Percy sometimes mused on the indignities he might in future suffer. He could not explain why; he simply did. He thought sometimes that his mind was not unlike a cabinet of curiosities he had once seen, filled with fascinating horrors and discomforting absurdities to be revisited at his leisure. He visited often.

Of all these indignities, he especially dreaded the thought of having to run from a town. It had never occurred to him until now that to be run out of a town was worse.

The mob had followed them, and even when they had reached their horses, they had found their path blocked at every turn. Percy could not understand how rage was so quick to spread, how they left behind in their escape a blazing trail of shouts and raised fists, how the mob seemed to feed and feed on its own hunger, swelling grotesque like a glutton swallowing streets and passers-by.

Of course, while scrambling up onto his mare and then clattering out the city gates, Percy had had no time to dwell on how undignified it all was. He had been too scared. How absurdly different this was from what he had always assumed would be the parting of heroes. The chosen one and his companions were cheered on their way out of a city, weighed down with garlands, applause, and eternal gratitude; they were certainly not run out.

As Percy spurred on his horse, he realized, with sagging relief, that he was outrunning the mob. But he was not outrunning the gnawing unease that raked over him now. None of it made sense, and he had never learned how to defend against such senselessness. He had grown up hearing stories of the chosen one's rewards after confronting a curse and emerging victorious. He had never heard of anything else. And he did not know how to live beyond his own stories.

His mind, left to its own devices while he had been distracted by fear, had started to sketch the outline of strange shapes. The shapes told him, how dare they treat Evans in such a way; he risked himself to save them; he stood up to the sorceress; they should be kneeling at his feet. Such thoughts alarmed him. He quickly smudged those lines in his mind, until they started to resemble other, more familiar shapes: how dare they treat the chosen one in such a way; it could have been me; it should have been me; if it were me, I would not tolerate such behaviour; I would see them kneel.

They rode past the city gates, past fields in the spilled ink-shade of night, until they reached a small grove. They could still see the glittering lights of the city from there, and hear its humming too. That distant rumbling seemed louder to Percy now than when he had been in it, part of it, wading waist-deep in the noise. It had excited him, at first, but he did not miss it now. He could not shake the feeling he had been prised from the jaws of a roaring beast.

He dismounted, all of him heaving and gasping, and he turned to the others. They all looked ragged, though each wore it in their own way. Myrtle moved as a rag-doll with fraying seams, Valeria walked with kicks rather than steps, and Evans had gone very still and quiet, as though hoping to fade away. Percy leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, his breath still jagged and sharp in his lungs.

"What the fuck was that?" he asked at last.

"A mob" came Valeria's answer. "Spittle that thinks it's a sea current. A little fart that thinks it's a gale."

"I know what a mob is. But we saved them!" he said, his voice struggling tattered past his lips. "What was the sense to all that?"

"You say you know what a mob is, and you ask me what the sense of it was? Percy, son, who sent you out into the world as you are?"

Her words dropped him from dizzying heights. He stood there, looking away from Evans, as though that would also keep Evans from looking at him and his nakedness. He would rather have been called vain, selfish, thoughtless or cynical. But to be called innocent or foolish while Evans watched on felt somehow more disgraceful; a child's drawing shamed by its closeness to a masterpiece. And here were those lines again in his mind, carving furrows upon him. He smudged them away once more. It did not matter what Evans thought of him. At least, it did not matter more than what anyone else thought.

He was desperate for anything that would put a comfortable distance between him and Valeria's words. He turned and saw Myrtle, her hands firmly entrenched on her hips, as though they were the only thing keeping her together. A sudden fury came to him.

"How could you make that pact with the sorceress?" he asked her.

Frustration boiled in him like pitch-black tar, eager to blister and spread. He remembered Myrtle's words to the sorceress, only now realizing something. They know everything about their masters. You would know of their wrongs that need punishing. Imagine all the curses you could place. He thought of all the reproachable things that had littered his coming of age under his parents' roof, all the selfish, stupid and callous doings that had bent some days into crooked shapes. He knew that others had seen them, too; servants that he had to trip on before he realized they were there. How many curses would a restless fae find fitting to place upon him, had those silent dwellers in his house not been so silent?

