Chapter 27: Treacle Monsters
The rain beat against the window, giving the room a dreary, bitter aura that had nothing to do with the cold stove or the thin layer of dust on the countertops. At the table, Riza sat waiting patiently as Roy struggled to pour the last of the milk over a dish of dry bread. There was only half a cup left, because Hawkeye-sensei had forgotten to put out the bottles for the milkman. Again.
"I don't want bread and milk," Riza said petulantly, kicking the leg of the table. "I'm tired of bread and milk. I want soup with chicken an' carrots an' rice."
"I know," Roy said softly. "I don't know how to make soup." He carried the bowl carefully to the table, and set it down in front of the little girl. Then he climbed onto the chair that he had pushed up next to the cupboard, and got her blue mug. He filled it with water from the tap.
"I don't want water, I want milk!" Riza told him.
"There isn't any more milk; it's all on your bread," said Roy. He felt so helpless. He didn't know what to do. There was almost nothing to eat in the ice box, and what there was needed to be cooked. The stove was cold, there was no wood in the woodbox, and anyway he wouldn't know how to light it, much less prepare food on it. Davell's clothes needed washing, and Riza was wearing her last clean pinafore.
Riza took a spoonful of her meagre supper, and wrinkled her nose. "The bread's hard," she said.
"Let it soak for a minute," Roy told her. "Do you want treacle?"
"Yes, lots 'n lots of treacle," the little girl agreed. It was the first positive thing she had said today, and Roy hurried to fetch the little pot of sweetener. In his haste, he faltered as he dismounted the chair, and it slipped from his hands. There was a sound of the ceramic vessel shattering, and Roy watched in horror as a sticky black stain spread across the floor.
Riza's eyes were wide. "You dropped it!" she exclaimed. "Look what you did!"
Roy wanted to cry. He was tired and overwrought, and he had been trying so hard all day to take good care of Riza while Hawkeye-sensei was busy in his study. Now she was eating bread and milk for the third time today, she had nothing to drink but water, and there was treacle all over the kitchen floor.
He wanted so badly to fix everything. It had been two months since Mrs. Hawkeye went away, and without her the house was not the same. Hawkeye-sensei was absentminded, often forgetting to go into town to buy bread, or neglecting to light the kitchen stove, or overlooking entirely the fact that clothes needed to be washed or beds needed to be made. Then every few days, he would tell the children to play quietly, vanish into his study, and not emerge until long after dark. He didn't do it every day, but when he did it seemed like those were the days when everything went wrong. No matter how hard Roy tried, he just wasn't good enough to run the house properly.
He had to try, though. He was the older one, and he had to look after Riza. She wasn't herself anymore. She was quieter, much quieter. The bubbling spring of blissful banter had dried to a trickle. She didn't have the same zeal for her play that she once had had. She would sit quietly for hours, now, looking at her picture books or drawing on Davell's slate. When Hawkeye-sensei was in the mood to work on teaching Roy how to read and write, she would sit in the corner of the study, between the two bookshelves, and watch them with silent, sombre red eyes. And there were the nightmares, too... but Roy didn't want to think of that. Even more than he wanted to feed Riza properly and care for her decently, he wanted to make her happy and light-hearted again.
He couldn't do either, but at least he wouldn't cry in front of her, no matter how discouraging the day had been.
"I'll clean it up," he said. He went to the linen cupboard next to the pantry, and picked out a couple of rags.
"What about my bread and milk?" Riza asked. "I can't eat that treacle: it's dirty!"
Roy wracked his brain. He knew there wasn't any more treacle, but there had to be something sweet that Riza could use. "Honey?" he asked. "Would you like honey?"
Riza cocked her head to one side, considering the proposal. Ultimately, she appeared to find it acceptable. She nodded. "Okay."
Roy climbed up onto the counter again, took down the honey pot, and carefully, carefully got down to the ground. He drizzled the viscous golden fluid over Riza's supper, taking care to give her just a little bit more than Hawkeye-sensei would have allowed.
"There," he said, almost proud of this small accomplishment. "Now eat it up, before it gets soggy."
Riza picked up her spoon, and Roy turned back to the black, sticky mess on the floor. He tried to work out the best way to clean it up. First, he decided, he had to pick up the bits of shattered pottery. Kneeling down, he dipped his finger and thumb into the treacle, and picked up the largest shard. Carefully, one by one, he plucked them out of the oozing sweetener, and piled them in his left hand.
