Chapter 5 The Imperial is now banished to the corner of Blair's room. Generously supplied with three feet of floor to stand on, Lenny leans against the wall, glowering at his assignment over the barricade of furniture she has stacked around him. A desk teeters beneath the weight of a massive chest, while a dresser slumps against a vanity piled high with books. All it took was a thought, it seems, and the very room obeyed this Tele's command to compile a cage. Death quite likes the dramatics of it all. Amid her obligation to deliver souls to the Mors (the joys of an eternal occupation), Mara has spent much of her time stalking this pair of begrudging souls. While it was the king who initially coaxed her from the Mors, these two bickering beings have managed to make Ilya all the more tolerable. Death circles the room, cloak slithering along the floorboards while a smile threatens her lips. They are doomed for each other. "This is how you thank me after guarding your door all day?" For the dozenth time, Lenny attempts to capture the attention of a lounging Blair. Propped on an elbow and perfectly unbothered, she flips the page of her book atop the only piece of furniture not currently crowding her prisoner. The sprawling bed is draped with a plum quilt and littered with pillows (they are rather soft-Death checked). So, it is understandable why Blair has yet to move from its plush embrace since Lenny escorted her here this morning. Mara, however, cannot afford to rest-though it isn't required of the dead anyway. Juggling her curiosity between three living souls, along with the collection of countless deceased ones, is undoubtedly demanding. She left the conflicted humans to bicker in the training yard (see, Death can occasionally respect one's privacy) to, at last, make the king's acquaintance. She has not stopped thinking about their conversation since, nor the way his green gaze crinkles with sincerity-but Mara would never admit such nonsense. The king is clearly a hopeful fool-dangerously so-who took a dose of this Plague he does not understand. There is no such thing as a perfected portion of raw power. Nothing so formidable can be controlled. Death knows this firsthand. He will die. And Death will deliver his soul to the Mors. Decidedly, she thinks no more on any of this. Not on the king's futile determination to live or the difficulty with which Mara remembered her name. It has been a lifetime since she needed to utter such intimacy. But Death did so as a parting gift to the king. He will not be around much longer to utter it-but Mara will be there the last time he does. She wishes to witness his final breath and every one between. Regrettably, her intrigue for the young man has only grown. Perhaps Death will call Ilya home again, while she observes these three souls, if only for a little while. "All right, that's it." Lenny shoves off the wall, steps forward, and fills the final foot of space he has. "I'm going through your stuff." It's an enticing endeavor that draws Mara closer. She leans over the barricade, watching the Imperial pull open a desk drawer and peer down at the cluttered mess inside. Death inches near the Hyper (she still has yet to discern what that pinch of power entails) with a buzzing sort of hesitancy. He has failed to notice her presence once more, so Mara simultaneously awaits and opposes the prospect of stealing his attention. "Okay, well, clearly organization isn't your thing," Lenny mumbles. "Nor is kindness. Or refraining from taking prisoners." He digs through the mess of miscellaneous writing utensils and scraps of paper until- "Hey, I didn't think you owned anything fun," he huffs in disbelief before pulling a purple ball from the drawer. He bounces it on the little floor before him, watching it obediently return to his hand. "This elicits too much joy-it couldn't possibly be yours. Did your last prisoner put it here?" Death may actually find this Imperial to be funny. Another bounce of his new toy. "Plagues, you do like purple, don't you-?" This time, the ball comes flying toward his face. Lenny curses when it collides with his nose. Then it promptly flees his presence, having been summoned into Blair's awaiting palm. She looks up with a slight pout, a sheet of lilac hair slipping over her shoulder. "Keep talking, gingersnap. Your corner will only get smaller." (Death cannot decide whether she admires or animatedly dislikes this woman. Though, this is a common predicament when it comes to humans.) Furniture scrapes against the wooden floor when Blair inches it toward the Imperial with her mind. Death leans over the tightening barricade to note that the satchel at his feet now occupies half the remaining standing space. Lenny simply tips his head against the wall in defeat. "I only came in here to discuss our sleeping arrangements and you-" "Provided a solution," Blair finishes smugly. "You may sleep there." Mara might feel bad for the Imperial. He laughs helplessly. "Sleep here? In the three-I'm sorry-now two and a half feet of floor?" The Tele snaps her book shut. It seems she finds another's distress to be bothersome. Death knows the feeling. "You could always go sleep in your own room, Imperial. I'm not keeping you here." He gestures to the precarious barrier. "You kind of are." "Don't try to be smart, gingersnap," Blair huffs. "You're not capable of