I’ve also learned that it’s nearly impossible to see who is in each cell. Trying to get a good look inside not only makes me appear suspicious, it slows me down way too much. I’m supposed to deliver food to a row of cells, return to the kitchen to refill the cart, then deliver to another row, and so on. If I gape at every single prisoner, it will take me all night. I’m only to slide a tray under the door and keep moving.
Still, I do what I can to catch a glimpse. Most prisoners are immediately ruled out—too old, too big, too bald, and in one particularly remarkable case, far too hairy. But a couple of them look like they could possibly be Caledon, around the right age or size. I’ll have to come back later somehow to check them again. Maybe I can do the morning deliveries too. I’ll have to find a way to fill in for the other side of the castle, but I’d locate Caledon within the next few days if I do that.
Then I have a terrible thought: I haven’t seen the Montrician spy since we arrived. For all I know, Caledon has already been killed.
Once I finish the ground floor, I return to the kitchen to refill the cart. Mister Renold seems surprised to see me. “Back so soon, huh? Sure you got ’em all?” he says. He stops chopping potatoes to bend down and take a look at the bottom shelf of the cart.
I shrug. I thought I was moving too slow—I guess I didn’t have to hurry after all. Good to know I can take my time and get a better look inside the cells. Makes me wonder what usually takes the guard so long to finish his rounds.
“Careful, now. Or we’re gonna have you doin’ this every day,” Mister Renold says with a wink.
He doesn’t know I wouldn’t mind that at all. But I don’t want to seem too eager, so all I say is, “Yes, sir.”
As soon as the cart is filled, I push it out the door. In my rush I hit a bump in the stone floor and almost tip the entire cart. Mister Renold shakes his head. “Careful there, boy!” But he looks amused, watching me go.
There’s a ramp leading to the upper-level cells. Before Deersia was a prison, it was a castle fortress, and the ramps were for transporting cannons and other large artillery. Convenient, but a bit steep for this purpose, and I have to go slow or risk bowls of slop sliding off the tray and pouring onto my feet.
A man with long, straight, dishwater-colored hair sits on the floor of the first cell, rocking back and forth and murmuring. Not Caledon. He looks toward the door when I slide the tray under it, then goes back to his rocking. The second cell isn’t Caledon’s either; it’s an older man asleep on a small, sagging cot. The third and fourth fare no better.
It’s not until I reach the fifth cell that I get a glimmer of hope. As I slide the tray into the cell, I catch a glimpse of tousled brown hair. Looks like it could be Caledon’s. He’s a bit thinner than I remember but that’s to be expected.
I try to peer through the food slot for a better look, but I don’t see anyone now.
The cell’s makeshift bed is empty. I try to see into the corners of the cell, thinking he moved out of sight to protect himself. He won’t know I’m there to help him. I look toward the right side of the room.
Two huge eyes stare back at me. I let out a yelp and flinch. There’s wild cackling on the other side of the door. I stand, heart racing, and try to look in again. That couldn’t be Cal . . . could it?
A face pops up in front of mine again. Then disappears. I force myself not to look away until I know whether it’s Caledon. If it is, I have more trouble on my hands than I thought.
Then I hear the food tray bang against the opposite wall. I look inside the cell, careful not to expose much of my face in the door slot, just in case.
There’s a boy sitting on his haunches, rocking back and forth. The tray is lying upside down by the wall where I heard it crash. He isn’t looking at me now. But he’s not Cal. He’s barely more than a little boy, maybe thirteen years, or a couple more if he’s small for his age.
He catches me looking and opens his mouth, letting out a piercing screech. I leap backward and grab the cart, hurrying away as quickly as I can.
Though I’m frustrated that I can’t find Caledon, I’m relieved that wasn’t him.
When I return to the kitchen again, only the kitchen boy is there. The cook is in the dining hall setting up for tomorrow’s breakfast. He puts two trays on the cart. “These are the last two. They go up in the east turret,” he says. “You’ll need this.” He hands me an old iron key on a large metal ring. As I walk through the kitchen doorway, he adds, “Try to cover your mouth while you’re up there.”
I nod. Deia forbid Caledon is there. I take the cart all the way to the end of the east wing. There’s a locked door. I assume that’s the way I’m supposed to go, and sure enough, the key fits. The door opens. Behind it there’s a winding staircase leading up into the turret. I’m going to have to leave the cart and carry the trays.
Walking up that many stairs, while balancing a soup bowl on a tray with each hand, is exactly as hard as it sounds. I take each step slowly and pause often. Pea soup on my clothes would definitely require a bath and I can’t risk that.
My feet ache. I’m going to sleep soundly tonight. I wonder where that will be. Not that I care. I could sleep on these stone steps right now.
I get to the top of the first set of stairs and find a curved hallway with one door. The first room in the turret. I slide the food under the door. I don’t hear anything. I don’t think anybody’s in there. But there’s no way to see inside unless I get down on the floor and I’m not going to do that. I’m not spending any longer here than I absolutely must.
I keep going. I come to another set of stairs. It’s a lot easier with only one tray to carry. And it’s a shorter climb. But I’m tired and I just want to be done with this. Between looking for Caledon and navigating the Luce issue, not to mention the anxiety of covering up my identity, I’m exhausted.
The top floor is pretty much identical to the one below it. There’s another door with a food slot. There’s a curved hallway. But unlike the floor below, there’s a wall at the end of the hallway where the stairs would be.
I slide the tray under the door. As I turn to leave, I hear a noise. Moaning. I wait. There it is again: Ugghhh.
I go to the door. “Are you all right?” I feel foolish. Of course he’s not all right. But what else could I say?
No response. The moaning gets louder. He’s in a lot of pain. “Can you hear me?” I ask.
“Yes,” he squeaks. Then more groans.
“Are you . . . hurt?”
“Sick,” he replies. But it comes out as: siiiiickkkk.
I bend down and try to see through the opening where I slid the tray. I can’t see much, especially with the tray partially blocking my view of the room. I spot some movement on the left. A swatch of brown fabric. A body lying curled up on his side, back to the door.