Beastkeeper by Cat Hellisen

oho.
    *   *   *
    The rain was a steady downpour by the time Sarah reached the castle. She raced across the clearing, hopping over the clumps of tangled blackjack weeds and wiry grass. Even though the rain pelted down, at least it was warmer here. Sarah ran under the stone archway and stopped before the great wooden door, her hair dark and dripping. The door was locked against her, or it was too heavy for her to budge.
    She settled on rapping her knuckles against the black wood, so hard that the bones felt shattered under her skin.
    Finally the doors groaned and swung outward, so that Sarah had to jump back a little. Nanna stood on the other side, stern-faced and gray like a standing stone. But also dry.
    â€œUm, I was exploring,” Sarah said, even though Nanna hadn’t asked. “And I got a little lost.”
    â€œHmph,” said Nanna, but she stepped aside. “Come in out of the wet, fool girl. You’ve missed breakfast,” she added as the doors closed behind Sarah, through their own power, it seemed.
    Magic.
    â€œSorry,” Sarah mumbled. She shivered in her damp clothes.
    Her grandmother snorted and snapped her fingers in impatience.
    Heat flickered over Sarah’s skin, snake-fast, and as soon as it was gone, Sarah’s clothes were dry. Bone dry, and her hair, which had been hanging in dripping tails, was warm and soft.
    Magic.
    There was no way she could carry on denying it. And if it was all true, then the raven wasn’t lying either. Cursed. She thought of the beast outside in the shed, and how the water must be pouring through the holes in the roof, how the beast—how Grandfather—would be lying in mud, would be cold and damp and with no chance of respite. “Um,” Sarah said again.
    Her grandmother was striding along the corridors and hallways, and down a flight of unlit stairs. The castle was already a gloomy place, but with the storm growling and spitting overhead, it was even darker and gloomier. Sarah hurried to catch up.
    They came to a vast underground kitchen. Here, at least, were warmth and lanterns and huge iron ranges with pots of gleaming copper. A spoon swirled lazily by itself in one bubbling stewpot, and the aroma of beef and vegetables and garlic hung heavy. Nanna pointed to a covered plate on the huge kitchen table. “Your eggs will be cold, but that’s hardly my problem. Sit. Eat.”
    Nanna was right, the eggs were cold, and so were the bacon and the toast, but they were still there. Another snap of her fingers, and steam rose from the plate. “And that’s more than you deserve,” she said. “Now. What is it you wanted?”
    At least Nanna hadn’t decided to start starving her, Sarah mused. The way things had been going for her, that was almost a relief. “It’s about Grandfather,” Sarah said, and then quickly took a bite of toast to give herself something to do. And because she was hungry. It turned out that fighting your way through a snowy forest before breakfast did severe things to the appetite.
    â€œWhat about him?” Nanna asked flatly. She’d crossed her arms and was staring narrowly at Sarah. Behind her the pots bubbled to themselves, the spoons stirred, the smells wafted.
    Sarah swallowed her toast. “Well … it’s … he’s probably cold and wet where he is now, right?”
    â€œAnd what would you have me do—bring him in here to keep him dry?” Nanna sniffed. “I think not. He’s a beast now, and that’s all there is to it. Beasts have hungers. They can’t be trusted.”
    â€œAnd beastkeepers?” asked Sarah.
    Nanna said nothing. Instead she looked at the table very hard, as if by staring at it long enough she could turn it into something else, or make it prance about on its four legs. Possibly she could. “Eat your food,” she said finally. “There are chores that need doing.”
    Sarah