such guarantees with Tennyson Wilde. He stared at me so intensely that his massive eyebrows met in the middle. He huffed a breath out his nose so forcefully it knocked me backwards. At least he didn't have bad breath, I supposed, and I was out of the snow.
"You'd better come with me," he said. "If you're always in the middle of the mess, it seems that you'll be needed to clean it up."
And without another word, he tucked me into his coat pocket.
His pocket was warm and protected from the elements, and some sort of luxurious soft fabric. Because he moved so smoothly, I was hardly jostled around at all, and made myself as comfortable as possible. After a while, my teeth stopped chattering. That was bad, right? I remembered reading that was bad, like once your teeth stopped chattering, that was when hypothermia set in and you died. Dying in Tennyson Wilde's pocket would be super embarrassing, but definitely warmer and snugglier than being ravaged by rats in the snow. And, jerk though he was, he did seem like the sort of person who would properly notify my family of my tragic demise, at the very least.
I vaguely wondered where he was taking me, though it didn't seem like such a big deal. That was probably part of the hypothermia too, I stopped caring about stuff. That was fine. Peaceful, really. So far, when it came to near death encounters, hypothermia was streets ahead. Number one, most recommended.
I snuggled deeper into his pocket. I didn't know what fancy rich person material this coat was made from but boy was it soft and nice.
You're probably not supposed to fall asleep with hypothermia. That seemed like a thing. Or maybe that was concussion. Whatever. Sleep was warm and nice and awake was the opposite. Awake was not my friend.
Shouting woke me up. I was so toasty warm though not pocket warm but blanket warm. I cracked open an eye to look around. Clearly, I had not died. And I hadn't been taken to some torture dungeon or laboratory or anything. It seemed like I was in the common area of the Golden House, especially judging from the shouts.
"She's fine," said Tennyson Wilde. He wasn't shouting. He sounded bored. "It was never a danger."
"She's not fine, she's the size of my finger!" That was Sam. He was shouting. "My pinky finger!"
That made me sit up. He wasn't usually the type to get angry, he was gentle and kind. But ever since the whole werewolf thing, he'd been unpredictable.
They were standing on the other side of the room to me, facing each other. They couldn't have looked more different. Tennyson stood by the fireplace, an elbow propped nonchalantly on the mantle. Sam loomed over him, tense and ready to spring. I was nestled into a blanket on a chair in the corner, though I noticed something had been put up as a barrier so that I couldn't fall off while I slept.
"Are you finally going to stop blaming her for everything then, Tennyson?" Althea asked, sounding amused. "I highly doubt she shrank herself."
"Never underestimate these people," Tennyson said. "You don't think they are capable of doing this to send her in as a spy?"
"She almost died of hypothermia!" Sam said.
"It wasn't hypothermia; she was just a bit cold. Most likely they knew I would sense the magic and investigate before she was in serious danger." He shrugged. "Or perhaps she is expendable to them. Perhaps she does not even know she is being used, like the teacher last time."
"Perhaps she's awake and listening to everything you say," said Nikolai, from where he sat over in the corner, typing on his phone. He looked over at me and winked.
Sam started in surprise and began to move toward me, but Tennyson put out an arm to stop him. They muttered to each other, too quietly for me to hear, and then I was shocked to see Tennyson Wilde break out into a smile. I hadn't thought him capable, he was always so surly and grr and big furrowed eyebrows. It made him look like a completely different person, at least 20% less of a jerk. Sam smiled back
"You'd better come with me," he said. "If you're always in the middle of the mess, it seems that you'll be needed to clean it up."
And without another word, he tucked me into his coat pocket.
His pocket was warm and protected from the elements, and some sort of luxurious soft fabric. Because he moved so smoothly, I was hardly jostled around at all, and made myself as comfortable as possible. After a while, my teeth stopped chattering. That was bad, right? I remembered reading that was bad, like once your teeth stopped chattering, that was when hypothermia set in and you died. Dying in Tennyson Wilde's pocket would be super embarrassing, but definitely warmer and snugglier than being ravaged by rats in the snow. And, jerk though he was, he did seem like the sort of person who would properly notify my family of my tragic demise, at the very least.
I vaguely wondered where he was taking me, though it didn't seem like such a big deal. That was probably part of the hypothermia too, I stopped caring about stuff. That was fine. Peaceful, really. So far, when it came to near death encounters, hypothermia was streets ahead. Number one, most recommended.
I snuggled deeper into his pocket. I didn't know what fancy rich person material this coat was made from but boy was it soft and nice.
You're probably not supposed to fall asleep with hypothermia. That seemed like a thing. Or maybe that was concussion. Whatever. Sleep was warm and nice and awake was the opposite. Awake was not my friend.
Shouting woke me up. I was so toasty warm though not pocket warm but blanket warm. I cracked open an eye to look around. Clearly, I had not died. And I hadn't been taken to some torture dungeon or laboratory or anything. It seemed like I was in the common area of the Golden House, especially judging from the shouts.
"She's fine," said Tennyson Wilde. He wasn't shouting. He sounded bored. "It was never a danger."
"She's not fine, she's the size of my finger!" That was Sam. He was shouting. "My pinky finger!"
That made me sit up. He wasn't usually the type to get angry, he was gentle and kind. But ever since the whole werewolf thing, he'd been unpredictable.
They were standing on the other side of the room to me, facing each other. They couldn't have looked more different. Tennyson stood by the fireplace, an elbow propped nonchalantly on the mantle. Sam loomed over him, tense and ready to spring. I was nestled into a blanket on a chair in the corner, though I noticed something had been put up as a barrier so that I couldn't fall off while I slept.
"Are you finally going to stop blaming her for everything then, Tennyson?" Althea asked, sounding amused. "I highly doubt she shrank herself."
"Never underestimate these people," Tennyson said. "You don't think they are capable of doing this to send her in as a spy?"
"She almost died of hypothermia!" Sam said.
"It wasn't hypothermia; she was just a bit cold. Most likely they knew I would sense the magic and investigate before she was in serious danger." He shrugged. "Or perhaps she is expendable to them. Perhaps she does not even know she is being used, like the teacher last time."
"Perhaps she's awake and listening to everything you say," said Nikolai, from where he sat over in the corner, typing on his phone. He looked over at me and winked.
Sam started in surprise and began to move toward me, but Tennyson put out an arm to stop him. They muttered to each other, too quietly for me to hear, and then I was shocked to see Tennyson Wilde break out into a smile. I hadn't thought him capable, he was always so surly and grr and big furrowed eyebrows. It made him look like a completely different person, at least 20% less of a jerk. Sam smiled back
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