The Bear House (Preview)

TWO

THE night air nipped at Dev's skin as he made his way to the back door of the kitchens. He was glad of the chill—it cooled his boiling blood.

The Lourdes girls would be the death of him, he was sure. Spoiled Aster and vain Ursula had been intolerable since the day he began his service at Lourdes Manor. Today had pinched the young Keeper's last nerve.

"Stupid, no-good, pampered princess brats!" he growled to himself.

The young Herman standing guard at the kitchen's servants' entrance cast a downward glance at him. Dev glared back, flinging open the rickety wooden door. A gust of warm, wet, savory air, the steam of a dozen cooking pots, dampened his face.

"Eh!" Gatch, the girls' nanny-woman, stood over a large wooden table. She held a bowl of oddgob, Chef Ingle's usual stew of leftovers. "What's all that about, little Dev?"

Little Dev. He was nearly fourteen, and taller than Gatch to boot. The little she insisted on was another irritating part of life at Lourdes Manor.

He ignored her and stormed up to the table— well, not even really a table. The servants of the Lourdes' house had no table. It was, in actuality, a counter, one the cooks used for chopping, and dicing, and rolling out dough. Dev always ate his dinner standing at that counter, the occasional piece of onion or carrot flying into his meal.

He slammed his fist down, and Cook Darby looked up from her creamed potatoes with a frown. Dev returned it. He'd dealt with enough attitude for one day.

"Well, well," said Gatch, shoving a spoonful of stew into her mouth. "Someone's in a right sour mood this evening." "Chef Ingle," he barked, "can I get some oddgob here, or what?" The wiry chef raised an eyebrow and looked at Gatch. Gatch just shook her head. Ingle grunted, but scooped a ladleful of stew into a wooden bowl.

Dev grabbed the hot bowl, burning both his hands, but he swal lowed down the pain.

The crunchy, beady eyes of a particularly ugly crustacean stared up at him from the brown gravy. Binger heads. He hated binger heads. He slammed his fist on the counter for the second time. "Turds of Tawn!"

"Jumpin'!" shouted Gatch. "A very sour mood!"

Dev shouldn't have been so blasphemous, especially as a Keeper. But he couldn't hold it in any longer. All he could hear was Ursula's voice in his head— her arrogant, nasal voice. "She called me her servant!"

"Who did?"

"Me!" he shouted. "Her servant!"

The kitchen went silent, save for a quiet bubbling. Gatch, Chef Ingle, and Cook Darby stopped what they were doing and stared at him, their old foreheads folded in half with worry. The other kitchen helpers looked anywhere but at Dev.

"Who did?" ventured Gatch finally.

Dev dropped his eyes to his bowl and shoved a crunchy, rubbery binger head into his mouth, his face suddenly red. Chewing would keep him from speaking; he'd already said too much. Keepers were supposed to be mild and forbearing and ... well, all the things he wasn't being.

"You serve Alcor," said Ingle, a confused look on her face. "No other."

Dev shook his head.

"Is this about Lady Ursula?" Gatch asked quietly.

Dev kept chewing.

"Lady Ursula?" said Chef Ingle. "What about Lady Ursula?" Dev sighed. He'd opened this door, he might as well go through. "She said I was her servant. As though I were nothing but a stableboy." There was a simultaneous gasp from Ingle and Darby, Ingle dropping her soup ladle with a loud clatter onto the floor. Dev winced. He shouldn't have spoken. Rizlan would not approve of him venting his frustration to half the Manor like this. It wasn't as if Ursula could be changed. Very little about Lourdes Manor could be changed.