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I.

The house felt emptier than the street it sat on, emptier than the pot on the stove, emptier than Amahté's stomach (and subsequently, his head). When he had stepped into Mary's home, well past his curfew, he had already steeled himself against the inevitable-- Mary, sitting in the living room at her piano, hands folded tight in her lap, mouth a grim line. She wouldn't stir, wouldn't get up, just stare at him imploringly until he snapped: what! and she would break from her reverie, resolve renewed, and tell him just how in trouble he was, you're curfew is at 7, young man, not 9:18, and don't give me that look, you may not have a watch, but you can tell the difference between sun up and sun down! And he, as usual, would stare into the corner of the ceiling where a cobweb flicked like an abandoned hammock, eyes growing dimmer and dimmer until Mary's voice sounded like a distant hum of a stricken key. She would trail off, as she did, and he would wake up, as he did, and then demand his dinner, which would already be prepared and waiting to be reheated.

But now there was no Amahté! to bring him back to attention, though he didn't need it. Mary wasn't at the piano, and as he walked into the kitchen, he realized dinner wasn't on the stove. This vexed him terribly, not to mention brought more attention to the fact that he was famished, so he went hunting for his missing guardian.

Where some people thought the worst upon such occasions, Amahté only thought the worst of the person involved.

What he found in her room was a disappointing and shameful sight!: Mary, tucked down deep beneath her quilt, fast asleep. The Scent cleared his throat, standing in her doorway, a hand on the frame. Her body stirred, but did not budge.

“Mary, Mary quite contrary,” the little boy soothed, stepping into the sanctum of his co-regent's room. This seemed to get her attention. Her eyes cracked open, a feeble whispering of paper-thin lids, and mumbled an incoherent greeting, muffled by the blanket fisted at her mouth.

“Mary, I'm hungry,” he pitched, closing the distance between her bed and himself. It was blazing in the room! “And there is nothing to eat.”

She didn't even sit up, but continued to stare at him from over her duvet, eyes watery. Amahté wrinkled his nose, she sniffed hers-- it was a noisy ordeal.

“Make something for yourself,” she said at last. The Scent's dainty brows shot up at the absurdity of her suggestion.

“No!” he snapped. She winced and drew away, his voice loud in her ears. “I'm hungry now! and I want something hot!”

Why was she being so lazy? Amahté did not like this new turn of events. They had a routine, and Mary being in bed at this hour was breaking everything he had come home to expect. He liked consistency, liked certainty, liked coming home knowing things would be the way they should be. This was the only place he could get that. Eying his guardian in distaste, he realized no more.

Mary had taken Amahté's stare long enough. Her body ached, her skin felt like it was revolting against her, and the steady drumming in her head was beating in and out of cadence. She sniffled again, painstakingly pushing the duvet back and sitting up. The entire room swam before her, the only points she could focus on being Amahté's vibrant green eyes.

She wished she could say no to him, say no to that petulant little frown that upset the entirety of the boy's beautiful face. She loved him like she would her own, though he thought her nothing but pebbles beneath his tiny, bare feet. Mary swung her own feet off the bed, sliding forward and standing with a hobble.

This was Alexei all over again.

“What would you like?” she asked.

“Coconut curried chicken!” He didn't notice how she dragged her blanket down with her, held it to her like a cape. The Scent raced eagerly ahead of her and watching his energy stole what little she had.

She coughed into the crook of her elbow, face hot. How could she ever say no?

Amahté, unlike most other children, had daily tasks that he had appointed himself. He did not believe in being idle (much to the surprise of those who would ever find out), not in the least, and often left for the day under pretenses Mary could never figure out. He would fasten his wrap, pull on a sweater, and head out before the hour proceeding his awakening was even up.

The water in the basement was cool, and splashing his face was like being stung by a million tiny needles. He scrubbed his eyes, watched as the Eye of Ra stood out like a fresh scar on his skin. It was almost ritualistic how he would stare at himself in the mirror, trace the outlines against his skin and watch them disappear beneath his finger, only to reappear when his finger left the spot he touched. Amahté was well-versed in breaking his own reveries, and in doing so he would quickly return to the tasks at hand, thumb green across his eyelids from a small pot on his shelf and head upstairs for something to eat.

It was early, and he was well aware Mary had gone to bed right after she had finished cooking his meal the night prior. There were dishes in the sink still, the cutting board was still out with bits of unidentifiable green clinging to it; parsley? The knife lay precariously near to the edge of the counter, and he pushed it back with two careful fingers, making sure it didn't cut his tips.

He supposed he could forgive her for this one, so long as she cleaned it up later. Reaching past the knife and cutting board, he made to grab for an apple before hesitating. His hand fell upon an orange instead.