it." Sighing, Lenny braces his arms against the dresser. Death does the same. The action feels quite human, and yet, she doesn't wish to rearrange her limbs. "Look," the Imperial grumbles, "we have been over this. The king ordered me to guard you at all times, so that includes sleeping in this room with you. I would much rather be in the Imperials' quarters." For good measure, he emphasizes with an earnest "Trust me." But it is too late. Blair is already blissfully ignoring him once again. Yes, never a dull moment with these two. Mumbling curses at her, Lenny begins rifling through that desk drawer once again. A crinkled piece of parchment and broken charcoal are quickly scavenged from the clutter and set atop the dresser. Mara moves aside, adjusting her stance. The Imperial pays her no attention. (This disappoints her. She's not entirely sure why.) Lenny scribbles a hasty message onto the yellowed paper before folding it into a crude sort of glider. Death considers his creation with a healthy skepticism. Then, shutting one eye, he aims for Blair's face before letting the note fly. She practically growls when the paper's folded point sails into her forehead. "Would you like to be buried beneath the pile of furniture?" "At least read the note first," Lenny says, offended. Death strides over to the bed, hovering behind Blair's shoulder as she unfurls the parchment with a huff. Free me My feet are going numb I'll bring back sticky buns, you Tele tyrant An interesting tactic, Mara thinks. Blair simply stares at the note, unimpressed. "This was your big offer?" "Sticky buns are in high demand." "Well, they shouldn't be." The Tele Tyrant crumbles the paper in her hand. "They are mediocre, at best." "I'm sorry?" Lenny scoffs in disbelief. "Mediocre? There really is no joy in your heart, is there?" He poses a good question. Death looks to Blair, awaiting her answer. "Fine." The furniture shifts, scraping against the floor in retreat. A clear pathway from the crowded corner presents itself, though Mara and the Imperial find her sudden compliance surprising. "Fine, what? You're letting me go?" Lenny pries skeptically. The Tele turns up her nose at him. "Go find me sticky buns that aren't mediocre." "Oh, Gail's are anything but." "I'll be the judge of that." Blair grins, displaying sharp canines. "Now shoo." They spar, verbally, for a bit longer before Lenny finally slips from the room, locking the door behind. Death follows, her boredom a compass that points to this being an entertaining experience. The halls are crowded with scurrying servants and lined with an abundance of starchy Imperials. Lenny straightens, ever so slightly, in their presence. It seems to Mara that he quite likes his position here in the palace, perhaps because it makes him feel powerful. And strength is precisely what Blair insinuated he lacked. Of course, this is just an observation on Death's part. Though, she prides herself on rarely being wrong. You can conceal nothing when dead, and the mother of such a state has grown rather good at seeing through the living. Mara realizes, upon stepping into the stuffy kitchen, she could do with never revisiting. It is crowded and hot and if she weren't already very much dead, it might feel as though she were dying. Everything is sticky-the air included. Death does not do sticky. Lenny's visit with Gail is blessedly brief, though she is hesitant to hand over a pair of coveted sticky buns. But upon hearing of Blair Archer's (some dubious snooping yielded her full name) demand, the cook huffs out a laugh that has pink blossoming beneath her flour-stained cheeks. "Oh, she won't like these, honey," Gail informs. "Somethin' about my pairing of spices." This doesn't seem to mean much to Lenny-he is a man, after all. They tend to lack the blissful gift of pondering for mere sport. But Death, a woman who yearns to find meaning in everything, wonders what connection the Tele has to this cook. Mercifully, a swarm of servants shoves Lenny out into the hall, his palms occupied with glistening dough. The trek back to his cage is blamelessly begrudging. Falling behind the Imperial's stiff strides, Death stares at the starry sky blanketing Ilya beyond the wall of windows that adorns each hallway. Her first day back in this kingdom is coming to a close. Mara, tapping her foot before the locked door they have returned to, watches her escort fumble hopelessly for the key within one of his many uniform pockets. Fortunately for Lenny, he pulls the sculpted iron from its starchy confines before Death's eye can start twitching. Nothing good ever follows a physical sign of her agitation. "Okay, I'm gonna watch you eat this, because there is no way you taste something this delicious and still manage to scowl at me-" The Imperial steps into the room, only to stare blankly at the empty bed. Hmm. Death folds her arms. This is certainly an unexpected development. Lenny's eyes dart frantically around the space, finding every piece of furniture back in its rightful place. Chest, dresser, desk, vanity-now hugging their respective walls. The stone fireplace sits opposite the rumpled bed, framed with two draping tapestries. "Blair?" the Imperial calls futilely. He is met with no condescending response. The Tele is gone. Death's placidity, too, has vanished. She smiles. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...