"You know, for someone who's so critical of the ungratefulness of others for being saved, you're not so bad yourself" she squinted. "I helped get us out of quite a pickle."

"You offered her countless new victims. Who knows how many curses this will result in!"

"Well, technically, it all depends on how you count curses, doesn't it?" her hands dug a little deeper into her hips. It made her tunic bunch out awkwardly, and gave her the look of a puffed-up, hissing cat. It suited her. "Is it the number of curses placed that matters, or the number of people they affect? If it's the number of people that counts, and if you'll be so kind as to consider servants people, then I've just brought that down by a hell of a lot. As you saw for yourself, the collateral cursing of servants for their masters' faults is an endemic problem."

Percy wished he could puff out as well as Myrtle did. He stood as straight as he could, but he just felt like a rickety branch in a gale, about to snap and scatter.

"Aren't you afraid this will make sorcerers and fae greedy? That they'll get eager to curse more people, and that they'll start targeting servants as well?"

"Nah. It's much more prestigious to say you cursed a prince than a scullery maid. And they already are greedy. All they want is more chances to show their power. That's the only thing that would ever get the interest of that sorceress before she tore you in two. And this way, at least I'm sure I kept a great deal of servants safe from future curses."

"If they'll be as pleased and grateful about it as this bunch, I'm not sure it will do much good" he mumbled.

"Fine, focus on that" she gave an exasperated hiss, throwing her hands up. "Or perhaps you could look at it like this: no one is ever just a servant, and whatever else those ones bloody were, fanatics, complete nutters, there was no reasoning with them. Is that better? Will that help you get over the lack of parades and flowers? Yeah, sure, part of me wishes we'd left them there to be candlesticks and teacups forever, but what would have been the good of that?"

They had been raising their voices and their arms, gesturing wildly, each carried by their own storm. And yet, Percy felt an eerie stillness settle on his mind like a layer of dust. He could not quite place it, until he realized that Evans had not moved or spoken since they had stopped. It sparked another thought in Percy's mind.

"You've just given Evans a never-ending task" his voice burned in his throat. "If you give sorcerers more chances of placing curses, if you open the door wide and say, oh, come right in why don't you, please show us how tremendous your magic is on this here baron or princess – this will never end!"

"It already had no end" she sighed. "That much was obvious. The only thing that would stop people from being cursed would be to get rid of fae and sorcerers. I'm not saying we should – just that it was a never-ending task to begin with. You can't blame me for that."

"Well, you've just made it more never-ending."

"You really don't think I deserve a more mature argument? Fine then!" Myrtle kicked a helpless patch of crabgrass in front of her. "The way you ride is silly!"

"The way I ride?! You're seeing things. No surprise there, your brain must be scrambled because of the way you ride."

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"I bet my horse likes me more than yours likes you."

"Well I bet my horse – "

He choked on his words as a hand pressed on his back and pushed him forward. He was caught too unawares to have any chances of resisting that fall. He tumbled face first on the cold mud of a ditch that lay there in ambush, right by where he stood, waiting to claim its first victim. It was not a big fall: it was short enough to spare his limbs and bruise his ego. His arms swivelled in the mud as he tried to reach for anything that might help lift him up: a branch, a rock, a remaining scrap of dignity. He found none, but raised himself up anyway, pressing his palms down on that earth-sap and tasting disgrace. Its bitter tang was a little watered down when he realized Myrtle had fallen right next to him.

Valeria towered over them. Her arms, of course, were crossed.

"Now, my darlings, hopefully that just changed your priorities, and you will now focus on getting yourselves cleaned up, rather than having one of the stupidest arguments I've ever witnessed. How does that sound?"

Percy scrambled out of the ditch and up to his feet, feeling the mud cling to him with a viscous cold. He saw with some satisfaction Myrtle cough out a bit of moss. The glare he shot at Valeria, he knew, was entirely ineffective: he was dulled and blunted by that dirt coating him. He had often wondered what Valeria's methods as a nanny might have been – he did not wish to wonder any more. By his side, Myrtle had the subdued, eye-lowered swaying of a scolded child, and he realized he did too. His hands had even moved of their own volition to join demurely at his front, in a perfect picture of remorse and penitence. They had never done that when his father scolded him. Cursed hands.

