Being the youngest in the family, Owen had learned some simple truths in his short life. Because he was the youngest and the smallest in Tatton Hall, the adults around him thought he was weak and could not do things for himself. They always offered to help him, which annoyed Owen and made him even more determined to prove he was capable. He hated it when his suggestions and ideas were not taken seriously, especially when one of his “little speeches” caused his parents or older siblings to laugh at him.
Owen had learned that there was a certain power in being the youngest. He was a strong-willed little boy who’d learned the power of tantrums in getting his way. He used this tactic judiciously, of course, for he was normally soft-spoken and gentle.
It also did not escape Owen’s notice that adults fawned over him, especially his sisters. He had learned that being adorable, affectionate, and quick to give hugs and smiles and little kisses earned him treats and stories and attention. By being quiet, especially at night, he could stay up longer because they would forget he was there.
Power. There was power in being able to control how others reacted to you. That reminded Owen of his favorite pastime, the one that he could spend hours and hours doing—placing little tiles in a line and then knocking them down.
He had seen one of his siblings do this once. Maybe Owen had been a baby and the falling tiles had made him giggle. It was one of his earliest memories. Soon he was the one stacking the tiles, and he learned there was an immense thrill in using one tile to topple many. As he grew older, his stacking became more and more elaborate. The lines became crooked. Sometimes he used other objects as barriers and changed the height of the structures he prepared. Sometimes he’d build towers out of his tiles and trigger them to collapse.
Nothing made him more intensely furious than when someone knocked down his tiles accidentally—or purposefully. He even raged at himself when he did it. Stacking the tiles, placing them in exactly the formation he envisioned, helped him sort through his troubles.
Owen made two decisions that night. The first he told to the silver moon. “I will escape from here,” he vowed. No matter what his parents did or did not do, he would not give up until he had found a way to flee the king who filled him with such terror. He did not want to join the ghosts of this castle.
His second decision was to make his stay at the castle bearable until he figured out a way to escape. For that, he needed a box of tiles.
Out of all the places he had seen so far, the kitchen was the place he liked the most. It was bright and cheerful. Liona was just the sort of woman he knew would help him. He would ask her for some tiles and for permission to stack them in a corner of the kitchen.
He was so excited to begin that he waited restlessly until the moon faded from the windowpane and the sky began to brighten. Cooks were in the kitchen early. If Owen was to have breakfast with the king, he wanted to at least have something to look forward to after.
Still wearing the rumpled clothes in which he’d traveled, Owen made it back to the kitchen on his own, stealing away soundlessly between shadows. He found the way quite easily, his nose drawing him there as much as his memory of the way. It was still early, and the only two people in the kitchen were Liona and a man he assumed was her husband.
“Look at you, here before the cock crows,” Liona said cheerfully. “The Fountain bless you, lad. Are you hungry already?”
Owen looked at the man, suddenly overwhelmed by nervousness. Strangers always did that to him. He was furious at himself when his tongue refused to unknot enough for him to speak. The man had reddish hair and a beard with flecks of gray in it. He wore leathers stained in tree sap, and a gleaming woodsman’s axe hung from a hoop in his belt.
Liona noticed his hesitation and patted the man’s shoulder. “Drew, this is Owen. I told you of him.”
The woodsman turned to look at Owen with a shy smile and a twinkle in his eye. He nodded and then crouched down on the tiled floor. “You are the duke’s son,” he said in a cheery, soft-spoken manner. “I can see the blood is true. You look like your brothers. My name is Andrew, but folk just call me Drew. Good morning, Owen.”
Owen wanted to return the greeting. The man was friendly and easygoing. But Owen still could not bring himself to speak.
“Tend to the fire, Drew,” Liona said, briskly warming her hands. “Owen, you will be supping with the king this morning, so I best not ruin your appetite, but no one walks out of my kitchen hungry. There is bread from yesterday.”
Owen grinned at her, grateful to have found this ally.
He quietly retreated to a bench to watch her fix him a little plate as Drew coaxed the ashes back to life. Owen had seen men do this before and it fascinated him how a heap of gray ashes, if blown on consistently, could catch fire anew. He stared at Drew as he puffed away, and was thrilled when the crackling sound of the reviving fire met his ears. He wanted to learn how to do that. He thought he could, but he would come back the next day and keep watching to be sure. Then he would try it himself.