it. His seeming respect for
her was short lived. Morrigan couldn’t help but crinkle her nose in
distaste as dust poured off the ratty bedding.
“I can’t sleep on this,” she complained.
“It’s filthy.”
“Humph.” Tiarn grunted and curled his lip.
“You call that filthy! You obviously do not know the meaning of the
word. That place we just came from—what do you call it? Baltimore?
Cement covering the Goddess’ green earth. Wires blocking the view
of Father Skye. Pollution making it difficult to breathe, and
litter everywhere you look. That was filth. The dust on those
blankets is just good old-fashioned dirt. Honest to goodness,
deliciously clean dirt! You should revel in it, Princess! The bed
where you shall lay your head this night is the cleanest and purest
you have rested on in many moons.”
Morrigan listened to his tirade in stunned
silence. She wanted to be annoyed, indignant. Who did he think he
was lecturing to? But he was right. Even more importantly than
that, she had actually enjoyed his speech. It made him that much
more irresistible. She couldn’t help but smile.
“I stand corrected.”
She rolled out her sleeping mat and snuggled
underneath the animals’ furs. They were surprisingly warm and cozy.
She had slept in worse beds in some of the foster homes she had
been in. What could be better than a night under the stars,
surrounded by the beauty of nature? As she lay there, she realized
she no longer felt tired. After a few minutes of tossing and
turning, she gave up on sleep and pulled out her sketchbook.
Apparently Tiarn wasn’t sleepy either. He had built a fire and was
fiddling absently with a stick as he basked in the glow of the warm
flames. He grew curious when he saw her rubbing her pencil over the
thick paper and peeked over her shoulder.
“What is it you are scribbling?” he
asked.
“Just drawing a few pictures,” Morrigan
explained. “It helps to tire me out when I can’t sleep.”
He leaned in closer to critique her work. She
had divided the page into two diagonal sections. One half of the
page was reserved for Dunham, and the other bore the likeness of
the Condon. Their tattooed hands were frozen in the air as they
prepared to open the magical portal. Even Morrigan was surprised at
how well it was turning out. The resemblance between the twins was
undeniable, but she had also managed to capture their diverse
personalities. Condon’s eyes were filled with gentle wisdom, and
Dunham’s lips were twisted into a greedy smile.
“That is quite good,” Tiarn admitted, a
little reluctantly.
Morrigan blushed and shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s not a big deal. I just like to draw. Don’t you have any
hobbies?”
He cocked his head, confused. “What would I
do with a hobbit? They are really quite obnoxious.”
Morrigan giggled. “Not a hobbit. A hobby.
It’s something you enjoy doing in your free time.”
“Ahh! I enjoy hunting.”
Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Is there anything
you can do that’s a little more artistic? You know, like singing,
painting, writing poetry . . . .”
“Lycans are not often characterized as
artistic,” he told her. “Though I have been known to carry a decent
tune on the pan flute.” He cleared his throat as if he were
embarrassed to admit it. “If you enjoy that sort of thing.”
“I’d love to hear you play. Do you carry it
with you?”
“Well, yes, but I do not think it would be
wise. The noise might attract the soldiers.”
“Pleeeassse,” Morrigan begged. “Just for a
few minutes? I’m sure there aren’t any soldiers nearby or the cats
wouldn’t be sleeping so soundly.”
Tiarn glanced down cats, who hadn’t stirred
since they stopped moving. “I suppose it would be all right,” he
relented. “But just for a few moments.”
Tiarn reached into his bag and pulled out a
wooden instrument with twelve hallowed out tubes of bamboo, each
stopped off at one end, and held together by worn twine. The pipes
gradually
her was short lived. Morrigan couldn’t help but crinkle her nose in
distaste as dust poured off the ratty bedding.
“I can’t sleep on this,” she complained.
“It’s filthy.”
“Humph.” Tiarn grunted and curled his lip.
“You call that filthy! You obviously do not know the meaning of the
word. That place we just came from—what do you call it? Baltimore?
Cement covering the Goddess’ green earth. Wires blocking the view
of Father Skye. Pollution making it difficult to breathe, and
litter everywhere you look. That was filth. The dust on those
blankets is just good old-fashioned dirt. Honest to goodness,
deliciously clean dirt! You should revel in it, Princess! The bed
where you shall lay your head this night is the cleanest and purest
you have rested on in many moons.”
Morrigan listened to his tirade in stunned
silence. She wanted to be annoyed, indignant. Who did he think he
was lecturing to? But he was right. Even more importantly than
that, she had actually enjoyed his speech. It made him that much
more irresistible. She couldn’t help but smile.
“I stand corrected.”
She rolled out her sleeping mat and snuggled
underneath the animals’ furs. They were surprisingly warm and cozy.
She had slept in worse beds in some of the foster homes she had
been in. What could be better than a night under the stars,
surrounded by the beauty of nature? As she lay there, she realized
she no longer felt tired. After a few minutes of tossing and
turning, she gave up on sleep and pulled out her sketchbook.
Apparently Tiarn wasn’t sleepy either. He had built a fire and was
fiddling absently with a stick as he basked in the glow of the warm
flames. He grew curious when he saw her rubbing her pencil over the
thick paper and peeked over her shoulder.
“What is it you are scribbling?” he
asked.
“Just drawing a few pictures,” Morrigan
explained. “It helps to tire me out when I can’t sleep.”
He leaned in closer to critique her work. She
had divided the page into two diagonal sections. One half of the
page was reserved for Dunham, and the other bore the likeness of
the Condon. Their tattooed hands were frozen in the air as they
prepared to open the magical portal. Even Morrigan was surprised at
how well it was turning out. The resemblance between the twins was
undeniable, but she had also managed to capture their diverse
personalities. Condon’s eyes were filled with gentle wisdom, and
Dunham’s lips were twisted into a greedy smile.
“That is quite good,” Tiarn admitted, a
little reluctantly.
Morrigan blushed and shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s not a big deal. I just like to draw. Don’t you have any
hobbies?”
He cocked his head, confused. “What would I
do with a hobbit? They are really quite obnoxious.”
Morrigan giggled. “Not a hobbit. A hobby.
It’s something you enjoy doing in your free time.”
“Ahh! I enjoy hunting.”
Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Is there anything
you can do that’s a little more artistic? You know, like singing,
painting, writing poetry . . . .”
“Lycans are not often characterized as
artistic,” he told her. “Though I have been known to carry a decent
tune on the pan flute.” He cleared his throat as if he were
embarrassed to admit it. “If you enjoy that sort of thing.”
“I’d love to hear you play. Do you carry it
with you?”
“Well, yes, but I do not think it would be
wise. The noise might attract the soldiers.”
“Pleeeassse,” Morrigan begged. “Just for a
few minutes? I’m sure there aren’t any soldiers nearby or the cats
wouldn’t be sleeping so soundly.”
Tiarn glanced down cats, who hadn’t stirred
since they stopped moving. “I suppose it would be all right,” he
relented. “But just for a few moments.”
Tiarn reached into his bag and pulled out a
wooden instrument with twelve hallowed out tubes of bamboo, each
stopped off at one end, and held together by worn twine. The pipes
gradually
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