, splayed in midair, stiff form struggling to resist the forces that sought to crush him and his armor alike: the heavy plate metal strained, creaked, began to crack as Sarumah's magic steadily, inevitably gained the upper hand.

"How dare you....how dare you...HOW DARE YOU SHED BLOOD ON MY LAND?!!

"My lady, please—"

"Be silent! I won't spare his life for this! He had broken the magi's peace on the body of my dearest friend, his life is forfeit to me!"

"My lady, please!" It was the friend, on hand and knees, the other hand reaching out. Begging. "My lady, I know he did wrong, but he hasn't killed your...your friend, not yet. Punish him if you must, but please don't kill him, not when he hasn't killed. You know how he is, my lady. He meant well. Surely your magic can still save the – the victim."

"He is a man, and a far better one that your friend will ever be!" Sarumah snapped. But she was already calming. Murderous rage simply did not come naturally to her. "He is a man, a good man, under an enchantment. When I couldn't break it, I promised him safe haven. A promise this...this oaf...has broken. A promise based on a sacred trust that everyone with the brains of a mouse should have known better than to break. A peace never to be violated. And you ask me for mercy!"

"I know he did wrong," the friend said. He'd always been the smarter one – Sarumah had often suspected he came to protect his friend from himself. "And I know it cannot go unpunished. It is your right to exact what consequences you will. But please, not in anger my lady. And not death. Not when he hasn't killed. Please."

She almost resented it, this draining of anger, this absence where the will to punish, to ravage, to give hurt for hurt had welled. But it happened anyway, because it was in her nature to do so. She let him drop with a clang that made his friend wince. She glanced towards the Beast, and felt the hollow in her begin to fill with despair, and knew she only had a little time before she broke down entirely.

She locked eyes with the Knight, summoning the anger that remained and slamming straight it straight into the wide, terrified gaze beneath his helm. "I curse you," she proclaimed deliberately. "I curse you, by the steel with which you sinned, and by the blood that was your sin. Never again will metal aid you to shed blood, nor will it shield your own. You are barred both arms and armor, for all of time. Now go! Get out of my sight. If you dare to set foot in my lands again before a year has passed, I will kill you on the spot. If the Gentle Beast dies, I will kill you anyway, wherever you are, you will die where you stand! Now go! Get out!"

"My lady, I want to—"

"Get out! Now! Go away! Leave us be!!"

They did. The knight was only half conscious, and it took several minutes of awkward clanging and limping to get back out through the main gate. Through it all, Sarumah never stopped glaring at the Knight, holding herself together with the sheer outrage he evoked in her. She held it till the instant the gate closed behind them.

Then she burst into sobs and ran to fling herself on the Beast's prone body, so overwrought by shock and misery and rage that despite all her training for a while all she could do was lie there, face buried in his bloody fur, clutching and crying, "Oh my Beast, my Beast, my Beast, oh Beast," unable to even manage anything more, until she finally pulled herself together enough to shakily sit up and try to treat him, desperately casting spell after spell as she cried. "Oh Beast, how could they, how could they, my Gentle Beast, I should have, I should have killed him, if you die I will kill him., he'll be the first thing I ever kill but I will. I promised...I promised again...I promised you'd be safe...why, I should have been able to keep this one, I should have, it's not fair, there shouldn't have been a second time, I shouldn't have failed twice, oh Beast, oh Beast don't die!" She was working magic, working it for all she was worth, but she had no way to tell it was working; she knew the spells but had never used them, knew nothing about what the body could or couldn't take, and in any case the Beast's body was so different. Was he dying or not? Was she helping or not? Could he be helped or not, she didn't know, had no way of knowing, could do nothing but sob and cry over his body, and pour the spells, all the power and wish for life she had, into his body, over and over again, as many times as was safe. And when it wasn't, she lay sprawled against him, tears wet on her face, matted sticky fur against her cheek, and stroked his side and prayed, like she had never prayed before. All through the evening she did this, until the sky began to turn slightly orange with approaching dusk. And then she felt the Beast stir, and when she pulled away and looked, she saw that the wound had closed. And when she sat up and moved back, hesitant and hopeful, her world came back to life with the Beast's waking, as slowly, slowly, he raised his head, and then heaved himself to his feet. His body, clearly healthy once more, was more brilliant to her eyes than the sun it was silhouetted against. He looked at her, and seemed slightly dazed. His mouth opened.

