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?"
The Matron'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. A two-year-old pup, half-shifted and covered in wounds that smelled of something ancient. My health never fully recovered after that, and I needed wolfsbane tonics 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.
Even though I could never win against Master's relentless coaxing, I still obediently took my medicine for six years. But he kept those words of mine close to his heart.