Setting the freshly washed mushrooms aside, Master Pilzmann finally looked up at Barclay, and his jaw dropped on seeing the dirt and flecks of leaves covering Barclay’s clothes.
“Myboy. What happened to you?”
Barclay’s face reddened, as it always did when he lied. “I—I fell.”
“Running again? You can’t keep breaking so many rules—the mayor will sentence you to community service for the ninth time. And you’re filthy. Is that… blood?! Where could you have—”
“I’ll go bathe,” Barclay squeaked, then he left his basket on the table and hurried out the door toward the well.
Master Pilzmann’s house was at the southern edge of Dullshire, against the town wall, so there was no one to see Barclay as he hauled a full bucket of water to the outhouse. He stood, naked and shivering, as he wet a cloth and wiped the grime away.
Within minutes, someone knocked. “I brought you fresh clothes,” Selby told him. “And medicine.”
Barclay cracked the door and grabbed them, not in the mood to say thank you.
“Has the Mark gone black yet?” Selby whispered.
Yet?Barclay’s heart clenched as he examined the tattoo, still a brilliant gold that gleamed brighter than a coin. Clearly, Selby believed it was only a matter of time before the Beast escaped.
The Mark squirmed on Barclay’s shoulder, as though trying to pry itself off his skin.
Maybe Selby was right. The girl had said the Lore Keeper forms the bond, not the other way around. What had happened didn’t make sense. It was an accident, a mistake. Maybe the Beast felt the same way. And if it broke free, there was no telling what it would do.
“It’s fine, just go,” Barclay grunted, and he heard Selby scamper off.
He applied the ointment, cringing as it stung, then put on the clean clothes. He left the outhouse and threw his old sweater in the garbage. It was a shame to lose it—he only owned four—but if he took it to the tailor, then she would ask questions about how he’d gotten such a large tear.
It really was a matter of “yet,” he realized. Because if the Beast didn’t break the bond and eat him, then his lie would unravel—and this mistake would cost him way more than community service. Either way, his life was over.
He blinked back tears and headed inside.
A second after he’d taken a seat at the table, Master Pilzmann cleared his throat. “Did you wash your hands? Your fingernails?”
“I…” Barclay looked down, his cheeks hot. Dirt still crusted under his nails. No matter what he did, he never managed to fit in.
His chair made a loud screech as he stood up and hurried to the sink. He dunked his hands into the pail and scrubbeduntil his skin pruned and his knuckles reddened. He didn’t usually mind the dirt, just like he preferred his hair long. But now he couldn’t look at his hands without all the events of the day rushing back to him.
As he scoured the dirt from under each fingernail, he thought about all the years spent trying to convince Dullshire to accept him, all to be ruined by something that wasn’t his fault. And he couldn’t help thinking how Dullshire had bullied him about things outside of his control his entire life. None of it was fair.
Neither he nor Selby ate much at supper—Barclay because he was far too nervous to stomach any food, Selby because he didn’t like mushrooms.
“And here I thought carrots had been totally banned for years,” Master Pilzmann prattled. “Turns out, I’d been confusing them with turnips this whole time! I’m very glad to be straightened out—I’ve been so put off with Mrs. Kraus. Hard to trust your neighbors when they could be running an illicit produce stand…”
Barclay, normally interested in town gossip, paid no attention.
At some point the topic of conversation must have changed, because Master Pilzmann leaned over and touched Barclay’s damp hair and Barclay flinched. Master Pilzmann’s hand was dangerously close to the Mark.
“I’ll cut this tonight. It’s much too long.… I know that’s how you like it. But I do agree with Mr. Jager—it’s starting to look ratherwild. And—”
“I do like it long,” Barclay said sharply, leaning away from him.
“But it’s…” Master Pilzmann sighed, and the sound of it made Barclay’s heart clench.
“Am I a good apprentice?” Barclay asked quietly.
“What? Of course you are.” The man’s face softened. “What’s brought this sullen mood about? It’s only bad luck you didn’t find the Mourningtide Morel! Tricky little grubbers—”
“Then why does it matter if I like my hair long?”