He nevertheless thought that a snide remark from him was to be expected, a simple matter of protocol. But before he could think of any, the sound of a horse's hooves tore the surrounding silence. The four of them stared warily at the approaching rider, their hands moving to meet their weapons. Percy hoped it was not a second Myrtle come to join them, and he would have said it, too, had it not been for his fear of swallowing one of the many leaves and twigs that still clung to his face.

The rider dismounted at a safe distance from them, immediately raising his hands to show that he held a letter in one, and no weapon in the other. He was a young man, younger than Percy, and he had the practiced urgency of a messenger.

"I'm sure glad I found you" he piped up as he approached them, handing the envelope to Evans. "I told my master I thought it was too late for that."

"Your master?" Valeria asked.

"My lord Armand. He tasked me to give you this letter."

"I'm glad to know he's awake and recovering" Evans said.

His words were newly smoothed, as though his silence had allowed him to keep his voice within him and tend to it, wrapping it in the usual velvet that recent events had worn out. He opened the letter.

"Has that daft mob calmed own?" Valeria turned to the messenger while Evans read.

"I... wouldn't say that necessarily. But they've tired themselves out a bit."

The boy took his leave and rode back to the city. Percy watched Evans as his eyes lingered on the letter.

"Armand thanks us" he said at last. "I have the feeling he wanted to say more, but wrote this in a hurry. He talks about a friend of his, another musician, who is also under some kind of curse. He asks for our help – to see if we can break it."

"What's his friend called?"

"Tombert de L'Isle."

"That's quite a name."

"From what's written here, it's quite a person. And they're not too far from here."

Percy felt his current discomfort seep into his bones. It prompted him to speak at last.

"But what are we going to do right now? We need somewhere to rest. I'm cold and exhausted. And filthy" he added with a reproachful look to Valeria.

She let out a portentous sigh and rested her hands on her belt.

"Right. I don't know about you all, but I need a break. Hell, I might go so far as to say I need some pampering. Running from mobs is bound to give us all sorts of ailments if we don't tend to ourselves properly. When we were in that tavern gathering information, I heard about this inn and bath house nearby. It's said to be damn comfortable, and it's just a half-hour's ride from here. My treat, of course – I did get you both covered in mud."

Percy stared at Valeria.

"You want to go to a bath house?" he asked.

"Nothing stopping us. There's also nothing stopping us from making camp nearby, stumbling about for wet firewood, lying down on the cold hard ground and waking up tomorrow, paying the full price of not indulging ourselves. It's surprising, really, how free we are to choose sometimes" she shrugged her broad shoulders.

Percy exchanged a look with Myrtle. She was clearly trying to hide how much the idea pleased her, but all the mud in the world couldn't conceal that.

"Evans?" Valeria turned to him.

He smiled and nodded. Percy frowned. Generally speaking, the chosen one did not go to bath houses. 'We'll make camp here' – that was what heroes said, not 'I'll have a back massage'. But he reminded himself once more that such concerns were no longer his to bear.

They mounted their horses again and rode to the inn. The fields around them were thickened by the night, and the grass fled under their horses' hooves. Percy cursed a thousand things to pass the time. He wondered if that was why the sorceresses they encountered placed curses: because they were bored, or cold, or covered in mud. He wondered – if he was a sorcerer, or had some of their shattering power, would he place a curse on someone now, too? He glanced ahead at the shapes of the other riders, outlined by moonlight. Would he curse Myrtle, or Valeria? Or Evans? He dared himself to confront the answer, even if it never left the secret of his own mind. He yearned for a "yes" – that would prove something. That he was strong, perhaps. But every time he tried to imagine himself placing a curse on anyone, all he could think of was how tired, cold and bruised he was, how that weariness crowded his mind and left it barren.

Valeria was right: in a half hour, they reached the inn. It was a large, pretty building, announced by a dainty wooden sign, rows of wild rose bushes, and lamps that coated the walls in a warm honey of a light. Not far from it was a little hamlet, contented in its slumber. As soon as they walked into the inn, they were greeted by the scent of hearth and spices. Percy was surprised to see how crowded it was: he had expected everyone to be asleep. The ground floor was full of guests, but it was not the rowdy ambiance of a tavern: they were resting, sipping drinks, floating in the ebb and flow of gentle conversations.

