The kitchen’s dull iron door stood ajar when Andrew approached. Through the gap, he could hear Bartholomeu’s hissing coming from instead. Andrew paused by the door to listen. The hissing was sharp, displeased. He hadn’t heard the lizard homunculus in such a foul mood before. Usually, whatever happened in their castle, the cook is the least affected of them all. But now, it didn't seem that was the case.

Andrew didn't have time to speculate about the cause. The sun was already going down. So he nudged open the door and peaked in.

Bartholomeu was hunched over the stove. He whipped around at the sound of the door, ladle still in hand. “Who iss that?”

Andrew opened the door wider. “Me,” he said. “Just me.”

Anger ran away from Bartholomeu’s face. “Ah,” he said with a smile that’s more of a grimace. “Jussst our little massster.” Moving deliberately, as if to not frighten Andrew, Bartholomeu slunk off the chair he was sitting on. He still had the ladle in hand, which dripped porridge across the floor as the lizard man came close. “What does the little massster want with his humble cook?”

Andrew swallowed the discomfort crawling down his back. The lizard man was stooped low, his back arched like a cat’s. But there was power in the homunculus's thin limbs, strength to his sharp jawline. And hidden beneath those green scales, rows of rippling muscles. Andrew had seen them work before. He knew the lizard man was more than capable to tear apart a dead pig with nothing but his claws.

He turned to the table. “I’m looking for food,” he said, trying not to look at Bartholomeu. “Nothing hefty. A loaf of bread or a bit of cheese will do. And a bottle of fresh water, too.”

Bartholomeu stayed still. Only his tongue gave away the life inside him. It flicked out between the lizard man’s lips before disappearing just as quickly. Finally, he said, “If I may be so bold to ssspeak, why does the little master wish to procure these goods?”

“To make an offering,” Andrew replied with the lie he’d already come up with. “No doubt you’re aware of the series of failures the Doctor had been experiencing with his work?”

“And you wish to procure from the godsss favor for his next one?”

“Not from the gods,” Andrew said. “From the girl who died.”

That clearly wasn’t the response Bartholomeu anticipated. The lizard man’s tongue darted out and in again. Out and in.

“The dead do not eat.”

“But their spirits might want to pretend.” Andrew’s gaze was on the ladle in Bartholomeu's claws. It went round and round between those curved talons. He wondered if the cook ever had trouble holding knives.

“Anyway, I think the reason we’ve been failing is that the spirits of our past failures are corrupting the transmutations somehow.” Andrew shrugged, and moved his head up so he was now looking at Bartholomeu's scaly shoulder. “It’s worth a try, don't you think so?”

He needed to make eye contact to sell the lie, he knew, but the image of those reptilian orbs was enough to make his legs waver.

A high-pitched hissing came through the kitchen. Andrew nearly lost his wits then, before realizing with relief that the sound wasn’t coming from Bartholomeu but the pot he was watching. Bartholomeu stooped away to tend to the hissing pot. Andrew watched, sweat tickling down his armpits as the lizard man lifted the lid off the pot and started stirring.

Andrew finally felt like he could breathe. He relaxed and let his eyes wander over the tables and counters. He soon spotted the breadbasket sitting against the far wall, a thin cloth the only thing hiding its bulbous contents.

He didn’t want to take and run, but Andrew geared himself up for it. He'd do it if needed. He had to get food and water today. Any longer and he'd be taking a great risk.

I could get away with taking just one, he thinks as he tries to discern where the loaves of bread were underneath the cloth. But what about water?

Andrew inched towards the sink. He could just get an empty bottle and fill it later somehow. Yes, that seemed like a plan. He inched closer.

The delicious smell hit him. His mind blanked. He stopped whatever he was doing and just stood there, breathing in the scent of Bartholomeu's mushroom and onion stew.

“I have a quessstion.”

Andrew swallowed the water inside his own mouth and said, “Yes?”

From the stove, Bartholomeu swiveled around. The lizard man's eyes churned like the stew he was cooking.

“Does the little massster believe we have soulsss?”

"We?" Andrew feigned innocence. “Who are you talking about?” He didn’t want to try and answer this question. Not now. Not with a homunculus.

Bartholomeu grimaced-smiled. “Do you think homunculusss have soulsss?" he asked. "Do you think I might have one?”

“All living beings have souls,” Andrew said, deciding on a neutral statement. “That was what the Doctor told me.”

Bartholomeu didn't acknowledge what Andrew said. He kept staring, as if waiting for a better answer.

Andrew swallowed. "Y-you know what? I think I'm not hungry after all." He turned for the door. The table with the breadbasket was to his right. If he just walked in a straight line he'd pass it. And when he does...

"Wait."

Andrew stood up straight. His heart leaped into his mouth.

He forced himself to turn around.

Bartholomeu was standing over him, a steaming bowl of soup held out in one claw. “The Doctor is right,” he said, the tip of his forked tongue flicking out at Andrew. “But I do not think that isss what you think.”

Andrew stared at the bowl, lost for words. He reached out and closed his hands around the bowl. It was warm, its contents smelling delectable. Then, finding his voice finally, he looked up at Bartholomeu and said, “I’m going to need a bottle of water too, please.”

The sky was dark when Andrew left the castle. Using the moonlight as guidance, he trekked south, down the forest paths towards the beach. It was the same path he used to get off the island so he knew it well, but he walked slowly so the soup didn't spill. He couldn't waste a single drop, because this was all he had.

He felt the coastal breeze long before the woods gave way to sand. Cool fingers played at his hair and graced along his bare arms and legs. He breathed in and out, tasting the sea salt as it mingled with the aroma of the soup.

His stomach growled.

The ocean was a ribbon of twinkling stars. It ran along the edge of the beach, bringing soothing noises into Andrew’s ears as he walked along it. His shoes made squeaking noises and for a long while, that was the only sound he could hear. Andrew counted them silently. When he reached fifty, he stopped and turned suddenly, fast enough to jostle the soup in his hands.

No one was behind him. And no footsteps trailed after his.

Andrew transferred the bowl to one hand. With the other, he set down the lantern that had been hanging in the nook of his elbow. Using his freed hand, he lit the lantern.

Orange light spilled across the sand. Andrew stood, holding both soup and lantern, and carried on until he reached the end of the beach. Here, sand was devoured by black stone that didn’t seem to take the light. Andrew tread even more carefully, balancing on the ground as it steadily became more treacherous. Small rocks gave way to larger ones, which grew spikes and edges. Then, just when Andrew’s legs could not keep him erect without the use of extra support, the stones leveled into the entrance of a cave.

He stood at the cavern mouth. It was blocked by a row of wooden planks, and these he pried loose and set aside, making as little noise as possible. He then lifted his lantern up to the cave and peered inward.

Light played shadows along the wet walls, but deeper inside the cave there was only darkness. Andrew glanced behind him, waiting long enough to hear the wind howl, then stepped out from the cold and into the freezing depths of the cave.

“Sorry I was so late,” he said, his voice too loud in the silence. “I brought you food, Victoria.”