Molly’s face suddenly hurt her, and she turned away to inspect the soup again. Answering past a sharpness in her throat, she said, “He is doing it for you. While you brood and mope and become someone else, he jigs and jests for Haggard, diverting him so that you may have time to find your folk, if they are to be found. But it cannot be long before the king tires of him, as he tires of all things, and casts him down to his dungeons, or some place darker. You do wrong to mock him.”

Her voice was a child’s thin, sad mumble. She said, “But that will never happen to you. Everyone loves you.”

They had a moment to look at each other, the two women: the one fair and foreign in the cold, low room; the other appearing quite at home in such surroundings‌—‌an angry little beetle with her own kitchen beauty. Then they heard boots scraping, armor clicking, and the gusty voices of old men. King Haggard’s four men-at-arms came trooping into the scullery.

They were all at least seventy years old, gaunt and limping, fragile as crusted snow, but all clad from head to foot in King Haggard’s miserly mail and bearing his wry weapons. They entered hailing Molly Grue cheerfully and asking what she had made for their supper, but at the sight of the Lady Amalthea all four became very quiet and bowed deep bows that made them gasp.

“My lady,” said the oldest of the men, “command your servants. We are used men, spent men‌—‌but if you would see miracles, you have only to request the impossible of us. We will become young again if you wish it so.” His three comrades muttered their agreement.

But the Lady Amalthea whispered in answer, “No, no, you will never be young again.” Then she fled from them, with her wild, blinding hair hiding her face, and the satin gown hissing.

“How wise she is!” the oldest man-at-arms declared. “She understands that not even her beauty can do battle with time. It is a rare, sad wisdom for one so young. That soup smells delicious, Molly.”

“It smells too savory for this place,” a second man grumbled as they all sat down around the table. “Haggard hates good food. He says that no meal is good enough to justify all the money and effort wasted in preparing it. ‘It is an illusion,’ says he, ‘and an expense. Live as I do, undeceived.’ Brraaahh!” He shuddered and grimaced, and the others laughed.

“To live like Haggard,” said another man-at-arms as Molly spooned the steaming soup into his bowl. “That will be my fate in the next world, if I don’t behave myself in this one.”

“Why do you stay in his service, then?” Molly demanded. She sat down with them and rested her chin on her hands. “He pays you no wages,” she said, “and he feeds you as little as he dares. He sends you out in the worst weather to steal for him in Hagsgate, for he never spends a penny of the wealth in his strong room. He forbids everything, from lights to lutes, from fires to fairs and singing to sinning; from books and beer and talk of spring to games you play with bits of string. Why not leave him? What in the world is there to keep you here?”