"You are bigger," he said.

His voice was deep and gentle and steady, exactly the voice she would have imagined for him. And now her tears were flowing again, but they were so different it seemed they should have an entirely different name then tears, and her smile seemed sure to break her mouth open at the corners as she told him the truth, the truth she could clearly see as he stood there, dark against the sky.

"No Beast," she said happily. "You are smaller."

She had to scramble through old rooms she hadn't visited for ages to find clothes for him – from the looks of it, he would have need of them by morning. The change was proving continuous, slow but steady, and most likely would finish sometime during the night.

"The Forest's magic is immersive," she explained, as she prepared a proper room for him. With his shape, he'd had little use for a bed until now. "We knew that from the way it affected your mind and sense of time, and from the fact that the others don't even remember they're not really beasts. Because of your Green Touch your mind wasn't entirely taken, and once you left the Forest your sense of time went back to normal as well. But most of you was still caught in the Forest's magic: your subconscious still perceived the shape the Forest had given you as its natural one, and actively strove return to it. That should have worn off as well in time, except that you emerged to find yourself alone. You were forced to go without human contact, and without that reinforcement the metamorphic spell stayed in effect. You needed a human anchor, a counter-influence to the Forest's, in order to remove yourself completely. When we spent so much time together, we became close, and I was able to become your anchor. Even if this hadn't happened, you would probably have begun to change in another week or so. This just made it happen faster."

She finished preparing the bed, and turned to face him, simple happiness on her face. "I was able to keep my promise after all," she said softly. "I'm glad. You were too good a man to be trapped as a beast. In fact...now that you can tell me...what is your real name?"

For a long moment, he didn't answer. Finally he shook his head. "It...doesn't fit anymore. It is...not my name anymore."

At first Sarumah frowned, but then she nodded. "I guess a change like the Forest makes must feel a bit like being reborn. You were something else, for a while. And with all that time in between...I suppose it's not so surprising to feel like someone else now, just a little."

He nodded.

"But Beast – I mean there, see, I can't call you that now can I? I can't go around calling a man Beast. It's...horrible."

And now he smiled, warm and unhesitating. "Gentle Beast," he corrected her. "From you, it is enough."

For a moment, she stared – stared at this new being, still shaggy and with unnatural shoulders and face but still unquestionably humanoid. Then she, too, smiled. "I suppose I should take that as a compliment. Very well, as you wish. Gentle Beast you remain. And my offer of hospitality remains as well, of course."

He nodded. Sarumah instinctively began to reach out her hand, and hesitated. During the time the Beast had been with her, touch had come to be very natural, even frequent – a brush on the shoulder, a hand on his side or the ruff by his neck. But the shape he held now made those touches seem very different. She almost lowered her hand – but she changed her mind. Instead she reached out and laid it briefly on the curve of his shoulder as she walked past.

"Good night. I look forward to seeing your true form in the morning."

She did indeed see it in the morning.

In fact she got up with a good deal of enthusiasm over it, but he was still asleep, or so she assumed after listening a moment by the door. So she went to find something to do until he woke up, since she planned to eat breakfast with him: it would by their first time eating side by side, using the same utensils and servings. It occurred to her that she spent so little time in the herb room, she hardly knew where things were, the way she did the library. That was no good – what if someone needed something from it quickly? So she went down there to browse the shelves.

There was a man in her herb room.

He was fairly short – only an inch or so taller than her – but there was a broad blockiness in his build that made him seem larger, and spoke of great strength. He seemed somehow made of chunks. His face was the same. He was quite homely really. But she would have known him anywhere, under any light, at any time. She could tell it was her Beast. It was in the gentle air, in the silence, and in the warmth. It was in the way he moved, that knew the silent language.

