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name.
    I feel all the light leave me, sucking my energy with it. I could cry if my body had the water to muster the tears. After all this time, I really thought I’d found a clue.
    Fire sparks at the back of my neck. Why would he make me think we had a connection? Why would he toy with me? I want to glare at him, to seethe at him, but I must make this situation as pleasant as possible. I’m not sure how long I’ll have to live in it. So I answer him. “Maire.”
    The grin fades completely. He unfolds his legs. Looks off to the side, at nothing that I can see, for an uncomfortable moment. “I can say that. Maire. See? It’s fine.”
    I don’t think he’s talking to me.
    His eyes meet mine. “I am Allemas. What do you think?”
    I gawk at him. “Of what?”
    “Of the name.” His countenance sharpens.
    I don’t understand, but pretend otherwise. “It’s a very fine name.”
    He smiles again. I’m not sure if I like it when he smiles. That grin isn’t familiar. I can’t read him at all.
    Allemas leans forward and whispers, “You have magic.”
    That strikes me. I straighten, and my shoulders shout in protest, reminding me of their recent cruel treatment. “What?”
    “You do. I know you do. Tell me about it.”
    I study him again, trying to place him. He isn’t of an identifiable nationality, and I have trouble imagining which city-state or country in Raea he might call home. “Do you have magic?”
    He slams a fist down on the armrest of his chair. “Tell me about your magic.”
    I tell him about the cakes, about my shop, eyeing that fist the whole time. It isn’t a hard thing to explain, merely difficult for most people to understand, but Allemas nods as I speak, acting as though the ability were commonplace. As though he expected it.
    I try again once I’m finished. “Do you have magic?”
    He leans back. “I. Have. Knowledge.” And taps his head. “And you do not. And you are mine now, and you will do what I say. How delightful! I’ve never had a cake. Make me one.”
    I stiffen. “How do you know—”
    “Cake!” he commands.
    I stare at him, at his small kitchen, then at the darkness outside the window. I flex and unflex my stiff fingers. So many questions bubble up inside me, threatening to choke me, but I know I’ll get no answers, not tonight. “Now?”
    “Make me one.”
    I stand, a little shaky, and my stomach growls. I ignore it and step into the kitchen, searching for light.
    Allemas grabs one of the two lamps and follows after me.
    He has a small wood-burning stove and limited counter space. No sink, but there is a tall faucet with a crank for well water by the back door, which I note has several locks running down its length. There are dingy-looking tiles beneath the water, and a gutter off center of the crank runs the excess water outside.
    Trying my buyer’s patience, I head for the pump, gritting my teeth as my shoulders creak and wrench. I work the handle up and down until water pours forth. I stick my head under it, gulping the liquid down. When my stomach is full, I rub my hands together under the stream and over my face, rinsing away dirt and salt.
    Allemas merely watches me. He doesn’t move, save for the occasional blinking of his eyes.
    I notice that they don’t always blink at the same time.
    I shiver and dry my hands on my filthy trousers. “Do you have flour? Sugar?”
    “I have bread and eggs,” he says. “And chicken.”
    “I need flour and sugar to make the cake. And butter. And milk.”
    “I don’t have those.”
    “Then I can’t help you.”
    I expect him to become angry, but he doesn’t. He puts the tip of one index finger into his mouth and thinks for an abnormally long time before replying, “Then I will bring some. And you will make me cake. Yes, this will work.”
    He hurries forward, grabs me by the elbow, and drags me to the other end of the kitchen. He lifts a door in the floor, and the scents of earth and mice flood my sinuses. He pushes