“I’m sorry,” said Saturday.
“It’s not that bad a name,” said the gryphon.
“I mean that you’ve forgotten your old name,” she corrected. “That happened to a brother-in-law of mine when he was enchanted. Are you enchanted? Is there anything I can do to help? I’m a maiden,” she said bluntly.
“So am I!” said Peregrine.
“You are an im—” Saturday stopped before she finished the insult. Her restraint surprised him. He really wished she’d stop impressing him. It made her lack of interest that much harder to bear.
“Cat got your tongue?” Peregrine asked her.
Betwixt yowled in nasally feline laughter.
Saturday stuck out said tongue to prove that she was still in full possession of it. “I need help,” she said.
Finally! Peregrine resisted the urge to hug the lute giddily. “You need a bath” was all he said in reply.
“Are you going to help me or not?” said Saturday. Her knuckles around the rake handle were white.
“Are you asking or not?”
Saturday put her head down, sighed, and started again. “The witch gave me this”—she thrust the disgusting rake in Peregrine’s direction—“and told me to clean her wretched bird’s nest.”
Peregrine backed away from the rake. He didn’t want it to accidentally touch him. “And . . . ?” he prompted.
“The cursed thing doesn’t work! The more soiled peat I rake, the more there is, multiplying instead of diminishing. It’s some sort of foul magic.”
Peregrine wrinkled his nose. “Something in this cave is certainly foul.”
“I gave up on the rake and tried shoving out the moss with my bare hands for a while.”
“Oh no,” said Betwixt.
“Oh my,” said Peregrine. He wasn’t sure even he had the stomach—or the nose—for that level of degradation.
“But nothing happened! I worked from the time I woke until the time I fell asleep and the room looked the same as it had when I started.”
“So you tried the rake again,” said Peregrine.
“Yes,” said Saturday. “Disaster. Can you help me?”
Peregrine sat and stared at the girl for a while, letting her stew. He suspected she knew what he was doing, but she remained quiet. “Yes, I can help you,” he said finally.
“Name your price,” said Saturday.
“I didn’t say there was one yet.”
“I have siblings,” said Saturday. “I know how this works. Go on, state your conditions.”
Peregrine was torn between the desire to kiss Saturday and the desire to strangle her. It was an intoxicating feeling that amused him no end, but her stench made the decision for him.
“I will you give you a number of sacks,” said Peregrine. “When you clean the bird’s nest, collect the soiled moss in these sacks.”
“Done,” said Saturday. “Is there a supply of clean moss to replace the old?”
“I’ll make sure you have it,” said Peregrine.
Saturday nodded, but she did not thank him. And because she did not thank him, Peregrine continued his list of demands. “I will also have a bath ready for you. When you are done cleaning the nest, you will take it.”
“All right,” she said easily, for this was more of a benefit than a hardship. He’d hoped she’d take it as such. But she still conveyed no expression of gratitude.
“You will come with me wherever I decide to take you, and you will keep a civil tongue in your head.”
“Fine,” spat Saturday. “Is that all?”
“One last thing,” said Peregrine. “You have to fight me for it.”
“For what?”
“For all of it: the sacks, the bath, and the answer to your enigma.”
The smile she gave him was wicked and wonderful. “My pleasure.”
He might have returned the lute first and taken a longer, more circuitous route to the armory, but the girl’s smell was more than he could bear. Betwixt led the way, half slinking and half flying, ever keeping upwind. When Peregrine passed through the archway to their destination he lifted his lantern and turned to see her expression, hoping that he might catch a glimpse of happiness, however small.
He was not disappointed.
Peregrine saw a moment of unabashed joy on Saturday’s face before she noticed him watching and stifled it. “Where did all this come from?” She set down the rake and brought her own lantern in for a closer look.
“If there is one thing a dragon’s lair does not lack, it is the weapons of defeated foes.” One by one, Peregrine lit the torches around the room. He had chosen this section of the caves for its natural shelves, on which he’d separated the weapons into categories. “Axes, maces, lances, bows, arrows. The swords are in a pile over there. There are so many, I’m never quite sure how to sort them.”
“And clean, polish, and sharpen them?” Peregrine nodded in answer to her question. “This must have taken ages.”
“It’s an ongoing project. I enjoy a hard day’s work.”
“Me too,” she said. Peregrine heroically refrained from comparing his “hard days” with her exhausting path of never-ending masochism.
“The results of my work on the weapons are easier to see. Armor is less salvageable as a whole, but there’s still plenty to be had, and it’s excessively useful. Even a dented helmet makes a passable mixing bowl.”
“A mixing bowl.” Saturday seemed to find the notion blasphemous. She let her hand hover over a shelf of oddities, but did not touch them. “I don’t even know what some of these things are.”
“Nor do I,” Peregrine admitted. He picked up one item that had very long spikes connected by a chain. “This one could be a very dangerous whip.”
“Or a collar,” Saturday suggested. “Maybe something attached to a helmet?”
“More likely. Though the skeleton I took it from had it like this.” Peregrine wrapped the chain around his fist, so that the spikes pointed out from his knuckles.
“Wicked,” said Saturday cheerfully.
Peregrine tossed the chain back onto the shelf. “And completely pointless when fighting a dragon. If you’re close enough to punch it, it’s close enough to roast you and eat you.”
Saturday walked to the next shelf, which was full of daggers and sharp throwing implements. “May I?”
“Of course. They come in handy when one needs to chop ice from the walls.” Peregrine had replaced his own broken dagger earlier.
He’d destroyed many a dagger while hacking at the walls of his prison, but there was still a plethora to choose from. Silver, iron, bent, curved, and serrated, they stretched out before Saturday like a smorgasbord of pain. After lifting and balancing a few of the knives, Saturday added only one more to her swordbelt with its empty scabbard.
“Did you bury the skeletons?”
“Of course! Thankfully one of the knights who died here brought a magic shovel that could cut through icerock like freshly churned butter.”
Saturday rolled her eyes at him but did not stomp away. Perhaps there was hope for a friendship between them yet. “Bones have useful properties,” he said seriously. “The warriors here are long dead, as are the ones who mourned them. The only living being to come up this far in recent years was Jack.”
“Right,” said Saturday. “You mentioned that.”
Peregrine took her hand. “You really haven’t seen your brother, have you?”
Saturday pulled her hand away, scalding him again with those eyes of fire. The feeling that he’d known her forever struck him again.
Peregrine wondered why he kept trying to please her and realized it was because of Jack, but Jack had enjoyed himself during his stay. Peregrine couldn’t stop from asking, “Do you enjoy anything?”
Saturday exhaled. “Can I just fight you now? Please? I’d rather die than continue this conversation.”
“Oh, this is going to be fun.” Betwixt leapt to a shelf beyond sword’s reach and settled himself comfortably.