After an entire morning of reading about how to skin and clean animals in the library, Amahté had taken a stroll down to the wharf to put it into practice. They knew him there, knew him as the smart-mouthed little brat who knew a thing or two about a thing or two-- which suited him just fine, even if he was mostly book-smart alone. They had taught him how to fish, how to throw a net, how to repair a net. The young boy had probably been out on the ocean far more times than Mary had in her lifetime, and she was none the wiser.

Today's afternoon was spent learning just how to gut and clean fish. Needless to say, Amahté reeked. He felt supremely proud of himself, though, as he was commended for his skill with a knife by the men at the pier. The moment he stepped into the house-- a little after dusk-- he unloaded his packages of fish onto the counter (under the pretenses that Mary would have them cooked), and peeled his clothes off on his way downstairs.

Except he didn't even make it to the stairs.

Amahté left his sweater on his floor and stepped back into the kitchen, a look of aggravated puzzlement crossing his features. Whatever cloud nine he had been on dissolved beneath his weight. The kitchen.

The kitchen was a stye.

The Scent kicked his sweater away as he stormed down the hallway to Mary's room.

The air smelt thick in her room, hot and stuffy and insufferable. Amahté was buffeted by it when he opened her door, body prickling in discomfort. The setting sun was blocked from the room by the thick curtains drawn across them, and throwing them apart did not have the desired effect as the sun was low in the sky. The lump that was Mary, buried somewhere beneath the mounds of quilts, shifted and moaned, before stilling.

“Mary, the kitchen is a mess.”

Not a peep.

“From last night.”

He was greeted by her foot poking from beneath the coverlet. Amahté frowned.

“I'm hungry. Now dinner will be delayed because of the mess in the kitchen. One cannot cook without cleaning first!”

He scampered around her bed when he received no answer, shoving at the lump he assumed was her shoulder. Her hair, tangled of sweaty ivy, fell across her chapped lips, which she smacked in her sleep; her face withered in pain and eased. Mary made a distressed sound when he tentatively touched her brow to make sure she was still alive. It was sticky and hotter than the pavement in the summertime. She was not waking up tonight.

With a harrumph (it was his last ditch effort to wake her up), he left her room and moved back to the kitchen, staring down the mess once he was in there. Amahté purposely donned his smelly sweater just so he could have the satisfaction of rolling up his sleeves before getting to work.

Every utensil, every bowl and pot and pan and wooden stirring stick was physically shoved into the sink. He practically threw himself across the counter to accomplish this, arms stretched to touch the wall, and shimmying sideways, he collected everything as he moved like a giant squeegee. Everything, everything clattered into the basin loudly, though the cutlery caught against the thick plush of his sweater and hung like a plethora of funny ornaments from his arm. He plucked them off like fruit and chucked them in after the pans.

Amahté didn't like to admit to himself that he as short for his age. No, he told himself that having to grab a chair from the breakfast nook to properly reach the sink was no big deal. He clambered onto it and punched on the faucet, grabbing the soap and squeezing copious amounts over his mountain of dishes like it were chocolate syrup. He ended up unscrewing the cap and upending the entire bottle of soap into the running water.

“This isn't as hard as she makes it look. I wonder why she complains so much,” he said with a moue, splashing water over all of the dishes. The sponge was fooled around with, passed from hand to hand, squeezed between his palms before he actually began to scrub the pots and pans. It didn't work so well on the caked on stuff, so he dropped it carelessly into the water and reached for the threaded copper pad, giving it a once over before testing it on a particularly stubborn substance clinging to the stew pot.

So focused was he on the stain-- he was going to get it and he was going to kill it and he was going to make this pot clean damnit-- that he didn't notice as foam began to climb up the sides of the sink, coming close to spilling dangerously over the lip. The scalding hot water soaked all the way through his sleeve at his elbow before he noticed. With a shout, Amahté held his arms across the counter ledge, trying to keep the foam at bay.

“Stay! Right where you are! Don't come any-- what are you doing, nononono!” PliplipliplipSPLASH! And right when he got to the faucet lever too. Amahté groaned when he looked down at the cabinets beneath him and the subsequent puddle around the feet of his chair.

“Well, it isn't like nothing here cannot be undone,” he said with more maturity than he liked to show even in front of his peers, and pulling off his sweater, he dropped it on the floor to soak up the water.

It took more than forty-five minutes for Amahté to work his way through one dinner's worth of dishes (not to mention haphazardly clean the mess he had made). His fingers were pruny and raw from scrubbing and the shear heat of the water and his arms trembled from all of the repetitive movements. But when he stepped from the chair, the accomplishment he had felt for flaying a fish returned with a stronger vigor, as he felt the same pride for taking care of the mess in the kitchen all by himself. It wasn't something he'd go bragging about to, say, Orpheus (as it was a homely, domestic duty and entirely too emasculating to be relayed at ALL), but a matter of personal pride. He took cleanliness seriously!

After wringing out his sweater in the sink and setting it on the back of the chair, he made himself a sandwich as a pat on the back.

Well, and because he couldn't be bothered to make anything more.

