"Escuse me?" I ask, with a fairly even amount of shock and uncertainty showing on my face. I regard the young boy named Tarragon - cloak, feathered crown and all - whom sits in front of me. His grin is wide and his green-blue eyes sparkle. His white-blond hair creeps out of his curious head-wear, and his dirty complexion, which would likely be much lighter if cleaned.

"I said I want to borrow a book, and also borrow you," he repeats, leaning forward in an act to stake a trade. I scratch my head, then squint, as if doing so would make the situation more clear somehow. If you are wondering, it does not.

"What do you mean by borrowing me? What would you need to borrow a person for?" I ask, and he replies with another childish laugh.

"Don't be ridiculous! It would be useless if I came and just borrowed a book! Dearie me, for how foolish would I be?"

He sings the last bit as a little rhyme, and I can't help but feel that the lad is a little otherworldly. A strange feathered prince from another world; it is a laughable notion, but an entertaining one. I look around myself. It is well and dark now, and past supper at that. I will have to deal with cleaning the library in the morning.

I look to Tarragon. "Shall we discuss this later?" I ask.

At this comment he stands abruptly and glares with fiery eyes. "No way! You haven't agreed yet!"

I pat the boy on the shoulder, though I can't be sure whether he regards my gesture as a threat or a comfort. He doesn't seem to know it either, I would guess.

"Would you fancy staying here tonight, Tarragon? Then you can convince me tomorrow?" I ask, though when I look in his eyes I feel rather like I'm getting lost in them. I distract myself by looking to his dusty forehead instead. I have mentioned before that I have no untidy habits, so it felt only natural as I reach out and wipe off the dirt. While it takes a second for me to realize how incredibly rude I am being, it doesn't seem like he minds at all. I clear my throat.

"There's trout and potato stew for supper." I add.

I watch with interest as his once indignant eyes grow twice their size, and an ample amount of drool rims the corners of his mouth. "Will there be... biscuits?" He asks.

"Biscuits are my specialty." I say.

I feel a bit of pity for the boy, as he makes a face that hints of this meal being the first he will have had in a while. I look down at his clothes, and they look quite ragged, so I add again, "And you may have a warm bath before bed if you like?"

He quietly nods, then says in a more arrogant tone, "Alright. Your offer is tempting, so I'll agree to stay. When is supper then?"

I smile and take the lead up the stairs. "It's warming on the stove at this very moment."

I lead Tarragon to the parlour and offer him a seat, to which he accepts enthusiastically. I then fetch two bowls from the cupboard, fill them with a generous helping of stew, and carry them to the table along with two spoons and a basket of biscuits (though I admit that it was a slight challenge).

"One serving of stew and biscuits for you, mister Tarragon." I say.

He looks down at it rather hesitantly. "Will I get anymore after this?" he asks.

"Well, there is a whole pot left, and plenty of biscuits, so yes, you can have as much as wish after you finish." I answer.

Upon hearing this, the lad grabs a handful of biscuits and begins dunking them in the broth and stuffing them into his mouth. He then starts fishing out pieces of potato and trout with his hands, and spraying an unsettling amount of food debris across the table in a failure to chew properly. As I try to protect my own bowl, I wonder what the point would be in eating such a way, if half the food doesn't even make it into your stomach. Forget calling him a wild animal; I doubt that even a starved wildcat could eat as ferociously as him.

He finishes off by scraping the last bit out with a chunk of biscuit, and eating it as if it were his very first bite. He pushes his empty bowl forward.

"Next!" He gasps, slightly breathless.

I stare at the bowl, then switch it with my own, and bring the empty one with me to the kitchen as I go to replenish the biscuit basket. I look behind myself, and the corners of my mouth curl down at the violent scene. I think I shall wait until later to eat, I'm not all that hungry at the moment.

Two dozen biscuits and five bowls of stew later, and I feel that I have had two disasters rage my house in one day. The parlour will not wait until morning for mending.

I take a wet cloth and a dirty bowl (the bowl is for all the food that did not make it into his mouth; I shall later use for compost, I suppose) and begin cleaning the mess that surrounds Tarragon.

"What are you doing?" He asks.

I answer, with the smallest temper, "I prefer not to live in a pigsty."

I think, probably, that if all children were as unruly as this Tarragon, then no one would bother having them. I have never in my life witnessed one person make such large mess in such a short time. Goodness! I'm less than half done and the bowl of scraps is already full!

I place it on the table and fetch another from the kitchen. Next I will take on the floor.

"I can't take my bath now," Tarragon tells me, "since I am too full and too warm."

I suppress the incredible amount of frustration that I feel with a heavy sigh, and get up to clean out the cloth in the sink. "Either way, you'll have to have a bath before you go to sleep. I won't allow you to take even one step under the covers otherwise. Not even if you sleep on the couch. Not even if you sleep on the floor."

"You're going to make me sleep on the floor?" He exclaims indignantly, with chunks of potato spewing from his mouth.

"No, of course I'm not, I..." Wait, where did he get the potatoes from? I sit up and look over the table, only to see him eating from the bowl of scraps I had just collected. "Don't eat that!" I yell, grabbing the bowl from him. He looks at me blankly.

"Why not?"

"Because it's dirty! These are scraps!"

Tarragon merely shrugs. "Tastes fine to me."

I mean to say something else, but I can't seem to find the words for it. I stand there for a while, just staring, until finally I leave to put the bowl in the kitchen. Really, how has this boy lived? He has no manners at all. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I haven't considered that he may have a family of some sort, though I have to admit the idea feels very unlikely. I go back to the parlour, to see Tarragon inspecting the other bowl on the floor.

"Don't touch that!" I yell, and quickly take it from him.

Tarragon rolls his eyes. "Relax, I wasn't going to eat those; I was just imagining it."

The oddities that I have seen from this boy seem to have no end. If it weren't for my house's history, I would be convinced that Tarragon was a sort of fairy-folk.

"Tarragon," I begin.

"Yeah?"

"Do you have... some sort of... guardian that should be taking care of you?"

I try to judge his eyes, but they are impossible to decipher. He finally answers.

"Yeah, sure I do," he says, nonchalantly.

I blink a few times. "You do? Who are they? Did you come here with them?"

Tarragon taps his finger to his chin, and I get the vague impression that he is messing with me.

"Celery Stem," he says.

"... Excuse me?"

"Mister Celery Stem is my guardian. My guardian spirit to be exact. He's tall and green, with a big old leafy head. He also enjoys knock-knock jokes." At this, Tarragon gives me a wide mischievous grin.

I am not all that accustomed to children, as I've said before, and nor am I particularly a man of humour. I give up on finding information, and move on to the next challenge instead.

"I'll run you a bath."

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