The Gray House

The whiteness of the tiled walls is blinding. The room is tiny. Semiprivate—that is, for two. There are no windows. Noble is sitting up, blanket up to his knees, in an ugly gray gown with string ties hanging down from the collar. On the nightstand by the bed—a tray with a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of milk. The silly gown becomes him. As does everything I’ve ever seen him wear. Tabaqui has this theory that Goldenhead would remain beautiful even if he were to be dunked in shit. And the more benign tar and feathers would make him absolutely stunning. Someone who’s not used to the visage of the Dark Elf is usually overwhelmed in his presence, buried under a mountain of insecurities. But someone who is used to it, and is also very hungry, should be able to redirect his attention to, say, a bowl of oatmeal. Which is exactly what I do.

How beautiful it is! Small pink flowers run along the border of the bowl; a golden puddle of melted butter occupies its center. The oatmeal is already starting to acquire a tender crust, but obviously is still warm. Not too hot, not too cold, just right. I am mesmerized by it, consumed by the desire to attack it, to chomp and smack my lips and lick the bowl clean, slurp in the milk, and then fall asleep right there. It’s funny, the more vividly I imagine all this, the hungrier I get. My legs are about to give under me. I am this close to fainting. Noble stares at me in surprise.

“Hi,” I say tersely, not able to peel myself away from the sight of the bowl. “How are things?”

Yeah. I’m clearly babbling. What things? That was a stupid question. But I had to say something, hadn’t I?

Noble grimaces.

“What things? What are you talking about?”

I am silent. A sullen, hopeless silence. The oatmeal is getting cold. Noble frowns. “Are you hungry, by any chance?”

How polite and thoughtful of him.

“Purely by chance—very much so!”

“In that case . . .”

But I’m already not listening. I fall upon the oatmeal like a hawk and exterminate it. Apparently I make use of a spoon, because when the meal is finished I notice it stuck in the grip of my right rake. The wrong way around, so it’s a mystery how I managed to eat the whole thing with the thin end. But that’s not important. I miraculously avoid being suffocated, I still tremble with the now-satisfied craving, and I can gratefully lower myself down on the edge of the bed.

“Noble. Thank you. I know it may sound corny, but you have just saved my life.”

Noble’s chin quivers.

“I noticed. I’m sorry, but it was rather obvious.”

I too begin to appreciate the humor of the situation. The putative savior and bringer of consolation showed up bruised, stared at oatmeal with crazy eyes, and then devoured it as soon as he got half an invitation. Inhaled a sick man’s lunch.

“Oh. I guess that wasn’t very nice,” I admit.

Noble bursts out laughing. I join him. We laugh until tears come, loudly and hysterically. A pair of mental cases. I’m afraid the oatmeal might ask to get out. But the merriment switches off just as abruptly as it started. Noble darkens.

An uncomfortable silence. Exactly what I was dreading all along. There is a wall growing between us. And an iron door with a crest on it—over three stripes bright red, a two-headed overgrown lizard rampant.

“Who was that bastard?” Noble begins, and his tone is painting the fourth stripe: Prone to violence, represents danger to himself and others, requires strict isolation.

“It was Black,” I interrupt hurriedly before a fifth or, heaven forbid, sixth stripe becomes visible. “And don’t look at me like that. It’s my fault too. I should have smelled a rat when he suddenly was so eager to be left with you. If it’s any consolation, I have just about sent him to his grave.”

“And he, you,” Noble scoffs.

“He’d wish.”

Silence again. It would’ve been better if he’d swear and curse. He’s exceedingly good with the meaningful silences. Long ones, too. So we just sit there, and the silence envelops us in a suffocating cloud. It’s laced with something strange, though. Noble is more confused than angry. It might be the result of the treatment he’s getting, but then again it might not.

“What’s going to happen to me?” he asks, just as I lose the last shreds of hope for our conversation.

“I don’t know. It depends.”

That’s not entirely honest, but I can’t just lay it all out. That there’s practically no hope. Noble is still shocked, as if I did tell it like it was.

“Shit,” he says. “Of all the stupid, stupid things.”

My own uselessness is devouring me. Soon there will be only bones left. A familiar feeling, one I’ve had too often ever since Wolf died. Then it turned out that I could get used to living with it. Now I’ll have to drag myself through all of that again. Endlessly repeating to myself that it could have been worse. That at least Noble is alive.