But perhaps it was not a sparrow: its sodden wings were puffed up and Egert could have easily taken the gray, insolent fellow for some far more noble bird. Apparently, the bather was receiving indescribable pleasure from its warm bath, and it did not notice Toria as she approached.
Toria slowed her pace and then stopped. Her proud, chiseled profile, like the mint of an empress on a coin, was turned toward Egert. He expected that she would step over the puddle and go on her way, but she did not move forward. The bird splashed in its bath with abandon while the girl, holding a heavy basket in her hands, waited patiently.
Finally the sparrow—or whatever kind of bird it was—finished his bath and, without paying any attention to the considerate Toria, flitted up to one of the exterior rafters to dry off. Toria shifted the basket from one hand to the other, calmly and amiably nodded to the wet bird, and continued on her way.
Returning from the market the next day, Toria only just avoided running straight into Egert by the grand entrance.
The basket was in considerable danger and would surely have suffered harm, had Egert not swept it up with both hands. They were both startled by the unexpected meeting and simply stared at each other for a time.
Toria would not admit to herself that Egert had surprised her yet again. Apparently, some alteration had occurred within him: his scarred face was still as exhausted and mirthless as before, but that hunted expression had disappeared from his eyes. It was the expression of a dog cowering before his master’s stick; Toria had become accustomed to seeing it in his eyes and had learned to despise it. Now they were simply tired, human eyes.
Recently, Toria caught herself thinking about Egert Soll far too often. She believed that thinking about him was unseemly, but avoiding the thoughts turned out to be impossible: he had greatly confounded her that night in the library. He had stunned her not so much by his ability to sense pain as by his admission of his own guilt, an admission that was inconceivable, in her estimation, from the mouth of a murderer. Without being completely aware of it, she now wanted to see him again and examine him more attentively: Did he really grasp his own baseness? Or was it nothing more than a trick, a pathetic attempt to arouse sympathy and obtain a reduction of his sentence?
“Return the basket, please,” she said coolly. There were no other words that would come to her tongue at that moment.
Egert obediently handed her goods back to her. The green tips of a magnificent bunch of scallions swayed, hanging over the edge of the basket; the neck of a wine bottle and a hard, round piece of golden yellow cheese peeked out from under the thicket of scallions.
Grasping the basket by its rounded handle, Toria walked farther along the corridor. The load pulled down her shoulder, and in order to keep her balance she had to compensate by throwing her free arm out to the side.
She had just made it to the corner when behind her she heard a hoarse, uncertain voice. “May I … help?”
She slowed to a stop. Over her shoulder, without turning, she said, “What?”
Egert repeated himself dispiritedly, already anticipating her refusal. “May I help? That’s got to be heavy.”
Toria stood for a second in confusion; her usual asperity sprang to the tip of her tongue, but she did not let it loose. She suddenly recalled that heavy book, smashing away at the pale, drawn face, at the scarred cheek, at the bloodstained lips. Then her heart, as well as her arm, began to ache, as if she had kicked a homeless dog for no reason at all.
“You may help me,” she said with ostentatious indifference.
Egert did not immediately understand, and understanding, he did not immediately approach her: it was as if he was afraid that she would strike him again. Toria frowned peevishly and looked away.
The basket again changed hands. In silent procession they both walked on, Toria in front and Egert behind. Without a single word they traveled through the courtyard to the household annex. In the deserted kitchen Toria took the basket with a regal gesture and set it on the table.
It was high time for Egert to turn around and leave, but he tarried. Was he waiting, perhaps, for her to thank him?
“Thank you.” Toria let the words tumble out of her mouth. Egert sighed and she, without planning it, suddenly asked, “Before, you didn’t ever feel others’ pain, did you?”
Egert said nothing.
“And it is true,” Toria explained to herself, “that if you had felt it, then you could not have thrust your sword into another living man, yes?”
She immediately regretted her words, but Egert only nodded wearily. He affirmed impassively, “I could not have.”
An onion, a bunch of carrots, and a bunch of parsley were extracted from the basket. Egert watched as though spellbound while a poppy seed muffin; sweet, yellow butter; and a pot of cream followed these items into the light of the world.
“And now,” Toria continued relentlessly, “right now, this very second, are you able to feel it?”
“No,” Egert responded dully. “If it happened constantly, I would go out of my mind, and I wouldn’t have to wait for my meeting with the Wanderer.”
“Only a crazy person could want to meet the Wanderer,” snapped Toria, and once again she regretted what she said because Egert suddenly blanched.
“Why?”
Toria was not happy with such a turn in the conversation, and so the fresh cheese, folded in a napkin, was thrown onto the table with a certain amount of temper. “Why? Don’t you know anything about him at all?”
Egert slowly traced his finger along his scar. “This is all I know. Will this knowledge suffice?”
Toria paused, unable to find an answer. Egert looked at her for the first time since encountering her by the entrance: he looked at her without averting his eyes, sorrowfully and a little guiltily, and his gaze bewildered Toria. To hide her confusion, she bit off a piece of the muffin without thinking.
Egert swallowed and averted his gaze. Then, cheered that she could smother her own discomfort, she plucked a white crumb from her lip and asked, “Do you want something to eat?”
She had suddenly remembered that, because he lived in the annex, he was fed only once a day when the good woman, hired to carry dinner, delivered his meal to him. Somewhat disconcerted by this revelation, she hesitated slightly and then handed him a piece of the poppy seed muffin.
“Take it. Eat.”
He shook his head. Looking to the side, he asked, “But you, what do you know about the Wanderer?”
“Take the muffin,” she said adamantly.
For a few seconds he just looked at the rich morsel, dripping heavy crumbs, then he stretched out his hand to take it, and, very briefly, he brushed Toria’s fingers.
They both experienced a momentary awkwardness. With deliberate efficiency, Toria continued to unpack her purchases, and Egert thrust his white teeth into the muffin as soon as he came to his senses.
Toria watched as he ate; demolishing in a second both the inside and the poppy seed-strewn top, he nodded gratefully.
“Thank you. You are … very kind.”
She twitched her lip mockingly: My, what a polite young man.
Egert again looked her right in the eyes. “So you really don’t know anything about the Wanderer?”
Drawing a long kitchen knife from a drawer, she focused on testing it with her finger to see if the edge had dulled. Casually, she asked, “Didn’t you already talk about this with my father? If anyone in the world knows something about your acquaintance, it would be my father, true?”
Egert shrugged his shoulders drearily. “Yes. It’s just that I understand very little of what Dean Luayan says.”
Toria marveled at his candor. She ran the blade of the knife across an ancient, worn grindstone a few times; then, galled at her own complacency, she said, “That’s hardly surprising. You probably wasted all your time in swordplay. I doubt you’ve ever even read a book in its entirety besides a primer.”