"Ugh!" Riza cried out, so suddenly that she startled Roy. He jumped, and the pieces of the treacle pot fell from his hand. "It's too sweet," Riza told him, pushing her bowl away. "I can't eat it, it's yucky."
Roy realized his mistake. Honey was much sweeter than treacle: of course he had used too much. He really was a dumb boy. "I..." He looked down at his sticky hands. His left palm was cut, and thin, bright red blood was trickling over the dark streaks of treacle. Distraught, he wrapped one of the rags around his hand and got to his feet.
"I can't eat it," Riza repeated. "I want something else."
There wasn't anything else, Roy thought despairingly. Forgetting the fact that his hand was coated in treacle, he rubbed his mouth. Riza giggled a little.
"You got whiskers," she said. "Sticky treacle whiskers."
"That's right, I'm a sticky treacle monster," Roy told her. "I'll make you all black and gooey."
"Will not!" Riza argued, and she almost sounded happy.
"Oh, yes I will!" Roy warned. He reached out and brushed his index finger along her upper lip. Riza squealed in delight, actually smiling for the first time in days. She flicked out her tongue and licked off the smear of sweetener.
"You can't catch me, you treacle monster!" she giggled. She climbed off of her chair and ran around the table, laughing as Roy feinted in her direction. She bent down over the puddle of treacle, and smacked her hand against it with a soft splat. She trotted over to Roy, and planted her palm on his cheek. "Gotcha!"
Roy laughed a little, and touched the tip of her nose, leaving a dark blob of treacle. Riza squealed and tried to brush her hair out of her eyes, leaving a streak across her temple. She scooped up a fistful of treacle, and came after him. Roy danced out of her way, and tried to evade her as she came after him. Riza giggled and stood on the tips of her toes, depositing her ammunition in his hair. Roy laughed as the sticky substance settled towards his scalp and trickled onto his forehead. He stuck his hand into the puddle again, and brushed it against her neck.
Riza was laughing uncontrollably now. She squatted down and splashed in the treacle. Then she planted a handprint on the front of Davell's shirt. "You're the stickiest!" she tittered happily.
Roy nodded, giggling in spite of himself. "But you're sticky, too. We're both sticky, icky treacle monsters," he laughed. "We're the stickiest, ickiest—"
Hawkeye-sensei cleared his throat, and the two children turned, eyes wide and suddenly overrun with guilt. The alchemist regarded them gravely. "What is this?" he asked.
Roy looked at Riza, with treacle in her hair and on her face and all over her pinafore. He looked at the puddle on the floor, and the two sets of gummy black footprints—his bare ones with the long, bony toes, and the neat marks of Riza's shoes—that ran away from it, circling the table and the rest of the room. He looked at his own hands, and the sticky rag spotted with blood, and the handprints on the shirt. Then his eyes moved to the alchemist's acetic, frowning face, and he felt all of his courage ebb away. They were in so much trouble...
"We're treacle monsters, Papa," Riza mumbled, twisting her foot a little and watching her father with a touch of apprehension.
"It's my fault, sir," Roy said hastily, stepping forward to transpose his body between Riza and Hawkeye-sensei. "I..."
The alchemist let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "Both of you upstairs," he said, pursing his lips as if they were trying to do something he didn't want them to. "Time for a bath."
discidium
Mordred wrapped Riza in a towel and set her on the floor. "Go and put on your nightdress, chibi-chan," he said, sending her out of the bathroom with a gentle pat on her rump. He crooked his finger at Roy, who was standing in the corridor. The boy came timidly towards him. Mordred herded him into the bathroom and closed the door.
"You two made quite a mess," he said, fighting his amusement.
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir," he murmured.
"Well, get your clothes off, and hop in the tub. I'll help you wash your hair before I go to clean up the kitchen." Mordred stood back while the boy clumsily removed his shirt and pants. Now that Lian was not here to object, the alchemist had told him to wear Davell's outgrown garments every day. He knew that his wife wouldn't approve, but the child looked so ridiculous haunting the house clad only in cut-down men's shirts. At least when he wore Davell's clothes he looked like a proper child, not a forlorn little throw-away.
Naked now, Roy climbed carefully into the claw-footed tub and sat down in the water. Mordred dipped his hand in to test the temperature, then took a handful of the rose-petal soap that
Lian made—that Lian had made every autumn. He worked it to a lather and started on the sticky black strands. He hadn't helped the boy wash since the first day he had come into the household. That, too, had been Lian's responsibility.
He pushed back that thought. He couldn't bear to think of Lian. He couldn't stand the knowledge that she was hundreds of miles away, locked up in a cold state institution in Central. His one consolation was that Bella had assured him, over and over, that the assistant head of the asylum was a good man, and would see to it that she was properly cared for.
