Honeycomb by Joanne Harris (book series for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

93

D

ISHES

A couple were happy in marriage; except for one source of contention. The husband refused to let his wife do any of the housework. Unlike so many men who seemed content to sit down to home-cooked meals and leave all the domestic chores to their wives, this man did the washing-up; and mopped the floors, and cleaned the drains, and even made his own food, for he and his wife had different tastes, and her cooking did not appeal to him.

For a time, his wife believed that this was a proof of his devotion to her, and although she sometimes secretly regretted not being able to sweep her own floor, or tidy her cupboards the way she liked, or even weed her own flower-beds, she accepted her husband’s demands, believing no harm would come of it.

The other women on her street envied her this easy life. “How lucky you are,” they told her, “to have such a caring husband! He treats you like a princess—no, he cherishes you like a Queen!”

But as the years went by, the wife started to doubt her good fortune. Every morning, when she awoke, she would go down to the kitchen to find her husband already there, washing his breakfast dishes. Every night, when she went to bed, she would hear him cleaning the floors.

“Perhaps I could help,” she would suggest, but her husband always refused.

“You do it so badly,” he would say. “Better that I do it myself.”

“Then let me cook you a meal,” she would say. “Is there something you would like?”

“I’m far too busy to sit down and eat,” the husband would reply. “Now be still and stop wasting my time.”

And so the wife would stand and watch her husband doing the housework, feeling a little sad, and more than a little helpless. And as the years went by, she began to understand that his insistence on doing the chores was born not of devotion, but from something altogether different. But the more she offered to share in the work, the more bad-tempered he became, complaining if his wife as much as rinsed a teacup in the sink, or washed a pair of socks in the tub, or put away a shirt in his neatly ordered wardrobe.

Time passed, and the husband’s attention to detail grew ever more particular. He scrubbed the sinks with a toothbrush. He oiled the floorboards every day, and dusted the shelves, and washed the clothes, and polished all the furniture. He dusted every surface, and banished every speck of dust. He watched his wife with an eagle eye, always alert for the moment when she might drop a crumb on the floor, or spill tea on the carpet. He grew ever more impatient if she tried to intervene, or even to clean up after herself. He often complained of her clumsiness and waved aside her offers of help. And still, all the women on the street continued to envy the woman, and to tell her how lucky she was to have such a hardworking husband.

Time passed. The couple grew old. The husband’s ways did not alter. Every time the wife suggested they do something together, the husband would frown and say:

“What time is there for frivolities, when there is work to be done here?”

And so in the spring, when the birds sang, the husband would be scrubbing floors; and when, in autumn, the apples were ripe, he would be sweeping leaves from the porch; and in winter, when the snowdrops grew, he would be shovelling snow from the path, complaining of the work to be done. And as always, the wife stood by and watched, which was all he seemed to want her to do, and stayed out of the way, which was the only way she could please him.

One day, there was a thunderstorm, which tore down the leaves from the neighbouring trees. The husband went out with his sweeping-brush, still angrily complaining. There he was hit by lightning and died. The widow was sincerely heartbroken. But on the day of the funeral, she came home to her empty house and stood in her sunlit kitchen and smiled, and made herself a cup of tea, and started to wash the dishes.

94

T

HE

L

ACEWING

K

ING IN THE

L

ABYRINTH

Meanwhile, in another World, the Watchman and the Clockwork Princess had followed the cloud of fireflies to the heart of the Labyrinth, and there they found the Lacewing King, blind and with a broken heart, in the lanes of Forgotten Things. He was not difficult to find. The Labyrinth, like all dark places, was a haven for insects, and all manner of cockroaches, beetles, and moths had been drawn to his presence. His cloak was made of fireflies; his crown, of living centipedes. His throne was a massive termite hill, sculpted into fantastic shapes to incorporate the Forgotten Things that were piled all around him. In fact, he was as regal as once he had been in the days of his former reign—except that he was dying.

Not all those who seek the labyrinth are glad to be forgotten. Some thrive, away from the eyes of the world; some fade into the darkness. The Lacewing King was one of these. Grief had vanquished him at last, and in the glow of the fireflies, his features were already blurred; his fingers almost translucent as he raised them in the dim green light.

A scarlet crow with a jet-black beak was perched upon his shoulder. It was this bird that gave the alarm as the Watchman and the Princess approached.

“Crawk,” it said, and the Watchman realized that it spoke in a human voice, harsh and oddly contemptuous. “Your Majesty, we have visitors.”

The Lacewing King turned his bandaged face towards the red-and-black bird. “Who?” he said, in a voice that was as faded as the rest of him.

“A clockwork woman,” said the bird. “And an old watchmaker.”

An air of puzzlement came across