The innkeeper spoke to them with an earnest kindness that was almost jarring to Percy; even a little warmth could burn scalded skin. When she saw Percy and Myrtle's mud-covered misery, she did not look at them haughtily, nor did she lament over newly-scrubbed floors. When she simply said, "I will have a few more towels taken up to your rooms", search as he might, Percy did not find anything in her voice beyond a heartfelt wish to see them well washed.

Valeria made good on her promise, and paid a night's stay for all of them. After handing her coin to the innkeeper, she looked them over in what Percy knew at once to be a professional appraisal.

"I got us two rooms. I think it might be best for me not to bunk down with you tonight, Evans. It would do no good for Percy to be in a room with Myrtle right now. Unless you two have already gotten over your disagreement? No, never mind, I don't know why I'm even asking. Percy, stay with Evans for the night. If anything at all happens to him, you will look back fondly on the good old days when I pushed you into ditches."

Percy snorted and glanced at Evans, expecting to see a flare of embarrassment at having his old nanny speak of him in such a protective fashion. He found none.

"Go on, Valeria. You've earned a break from me" Evans smiled.

"And you from me, my boy. Come on, Myrtle."

Percy and Myrtle shared a parting glare as they went up the stairs to their rooms. He waited for Evans to open the door. When he stepped inside, he was submerged. It was spacious enough to be comfortable, but not so big that its warmth wore thin, as so often happened in too ample rooms. By a bay window were two plush beds. A chest, a table, two chairs, but mostly, an abundance of fabrics: everywhere was cushioned with rugs, tapestries, curtains and blankets. Candlelight scattered about the room, and on one end roared a lit fireplace, its mantelpiece carved into flickering ivy leaves. Awash in the firelight stood a large round bathtub.

Percy moved to a chair and slowly took off his cloak, his vest, his shoes. He barely heard Evans call for an attendant and ask for hot water. All he could think of was how desperately he wanted to shed that second-skin of mud, cold, dread and disquiet.

He was surprised when he turned to see the bathtub filled with languid steam. He noticed a small chest filled with ointments and coloured salts that had not been there before – the attendant must have brought it too. It had started to rain outside, though he had not noticed any clouds gathering while they were on the road.

Evans had also removed his tabard, and he stood by the tub in his trousers and tunic. His hands held on to his tabard uselessly, as hands often did when they had to be forgotten in a use.

"Percy... I need to ask you a favour. Please feel free to refuse, as you are free – and please know I am more than capable of understanding if you refuse."

Percy always felt cornered by any situation that was announced with great fanfare and valets wearing different livery – "I need to ask you", "I'll understand", "we need to talk". And preambles and preludes were not Evans' usual song. Percy watched him, the smatterings of dirt and dust that matted his skin and clothes, the tabard held in his hands like an apology. He knew at once what the favour was. He was skilled at spotting the merest humiliation, and he readied for it now, already scheming a hundred ways to counter it, parry it, or, should it come to that, retreat.

Evans was going to ask him for help washing. Now that they had ridden together long enough for their acquaintance to take shape, Percy was to be gently guided to his place within it. Though Evans had told him that he was neither squire nor attendant, there was nothing else that a companion to the chosen one might be. Now he would be made to face it, sponge in hand and on his knees, while he cursed all who had lead him to expect glorious things in his life. At least that was a pleasant thought – that he would curse them all. It eased him into an illusion of power. But he knew that if they saw him now, those who had expected so much of him, they would wish him to have no hands at all, just to be spared the indignity of washing another. Even his father would wish it.

Evans opened his mouth again. Percy braced himself. If necessary, he knew how to be unpleasant, how to start a fight – though he suspected it would take more nastiness than he could conjure to drag Evans into one. But so be it; anything was better than to be put in a lowly position. Trading blows was, at least, a trade, and thus it was always preferable to serving another while getting nothing in return.

"Will you let me wash you, Percy?"

Percy stared.

"You... you want to wash me?"