At least there was no mess to come home to today, though the house was still as the dead. Amahté didn't move with as much purpose as he had done the nights before. In fact, his footing was cautious when he stepped inside. He told himself he was not entering a tomb, but sick people were frightening all the same-- you never knew when they could turn from sick to dead to zombie! And really, he had never been sick himself so why start now? He had finally had this epiphany while he was in the library, why she had been holed up in her room practically half the week, sleeping with more gusto than the dead, why her skin felt clammy in some places but searing hot in others.

Even as he walked across the hardwood floors, steps light, he couldn't help how he crossed his fingers from within his pockets, praying she was well enough to make him a decent meal. He was famished and a sandwich just wouldn't suffice tonight.

Her room was substantially cooler this evening and some of her blankets had been thrown to the floor. When her door creaked, Mary moved-- away from the sound, but she moved.

“Mary?” Did he sound... tentative? He breathed into his arm, afraid of catching her disease.

“Mmm?” she croaked back.

“How sick are you?” he tried.

“Practically dead,” she groaned, rolling onto her side.

“...okay, nevermind.”

He shut the door on a very delirious Mary. Had Amahté actually... whispered the entire time? She fell asleep before she could figure it out.

Back in the kitchen, Amahté had pulled his trusty chair from the nook at had it positioned for optimum usage at the counter. He was dead-set on having a real dinner tonight, sick guardian be damned! And he wanted that codfish he had proudly gutted himself.

And!

And he wanted soup!

Amahté dragged out one of Mary's cookbooks, a worn old thing with frayed edged and a separated spine, thumbing through it with a look of pure determination on his face. Nothing was going to get in between him and his stomach tonight, and he figured if he could fillet a fish, he could make a pot of soup. Nothing to it, right?

He all but memorized the recipe before getting started in hauling out everything he needed, from parsley to onions to olive oil, setting it all up on the counter before him based on what needed to be diced, poured, and soaked. He fished out the cutting board he had meticulously cleaned the night before, puzzled over what a 'saucepan' was before choosing one that seemed suitable to do the job. Or for whacking someone upside the head with it. He tested the weight and gave a practice swing.

He pulled out the codfish last, holding onto it lovingly since he had done all of the handiwork on it. He unwrapped it and the poignant scent of salted fish met his nostrils. The pride he'd felt the day before returned.

And so, following the recipe word for word, Amahté watched the fish fall to pieces beneath his knife, wiped tears from his eyes from the diced onion, and got his fingers slick from handling oil. He enjoyed the quiet thoughtlessness behind peeling parsley and grinding thyme beneath his fingers, loved the sizzle that puffed heat and smell into his face when he dropped them all into the saucepan. The hiss and spit of the saucepan was a white-noise that occupied his mind in between following the only direction he'd ever take: something from a book.

Creating felt as natural to him as destroying. Amahté freckled pepper across the pan.


Mary awoke with a start, but from a dream or hand she couldn't say. Her brain felt heavy in her head and when she pushed herself up, not only did she feel disgusting and layered in her own sweat, but she felt hollow-boned and sore. How long had she been out? Sick? Looking at her window (the curtains were drawn) she couldn't rightly say. All she could focus on was how her stomach ached for food and how her nose couldn't force a sniffle for a dime. She pinched the bridge of her nose as she heaved herself out of bed. She needed water. Logic was telling her if she drank water, she'd be a part of this world again.

It was difficult for her to move; she had been bed-ridden for so long. Her mind sluggishly took in the past few days, trying to peel them apart since they all ran together. She remembered waking up at certain points, seeing eyes in the gloom of her room that she figured must have been her Scent child. The memory of his voice was thick, like she had been under water when he had spoken to her.

... Amahté!

Her eyes widened. The poor boy, had he even eaten in the last couple of days? As much as it hurt to rush, she padded towards his room against the onslaught of pins and needles she walked upon.

“Mary?”

She nearly crashed into the door leading to the basement when she heard her voice.

“Amahté? Oh my gosh, you're still alive! Thank the heavens! Are you all right, darling? Oh, my poor baby!” she gushed, tears stinging her eyes. “I'm so sorry!”

Amahté's face contorted, darling? baby? Should he be insulted by such diminutive terms?

“Of course I'm still alive. I'm not incompetent,” he said, somewhat annoyed and exasperated (or was that weighty relief in his voice to see her back up on her feet again?). “I will forgive you for your... odd... nicknames.”

He waved a hand and stepped back into the kitchen, followed closely by Mary.

Who was stunned by what she saw. Had... he cooked dinner for her? She stared at the little boy, who had clambered into the booth of the breakfast nook and was busy spooning soup into his mouth. She walked by the cutting board, the saucepan dumped into the sink, the onion skin curled on the counter... all for her?

“I made too much so I suppose you can have some if you're hungry,” he said flippantly.

Mary cried she laughed so hard, and reached for a bowl and ladle.