Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,61

an eyebrow. “Is that the Miphato?” he whispered.

She nodded.

“He sounds . . . worried.”

She could think of nothing to say, so she nodded again. Then, “Come on!” she urged, and tugged his hand.

The sound of the mage’s voice faded away; he was moving away from their current position, away from Dornrise. Sam was quiet now, but he wouldn’t be able to hold his tongue forever.

Sure enough: “So, exactly how friendly have the two of you become over these last two years?”

Nelle rolled her eyes and dragged him onward. “It ain’t been two years. Not for me. Just a bit over a week. And Silveri ain’t a bad sort, really.”

Sam snorted. “High praise, coming from you. I didn’t get a good look at him down on the beach. Is he handsome?”

“No,” Nelle answered, maybe a little too quickly. She hastened to add, “He’s cursed, you know. And scarred up real bad. Not a pretty sight.”

“He must be old too,” Sam mused, his fingers tightening around hers slightly. “This island’s been haunted for going on twenty years if I remember the stories rightly. He’s got to be ancient. All that white hair . . .”

Nelle bit her tongue to keep from pointing out the obvious: Hadn’t they just acknowledged that two years for Sam had been not even two weeks for her? Soran Silveri had lived on Roseward for a long time, but what did that even mean? He’d aged, yes, and he’d changed. But he wasn’t old. Not by a long shot. She couldn’t pretend he was exactly young either. More sort of . . . ageless.

When they came within sight of Dornrise, Nelle, pushing through a curtain of low branches, breathed a sigh of relief.

Sam whistled softly behind her. “If that hulking place ain’t haunted, I’m a spitting boggart,” he said.

“It is haunted,” Nelle answered. “Just not by ghosts. Hurry up!”

“Wait. Nelle!” Sam let her pull him along, but his feet dragged as they hastened across the open space to the tumbledown gates. “If it’s haunted, why are you taking me there? Ghosts or no ghosts, I don’t do hauntings. The idea gives me the shudders.”

“Use your fae blessing,” Nelle said, trudging on doggedly. “Does it feel dangerous to you?”

“Well . . .” Sam was silent for a moment before finally admitting. “Well, all right. It feels safe enough.”

“It is safe. Enough. At least until sundown.”

She hurried him down the path, painfully aware of how exposed they were on all sides. If Soran had returned this way, he could spot them at any moment even from a good distance.

But they reached the shelter of the overgrown brambles without impediment, and Nelle hastened along the narrow trail through the tangle to the kitchen door.

“Glad you know where you’re going,” Sam muttered. “It’s like a bloody nightmare around here!”

His choice of words sent a shiver down her spine. Nelle glanced back at him before dropping his hand and pushing the kitchen door open. She stepped into the shadowed space and beckoned Sam in behind her. While she forced the door shut, he stood looking around the cavernous kitchen.

“Drafty, ain’t it?” he said, pulling the folds of her velvet cloak around his shoulders.

“There’s kindling and fuel aplenty.” Nelle gave him a push toward one of the big ovens. “Go get it lit. I’ll find food.”

Sam looked as though he wanted to protest, but his fae blessing must have continued to reassure him, so he nodded and did as he was told. Nelle hurried to the larder, glad for a few moments to herself, however brief they would be.

She needed an excuse, something she could tell Soran to explain her absence from the lighthouse all morning. The larder made the best sense. She could tell him she’d wanted to stock up their supplies for while they barricaded themselves into the lighthouse over the next few days. It was a feeble excuse, she knew. He’d think her a right fool, running out and risking another encounter with harpens all on her own, but . . . well, he didn’t think her the brightest candle as it was, now did he? She could pass it off as thoughtlessness, shrug, and bat her eyes. If she played the part well, he wouldn’t ask too many questions. She hoped.

She hadn’t brought anything to carry food in, but she crammed what she could into her satchel along with the book and quill. As always, there was a fresh loaf of bread in the breadbasket, but she took that for