He smiled, the open warmth in his face and angle of his body his own special way of saying 'Good morning'. Even though he could talk now, he still preferred the silent language being a Beast had taught him. Sarumah was glad. She'd come to love it too.

"Good morning," she replied, and walked over, both to be closer to him and to see what he was holding. She smiled when she saw it was the jar of Mengever's Root. The herb that had started it all. The herb that, in the end, had brought him to her.

"I wonder if I should find a lower place for it," she said thoughtfully. "In case someone needs it in a hurry."

Gentle Beast frowned absently at the jar, turned his head questioningly her way.

"Well, I suppose I don't need to really, it's hardly ever called for. But I do so hate using that stool."

For an answer, he smiled, and put the jar in her hand.

"What...surely you can't still—"

But it appeared that indeed he could – he lifted her almost as easily as when he had been a beast. Sarumah laughed, startled, pleased, and delighted all at once. "Well that makes things easier," she said, putting the jar back. The Gentle Beast obligingly began to lower her again.

"Unless..." She said softly, as her feet hit the ground.

Gentle Beast frowned – she could hear it in his silence and his grip, as clearly as she could hear his question, and the concern at the tone in her voice.

"...you don't need my protection anymore, Beast," Sarumah said quietly. She still hadn't turned around. "No one is going to attack you. And this is far from your homeland."

The Beast was quiet. Of course, that meant nothing: he nearly always was. If she turned his way, if she looked at him, even for a moment, she would know the answer: his silent language would tell her everything. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. All the changes he'd made in her life – she didn't want to lose them, not a single one. She never wanted to go back to the days before her Gentle Beast. But she was a magi. And a magi has a duty."If you ever wish to leave," she said. "If that is what you want, then...wherever it is you wish to go...as a magi...I will make it happen. I promise, I will, I...I..." Words couldn't get out of her mouth anymore: something was lodged in her throat that made her gasp strangely when she tried. She could only swallow, swallow down the not-sobs. And wait.

The Gentle Beast's hands, still on her waist, pushed, turning her slowly, reluctantly around, until she was facing him, as she'd been afraid to do. He put his hands on her shoulders, and looked into her eyes with an intensity she'd never seen before. And – instead of being silent – he spoke.

"I am," he said. "Where I wish to be."

For a moment, Sarumah just stared, while her eyes filled and her lips trembled. Then she buried her head and hands in his chest, with a sound half gasp and half sob. Huddling like she wanted to merge there. Gentle Beast closed his arms around her.

"That...was the hardest offer of aid I've ever made," she finally said.

A slight shift in the tightness of his arms answered her. It was enough.

She had no idea how long they stayed there. It didn't really matter. They had all the time in the world, after all.

In the end, a magi never created magic in the first place. She borrowed it – from a world already full to bursting. And all the best kinds of magic take two.

"I guess you don't need me to read to you anymore," she finally said.

"No," he agreed, smiling. "Now we can take turns."

And he removed his arms, took her left arm in his right hand, and walked them side by side to the door, and out of the room. It felt like a metaphor.

It probably was.

***

Z.N. Singer probably owes his career first and foremost to his parents' callous act at the tender age of seven – specifically, they threw away the television. It never returned to the family, and he was forced to find other entertainment. He found books. Because writing makes a satisfying career but an uncertain source of income, he finds time to write in-between coursework at the Cleveland Institute of Art, where he studies Interior Design (not decorating – think interior architecture). You can find more examples of his writing, as well as extensive and ever expanding documentation on the world in which his eventual fantasy series will be set, at www.thewordpile.com. Free samples of (fantasy) fiction writing and occasional short stories are expected to become available as well. There's a chatbox and comments are open to all, so no matter what your reason, even just to hang out, be sure to stop by. You can also connect with me on Facebook and Twitter.
