"He said you must have suffered on the road. You were already too thin, he said. You needed to eat properly."
I reached out and touched the dried blood crusted on the side of the pot. My face showed nothing. "Was Master making me soup when he died?"
Donna Vittoria's hands trembled. Her voice cracked further.
"Yes. He was watching the pot. He was afraid it would turn bitter if it stewed too long."
"He said you hate anything sour or bitter."
I thought to myself, that foolish old man. He died without ever realizing I'd been lying to him.
I never actually minded sour or bitter things.
I just hated taking medicine.
When Master first found me, I was badly wounded. My health never fully recovered after that, and I needed medicine constantly just to stay alive.
It drove me mad. Every now and then I'd dump the doses in secret.
When Master caught on, he bought sour jujubes to coax me, saying that if I ate one first, the medicine wouldn't taste so bitter.
I didn't want to cooperate, so I told him offhandedly that I didn't like anything sour or bitter.