Page 76 of Bewitched By the Djinn
What is going on?
I glance up from the vision to the real Helen. Her face is flushed, her jaw clenched, her eyes flashing with anger.
The image ripples. The view shifts, weaving over the crowd, moving to the fringes of the room and coming to a halt over a servant, red-faced and hauling trays of empty dishes.
The servant hurries out of the great hall and through a maze of narrow passageways and into a giant, bustling kitchen.
Dozens of servants weave around one another in a choreographed frenzy, carrying baskets of herbs, trays of raw meat, and gleaming platters.
Steam hisses from an enormous oven. Is it magic? The burners flare hotter at a snap from a cook and a pot of soup stirs itself lazily near the back, the ladle rotating in slow, deliberate circles under a soft magical glow.
In the opposite corner, scullery maids scrub dishes with rags that dance and wring themselves out.
A harried steward passes into view, holding a list longer than his arm, muttering too low to make out. He’s reed thin, balding, and dressed fully in black.
Bennet’s head snaps up to stare at Helen.
Without removing her gaze from the vision, she nods.
Bennet looks back down at the image.
The steward grabs a rolling cart ladened with food trays from one of the maids and exits the chaos of the kitchen through another side hall.
We follow, the vision hovering over the bald spot on his head as he moves down the hall, unloading trays as he goes by sliding them into slots in the wall, ringing a bell, and waiting as they lift somewhere out of sight.
Medieval room service?
Finally, there is just one tray left on the bottom of the cart with a small cup of water, a hunk of cheese and bread.
He picks the tray up, leaves the cart behind and carries it through a door, then along more winding corridors, and finally down a narrow flight of stone stairs. Damp stone walls flicker into view.
A heavy iron door creaks open. Inside, chained to the far wall, is a man in a rumpled white tunic. His dark hair is disheveled. His face bruised, but he looks vaguely familiar.
Bennet sucks in breath through his teeth.
The prisoner’s voice is hoarse but furious. “Tell your master I’ll see him burn for this.”
The steward shoves the tray through a slot in the bars and leaves without a word.
The vision pulses again, and we’re back in the great hall.
Lord Wallace leans toward the fake Helen, smiling as they prepare for the toast.
Recognition slaps me in the face. The man in the dungeon is Lord Wallace. Who is this guy then? What the hell?
The projection shatters.
A violent burst of wind slams through the garden, sending the crystals skittering across the stone. The smoking herbs snuff out in an instant.
The garden is dead silent. Smoke curls from the remains of the rock.
Helen’s fingers dig into Delores’s arm as she straightens, her face pale. “Sorry about the dramatics, my magic dried up.”
Bennet curses, pushing himself up. “Tell me that wasn’t what it looked like.”
“It was exactly what it looked like.”
“So what does that mean? You two have twins you didn’t tell me about?” I guess I make terrible jokes when I’m confused and terrified.
