The Real Boy Read Online Free Page B

eyebrows.
    “Look me in the eye, boy,” Madame Mariel snapped.
    Oscar flinched. Her words echoed in his mind, multiplied like shadows. The shadows stretched back through the years, took on the color of an old bruise. Bodiless hands grabbed his chin and forced it up: Look me in the eye, boy.
    Oscar swallowed and looked down at the counter.
    Madame Mariel let out a Wolflike laugh. “If Caleb is such a master magician, why didn’t he get a normal boy for his hand?”
    Callie was still standing in the corner, arms folded, watching Madame Mariel. Her gaze shifted to Oscar, and she rolled her eyes.
    Flushing, Oscar looked quickly back at the healer, who seemed to have grown several inches in the last minute. He was not doing this right. What was it Wolf said to customers when he was working the shop and pretending to be a mere pup?
    “What . . . what do you want?”
    No, that wasn’t it.
    “I need Caleb,” said the healer.
    “He’s not here,” Oscar said.
    “But I need him,” she said.
    “But he’s not here,” Oscar repeated.
    “But I need him.”
    “But . . . he’s not here.” Oscar frowned. This seemed like it could go on for some time.
    “You—” The healer raised her hand.
    “Madame,” Callie said suddenly. “Do we need more rue?”
    The healer turned. “Of course we don’t. We have rue coming out of our nostrils. What’s wrong with you?”
    There was a flash of something on the girl’s face, but before Oscar could identify it, it was gone, and she simply shrugged and tightened her cloak around her shoulders.
    Madame Mariel turned back to Oscar, and Oscar’s gaze darted away. “Would you tell Caleb to come see me as soon as he gets back?” the healer said, each word a sigh. “And really, little hand, if you’re going to be out with the people, you should go to Master Julian’s and have him do something with your hair. He is quite gifted, and I think even that”—she pointed to Oscar’s thicket of black hair—“is within his power to control.”
    Oscar opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
    Madame Mariel plucked two packets of chamomile from their places on the shelves and slid four gold coins across the counter at Oscar. On the way out, Callie looked back at him, eyes wide, eyebrows up. Her cheeks puffed out and she blew air from them. This apparently meant something, too.
    Oscar missed the cats.
    He squeezed his eyes shut. One customer was plenty; Wolf could come back now, and then Oscar could dive back into his pantry and never come out.
    The shop door opened again, and it was not Wolf, but rather Master Julian himself, followed soon after by two villagers Oscar did not recognize. Three customers at once—it felt like the shop was being invaded. The villagers bowed their heads slightly at Master Julian and stepped back. The magic smiths wore cloak pins with trees on them (courtesy of Mistress Alma, the silversmith), but no one from the Barrow villages needed a pin to identify them. Even the small children of the Barrow could recite all thirty names like a song— Madame Alexandra, tanner; Madame Aphra, cloth maker; Master Barnabus, butcher; all the way down to Master Thomas, blacksmith —and would whisper and point whenever one was near.
    The customers poked around the shop—Master Julian in front of the tinctures, the villagers by the small wooden charms Caleb carved. Some invisible nagging presence was poking Oscar in the side, tugging at his sleeve, telling him he should be doing something now.
    But he had no idea what that might be.
    After a few minutes, Master Julian approached the counter.
    Look him in the eye, Oscar told himself. He lifted his gaze up to Master Julian’s face, and then suddenly his whole body rebelled. His eyes snapped away, his heart pounded, his throat went dry. He gripped the counter harder.
    Master Julian cleared his throat. “Are you Caleb today?” he asked.
    “What?” Oscar started. “No! I’m Oscar!”
    “Now, now,” Master Julian said,