"Lean back," he instructed, easing Roy's head into the water to rinse away the soap. When he was finished, he rubbed the boy's hair dry with a towel. "Finish washing, then put on your nightshirt," Mordred said. He got to his feet.
"S-sir?" Roy said as the alchemist put his hand on the door handle. Mordred turned to regard him questioningly. "What's my p-punishment, sir?"
Mordred grunted a little. It was true, the two children had made a terrible mess of themselves, their clothes, and the kitchen, but it was impossible for him to be angry. He hadn't heard Riza laughing so hard in weeks. In months. Since... since Lian went away.
"There'll be no treacle on your bread and milk tomorrow, nor on anyone else's," he said. "A little lesson in cause and effect."
He left the boy alone to ponder that, and then went down to the kitchen. He hesitated a moment before making up his mind, then knelt carefully amid the footprints, dipped his finger into the puddle of treacle, and drew a transmutation circle.
Mordred was just rising again, from a sweetener-free floor, when there came a knock at the door. He deposited the mended treacle pot in the sink, where he would rinse away its spoiled contents later, and moved into the corridor, turning up the gas as he went.
Riza came running down the stairs, setting off the sharp crack of the bad step as she came. "Momma?" she exclaimed as Mordred opened the door. Her face crumpled. "Doctor Bella," she amended, disappointment in her voice.
"Good evening, love," the physician said, smiling kindly. She had rain in her hair and a large basket over her arm. "I meant to drop by earlier, but... well, you know how it is in a busy practice. I hope you haven't eaten supper yet?"
"Uh, no..." Mordred had completely forgotten about supper. He had just assumed the children could find something for themselves: after all, if young Mustang had survived three years eating out of middens and ash buckets, he could surely find something edible in a well-stocked larder.
"Good," the doctor said, closing the door and moving through to the kitchen. "I brought fresh veal sausage, scalloped potatoes, and carrots. I know Riza loves carrots." She smiled at the little girl.
Riza's look of disillusionment turned into a timid smile, and she nodded. "I do," she said. She went to the stairs and shouted up into the twilight, "Roy! Roy the boy! Doctor Bella's here! She's got real food!"
"He's probably still in the bath, chibi-chan," Mordred said. There was a bowl of liquefying bread floating in very strange-looking milk on the table. He took it to the sink and rinsed away its contents.
Roy appeared at the door, a pale, ghostly little figure in his oversized nightshirt. "Good evening, Doctor Bella," he said quietly.
The physician set down her basket and bent to give him a hug. "There's our special boy," she said. "Come and eat while it's still hot, and then we'll have your cake."
Roy looked confused. "Cake?" he asked.
"Yes, that's right," Bella said, lifting various covered dishes from her basket and starting to fill plates for the children. "Today is a special day, you know."
Roy didn't know, and Mordred felt a pang of remorse. He had forgotten it himself. Today was the twelfth of October, and it had completely slipped his mind.
"Well, maybe Riza can guess," the doctor said. "Riza? Do you know what kind of special day Roy would have, with a cake and presents?"
Riza shook her head. "We don't have birthdays here," she said in a sombre stage whisper.
The remorse turned to gut-wrenching guilt. They hadn't celebrated Riza's third birthday: Lian had still been mourning Davell, and it had seemed much, much too soon to celebrate anything.
"Don't be silly, chibi-chan," Mordred said hoarsely. "We're going to start having birthdays again. Roy's is today, and in February we'll celebrate yours."
"Really?" Riza asked.
"Really," Mordred promised.
"Roy is eight years old today," Doctor Bella said. "He's quite the grown-up little gentleman."
Riza giggled. "He's not, he's a boy," she said. "My boy."
Roy didn't seem to know what to do. He looked from one adult to the other, then smiled at Riza. "Maybe we could share my birthday?" he asked. "So Riza can have one, too."
"We can't do that," Bella told him. "But we can all share your cake, and I brought a gift for Riza, too."
"For me?" Riza said, and when the doctor nodded, she laughed. Then she took a spoonful of carrots and chewed them contentedly. "This is a happy day," she announced. "Happy birthday, Roy."
As he watched the now seldom-seen smile on his daughter's face, Mordred reflected sadly how much he had missed the sight of it. He was a strict agnostic, as the times and his science demanded, but had he been a religious man he would have used this moment to offer a prayer of thanks for Isabella Greyson. And the treacle monsters.
