The Knight Under My Kitchen Table

How it begins

Iris Venn found the knight under her kitchen table, trying to lift a potato.

He wore armor finer than the inn's entire roof and stood no taller than a wine bottle. His sword lay beside him, uselessly caught beneath a chair leg. When Iris crouched, he saluted with the hand not occupied by the potato.

'Please don't scream.'

'It's my kitchen. People scream on the landing.'

She set a teacup of water before him. He drank with both hands, shaking. Iris knew the difference between someone hungry and someone performing distress for a free meal. This man was trying to maintain a courtly expression while looking as though the floor might swallow him.

'Daniel Saye,' he said.

The name belonged to last week's victory parade. Iris had watched from her window, unimpressed by the horses and impressed by the amount of mud people considered someone else's responsibility. Sir Daniel had ridden at the front, carrying a silver standard.

'Congratulations on winning.'

His face closed. 'Yes.'

She cut the potato into manageable pieces. 'What did you win?'

'A border fortress.'

'And lose?'

He looked at the teacup. The kitchen settled around them: stove ticking, bread cooling, guests arguing over a bill beyond the door. Ordinary size suddenly seemed like a privilege nobody had explained.

'I thought the fortress was empty,' he said.

Iris put down the knife.

A trumpet sounded in the square. Someone was announcing a reward for the recovery of the king's missing champion. Daniel stepped behind the cup. His shadow, still full-sized, stretched across the kitchen floor and reached for a sword he could no longer hold.

'You can stay until you've eaten,' Iris said.

He looked up. 'And after that?'

'After that, we'll discuss what help you need. Staying small is not the same thing as being safe.'