Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,11

This cavernous space could easily accommodate a small army of chefs, assistant cooks, and scullery wenches.

She moved among the worktables and ovens with quick confidence, making straight for the larder. Every day, a fresh loaf of bread appeared in the breadbasket, a magic Nelle had come to depend on and appreciate. Yet . . . it was very strange.

On her first day at Roseward, she had peered into the banquet hall and seen a great feast spread out at the table, all utterly spoiled. Most of the house had given way to decay and ruin. But in this larder there was always fresh bread, and the other items stocking the shelves were like brand new. Had Silveri planted spells to keep himself well stocked before his imprisonment began? But that made no sense; he had never once come to pillage the supplies in the fifteen years before she came here. Had someone else enchanted it for him? The fae king who cursed him, perhaps?

“A mystery,” Nelle whispered. “Yet another mystery.”

Not that it mattered. The bread was fresh, and ultimately that’s what she cared about. But before stuffing her sack with supplies, she had another job to do.

Time to see about a new gown.

Leaving the kitchens, she climbed a back stair to the main level of the house above. By rights she ought to search the servants’ quarters. She was just a Draggs Street girl, after all—she shouldn’t go plundering the wardrobes of the fine ladies who’d once lived in this house.

But then again, why not?

A little smile quirking her lips, Nelle hastened along sumptuous passages to the grand front entrance and stair. She’d been inside Dornrise only twice, but Mother had taught her long ago to quickly memorize the layout of any house she entered. It was almost an instinct, a trick she couldn’t forget even if she tried.

She found the stairway with its newel posts carved like ugly wyverns spewing roses and vines from their mouths. Since they reminded her a little too much of the blue wyvern back at the lighthouse, she stuck her tongue out at them as she approached.

Just as she placed a foot on the lowest step, she paused. The skin down her spine prickled, fine hairs rising.

Nelle licked her dry lips. Then, slowly, she turned and looked to the dark place on the wall where she could just glimpse a pair of gold-framed portraits. There wasn’t enough natural light in the hall at this time of day to see them clearly, for the briars outside choked the windows. But it didn’t matter. She felt the intensity of the gray-eyed gaze looking down at her from the left-hand portrait.

Soran Silveri. As he once was.

Nelle backed away from the stair and crossed the hall, moving toward that portrait almost against her will. She peered up through the shadows, trying to discern the features of that face. In the half-light it was easier to see the similarities between this youth and the scarred man she’d come to know over the last few days. The jaw was the same shape, square and strong, and the set of the eyes above sculpted cheekbones. It was an attractive visage—beautiful, but not too beautiful to compromise the undeniable masculinity of the subject.

Of course, it might be idealized. Nelle folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. These fancy folks often paid artists to make them look better than reality. Young Silveri might have been a loutish sort with a bad complexion for all she knew, scarcely resembling the man gazing down at her from that frame.

Somehow she doubted it.

Uncomfortable under that supercilious scrutiny, she turned her attention to the second portrait. Although she had noticed it the last time she visited Dornrise, she’d been too taken up with the first painting to give it much heed. Due to the light’s angle at this hour, the second portrait was better lit, though still too shadowy to offer more than an impression.

It was another young man. Very like the first young man, to be honest. So much like that at first glance they might be mistaken for one another. But the crinkles around this man’s eyes indicated laughter, which should have made him appear more pleasant than the other, who looked too proud by half. Still . . . Nelle tipped her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. Something about the quirk of this man’s mouth, something about the glint in his eye revealed mockery, not mirth. He was at least as