Owen’s misery during the king’s breakfast grew exquisite. No longer was he spared the king’s enmity. On the third day after the botched escape, the king looked almost gleeful as he entered the great hall and advanced on Owen.
“What? Still here, Master Owen?” he said mockingly. He gripped his dagger hilt with his fist and loosed it from its scabbard before slamming it back down—the gesture Owen had always found horrifying. “It has been days since my entire household has been frantically searching for you. You cannot imagine what a bother that is in such a spacious fortress as this one. And since then, my kitchen expenses have begun to soar. You have my thanks.”
Owen shrank from the attention, too frightened to say anything. Dunsdworth coughed a laugh into his fist, which he should not have done, because the king turned on him with delight.
“Shut it, Dunsdworth,” the king snapped. “If I wanted your commentary, I would beat it out of you.”
“I . . . I was . . . it was only a cough!” Dunsdworth objected in a whiny tone.
“Well, then keep your coughs and your sneezes and your bad airs within, lad. If there was anyone in this hall I wanted to escape, it would be you.”
The young man went scarlet with anger and mortification and Owen could not hide a smile of revenge. Unfortunately, Dunsdworth turned to look at him at that exact moment. The look on his face promised such revenge that the smile cleared away in a blink.
The king hastily ate his breakfast, picking from the trays that others had already sampled. Owen surreptitiously studied the king’s face as he put his guests down and made them squirm. He seemed satisfied with the contention he brewed at every meal, as if it fed him more than Liona’s fare.
After breakfast, Owen started making his way to the kitchen, but a strong arm closed around his neck from behind. The air vanished from his lungs and a heavy weight crushed against him.
“Laugh at me? Who are you to laugh at anyone?” Dunsdworth’s voice was low and rough in his ear. A punch to his stomach made him gasp, and he could not breathe. The arm was still choking him.
“You are doomed, Kisky,” Dunsdworth jibed. “If you ever laugh at me again, I’ll drown you in a barrel of wine. I would be doing the king a favor. You hear me, boy? I’ll push you in a wine barrel and hammer down the lid. Don’t you ever laugh at me!” After delivering another punch to the stomach, he threw Owen to the floor where the boy started to sob.
Dunsdworth kicked Owen’s arm with his sharp boot and Owen knew it would leave a huge bruise. He held his stomach, staining the tiles with his tears, as the older boy sauntered away. For a few moments, Owen soothed himself by imagining ways to get revenge. But soon even his fiery anger cooled and he knelt in the passageway, shuddering and trembling as servants passed by him, no one stopping to see what was wrong.
When Owen managed to stumble into the kitchen, no one noticed him except Mancini, who queried if there were any goodies left in the great hall to pluck. Owen nodded, and he was gone. The boy retreated to his corner and sat there in the shadows, his back to the rest of the kitchen, his shoulders slumped, too sad even to stack tiles from his satchel. It took him a moment to notice the scattered tiles waiting for him there. Tears hung thick on his lashes as he edged nearer. Instead of spelling his name, the tiles spelled W-A-I-T. It was a curious message from Drew, but it did not interest him. He suddenly missed his parents dreadfully. No one had ever thrashed him before. His arm throbbed from the kick, and he rubbed it, but the pain did not lessen. Maybe his arm was broken. No one would care if it were.
How had the king talked him into leaving the sanctuary? His memory was a blur. He only remembered how persuasive the king had been, how kind and generous he had seemed. Somehow he had tricked Owen. The boy did not understand how, but he knew it had happened. He gritted his teeth, brushing his tears away on his sleeve.
The day seemed to pass away in a blur and he obeyed the message that had been left with the tiles. He sat and waited and did not eat any food. He did not think he would ever be hungry again. Even when Liona tried to coax him to eat a muffin, he only shook his head.
“By all means give it to me then, Liona!” Mancini said with a laugh. “The boy’s not hungry. The man is!”
The butler Berwick snorted. “Yuv eaten as much as sixteen men!” he complained darkly in his Northern accent. “Your appetite is going to bankrupt the king!”
“Your complaining is going to bankrupt my patience,” Mancini shot back. “If you had the brains the Fountain gave a sheep, you’d know it’s not wise to stand between a fat hungry man and his food. I could eat you, Berwick.”