Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,20

moments she simply sat there looking at the jar, one hand tracing the grain pattern in the tabletop. Then, suddenly, she reached inside the front of her new gown. Her fingers found a delicate gold chain, and she pulled the oval locket out into view.

She hesitated. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. It felt . . . invasive somehow. If the message inside and the fair hair plaited with the black had indeed been given by Mage Silveri to this mystery lady, did she really have a right to take it? And to use it for her intended purpose?

“It doesn’t matter,” Nelle whispered. “You can’t go wasting opportunities. You’ve only got two doses left. You have to keep it on you so when the next chance comes . . .”

She flicked open the locket. She had already taken time to carefully remove the plaited hair, leaving it behind in the lady’s vanity drawer. Now, using the tip of her finger, she scooped out the last two doses of Sweet Dreams and smeared them into the locket frames. It was a bit messy but just about a perfect fit.

Snapping the locket shut, Nelle dropped the necklace back down beneath the neckline of her gown. It rested cold against her heart. She pressed a hand against her chest, pushing the locket into her skin, trying to warm it quickly. But the chill wouldn’t go away.

Maybe she wouldn’t have to use it. Maybe she would find some other means of getting the Rose Book to Gaspard. Maybe . . .

“Maybe you’re a fool,” she growled, then quickly lidded the empty jar and returned it to the shelf among the other supplies.

Thunder rolled ominously overhead, but the worst of the storm seemed to have passed. Rain came down in a steady rhythm, beating against the shutters. Runnels of water ran down cracks in the wall and pooled in patches on the floor, but Nelle decided to deal with those tomorrow.

For now, she set about removing the purple gown and draping it carefully over the back of a chair. Then, wrapping herself in the thin blanket, she crept into her alcove bed and her pile of fur rugs. The wyvern scuttled down a support beam and waddled up to her. Resting its head on the rugs, it gazed up at her with burbling entreaty.

“Not a chance,” Nelle growled, pulling the corner of her blanket out from under its chin, then curled up, her back turned to the wyvern and the fire, and studied the pattern of shadowed grooves and divots in the stone wall inches from her face.

Her mouth moved, silently forming words she dared not utter out loud: “Something there . . .”

Of course, it didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t as though she could really expect to hone whatever potential she possessed into anything like real magic. She was a snatcher. She’d never be anything but a snatcher, no matter how hard she wished or strived.

Rolling over, she buried her head in the fur rugs and tried to will herself to sleep. The fire died down; the room darkened. The rain continued its steady beat, and the many drips within the chamber itself made a sort of chorus in the stillness. Something warm, scaly, and burbly crawled up on her bed, coiled into the curve behind her legs, and snored.

And still she lay there.

She thought of Silveri, high above in his tower chamber. Bowed over his desk, he guarded her sleep from the Thorn Maiden by reaffirming his slowly disintegrating binding spell,.

Nelle tucked in tighter, careful not to disturb the wyvern, which twitched and flapped a membranous wing.

Then, suddenly, she threw back her blanket and sat up. The wyvern rolled onto its belly, claws up, spine unnaturally twisted, and continued to snore. But Nelle stared out from her alcove, across the darkened room. Only the faintest red glow illuminated the hearth, but a thin sliver of moonlight poured through one of the high windows.

Moonlight? Strange. When had the storm passed and the moon come out?

She slid out of the alcove and slowly crossed the room; she knew the layout of the space well enough to navigate in the darkness. Her bare feet made no sound as she carefully placed one before the other, creeping to the door. Brilliant moonlight shimmered through the cracks in the panels, and not far away she heard the ocean’s murmur.

She walked right up to the door. Hesitated. Leaning forward, she placed her ear against it. Her breath stilled,