Pierced by a rusty nail was how Rags felt now. He wanted to bolt out the window, flee down the street. He’d figure out the rest on his way to the city.
A snort of laughter escaped his lips, followed by a convulsing peal of the damn stuff. If he ran, he’d be killed.
Being the best at thieving was his favorite thing. It was also what had trapped him.
“Are you unwell?” Shining Talon asked with real concern.
“Do fae not”—hysterical wheeze—“laugh?”
“They do. It does not look like . . . this.”
“Ugly, you mean?”
“I did not say—”
Rags waved the unnecessary apology off before it could ruin the moment. “Don’t sweat it. You were staring, I used a figure of speech, you’re gonna have to work on not taking everything at face”—another chortled snort—“value.”
There was a knock at the door. Rags tucked his treasures away and answered it.
Two trays of food waited for them outside. Rags pulled them in. One waited for him to close the door again before she sniffed warily at the bowls of steaming stew-slop, wrinkled her finely carved nostrils, and recoiled with a shake of her head.
“More for me, then.” Rags sat on the edge of the small room’s small bed, balanced a tray on his knees, and dug in.
He didn’t bother with the spoon at first, using a hunk of stale-but-not-seasoned-with-maggots bread. He hadn’t realized until the first bite how hungry he was, and he wasn’t satisfied when the bread was finished and the crumbs slurped messily off his fingertips.
Bread gone, the edge taken off his hunger, Rags reached for the spoon, no longer needing to plunge his face directly into the bowl.
He had the spoon halfway to his mouth when something flashed in his peripheral vision. A hard force stung his wrist, startling his fingers open from their grip and sending the spoon flying across the room in an arc of meat, potatoes, and brown gravy.
“Fuck!” Rags scrambled to keep the tray from sliding off his knees, bowl clattering on wood. He gripped his stinging wrist, leveling his accusation at the asshole who’d slapped the spoon out of his hand.
That asshole was Shining Talon.
“My lord,” Shining Talon said, distressed enough to forget what minimal progress they’d made, “are you all right?”
“You hit the spoon out of my hand! Do you think I’m fucking all right?”
“Yes, I did remove its fell presence, and not a moment too soon.” Shining Talon crouched at Rags’s side in a warrior’s position, ready to pounce. He was staring at the spoon as if it were the great weapon in the room, not the giant silver lizard.
Speaking of, her three eyes were tracking the proceedings with what looked like amusement.
Could lizards chuckle?
Rags groaned in irritation. “What are you talking about, Shiny?”
“That dangerous contraption—” Shining Talon began.
Rags put the tray aside on the bed, where it would hopefully be safe from Shining Talon’s “instincts,” and stalked over to the spoon. Shining Talon shouted as Rags bent to retrieve it, already at Rags’s side again. How did he move so fast without stirring the air in the process or making any noise?
Shining Talon gripped Rags by the wrist, real distress on his face. It made him look less unfamiliar, and also kind of funny.
“If it will not release you from its spell,” Shining Talon said, “then I will sacrifice myself to its command in your place. Will you accept the substitution, Iron Thing?” This last bit seemed to be directed to the spoon.
Nothing happened in reply, because Shining Talon was talking to a spoon. An ugly one, as spoons went, iron and old, but harmless.
Rags pinched the handle and wiggled it experimentally. Shining Talon’s lips parted, baring his sharp teeth.
“Me,” Rags said. “I did that. I moved the spoon.”
“The Spoon,” Shining Talon repeated darkly. “A foul name for a foul item.”
Rags tried to pull his arm free of Shining Talon’s grip, knowing from the start that it was pointless. “You don’t know what a spoon is?”
“I know now, and that is enough. I will not be tricked by it a second time.”
Rags patted the back of Shining Talon’s hand. “Could you maybe let go of me so I can eat my soup? Because that’s what spoons are for. Eating soup.”
Incomprehension. Shining Talon still regarded the spoon like he was waiting for it to sprout barbed tentacles and lash out.
“Your people seriously didn’t have spoons?” Rags asked, growing tired of the stalemate.
It actually worked, or seemed to, because Shining Talon