He was seated on the floor, arms crossed over his knees, waiting. He didn't want to go out.
"Young Master," the cook, a middle-aged woman, said. "You know you can't stay here. The lady will get mad at me if she finds you hanging around in the kitchens again. How about you go to your room?"
He nodded, but he didn't want to go to his room. His room was cold, bare, and lonely. At least in the kitchen, there were people, noises and even nice smells. He'd be given a bit of warm bread sometimes, and the young maids were all nice to him. He could see the pity in their eyes, but pity was better than hatred...
He stood up, and dusted off his pants. Anything showed on black velvet, which was annoying. He hoped not to be caught until he'd get to his room, anyway. The cook lady walked up to him,
