Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes
This one is for Gummy Bear,
The Toothless Wonder Cat
“Bullspit.”
Nelle peered into the packet of oats and frowned. She couldn’t pretend to be surprised, since it had been running low yesterday. She also knew what she’d find in the sugar, cinnamon, and salt packets: nothing, nothing, and practically nothing.
“We’re in for a flavorless sort of breakfast, I’m afraid,” she muttered to the creature twining around her ankles. “Don’t get too excited.”
The creature sat up on its haunches, raised the bright blue crest running from the crown of its head down its neck, and opened its mouth to display an impressive array of sharp teeth, flapping its one good wing. It might have been trying to grin, but the result was ghastly.
“Charming,” Nelle said, brushing past the little draconian beast. It was really a wyvern, but it looked so much like how she’d always pictured dragons, complete with its scaly hide, leathery wings, and lizard-like eyes, that this was sometimes difficult to remember.
It waddled after her, chortling and dragging its bad wing behind it. It kept its distance from the fire on the hearth, eyeing the blaze with wary unease. In this respect, at least, it was most un-dragonish. But then, considering it was a being primarily made up of parchment and ink, it had every right to be uneasy around flames.
Nelle dumped the last of the oats into a pot of boiling water hung on a bar over the fire, sprinkled in the final few precious grains of salt, and stirred. “Not exactly appetizing,” she commented, lifting the spoon to watch a sticky glop of oatmeal fall back into the pot, “but it’ll stick to the ribs. You best not imagine you’re getting any, neither,” she added, glowering at the wyvern.
Its nostrils flared as it turned beady yellow eyes up at her, contriving to look pleading despite its fixed expression.
“Unh uh.” Nelle shook her head. “There’s barely enough for Mage Silveri and me as it is. And you ain’t really real, as such, so I don’t see any reason for you to gobble up my hard-earned breakfast.”
The wyvern hissed and fastened its gaze back on the pot while she slowly stirred its contents. Nelle snorted ruefully. The little beast had pegged her as a soft touch days ago. It knew perfectly well she wouldn’t be able to withstand its pathetic whining for long.
“Spittin’ worm,” she muttered, and concentrated her gaze on the pot, determined not to let what little porridge they had burn. She would need every mouthful for energy in the day ahead, for today . . . She grimaced, and a little shudder ran up the back of her neck.
Today she’d have to return to Dornrise Hall.
She’d known all along that the supplies she’d pillaged from the great house’s larder three days ago wouldn’t last. Unless she wanted to subsist on a diet of seagull eggs, she must return to Dornrise and scavenge whatever remained to be found in the extensive larder and cellars of the once magnificent hall.
But she’d not been back since learning about the Noswraith.
The Thorn Maiden.
A shadow seemed to pass over her eyes despite the bright morning light pouring through windows above and behind her. The flames licking at the kettle’s base seemed to morph into new haunting shapes. Roses. Burning roses that blossomed from writhing, twining, living brambles.
Nelle blinked twice and refocused on the copper pot and her spoon. No good in letting her mind wander into such dark territory. The Thorn Maiden was asleep. Mage Silveri had stayed up all night binding her with his sorcery and magic. She wouldn’t stalk the island again until nightfall, and many hours stretched between now and then. Plenty of time to slip into the hall, get what she needed, and slink away again.
But she couldn’t deny the icy sliver of dread wedged firmly in her heart.
“Come on, girl,” Nelle whispered, her voice scarcely audible above the crackling fire and the bubble of porridge. “Are you a snatcher or ain’t you? Don’t go losing your nerve now.”
“Prrrlt?” the wyvern said, tilting its head up at her curiously.
“Never you mind,” Nelle answered, glaring down at the little beast. “It’s none of your—”
She broke off as her ear caught a horrible scraping sound, like a knife’s edge dragging across stone. Startled, she stepped back three paces, the spoon clenched in her hand dripping small globs of undercooked porridge on the hard stone floor.
The scrape sounded again, worse than before. Was she mistaken or did it come from up the chimney?