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Authors: W. R. Gingell
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spell.”
“I’m inclined to think the Head was right,” said Markon, with a last, amused look at the prone fey. She gave him a glare with her golden eyes that made him step rather more quickly to Althea’s side, grateful that the Door now seemed to be well and truly open. It was achingly good to see the darkened interior of the castle.
Markon slept only a little later than usual that morning despite the fact that he didn’t get back to his room until it was already early morning. He might have slept in longer if he hadn’t gone to bed in his sticky, leafy clothes and woken just as sticky and uncomfortable a little after his normal rising time. Markon stripped himself hastily before he rang for his valet, disposing of the worst of the Faery leaves out the window, where they danced away in a rather curious manner. They seemed to chase the wind, joyfully tumbling in the early morning sunlight.
Markon left them to flit away any way they would and then rang for his valet, who brought with him a fresh set of underclothes, outerclothes, and the intelligence that Doctor Romalier wished to complain about the enchantress.
“He can complain to my steward,” said Markon firmly, rubbing his hair dry with his facecloth much to the valet’s dismay. “What is it this time?”
“He claims that she’s been encouraging the female staff to, well, make snide remarks when he questions them,” said the valet, trying not to laugh.
Markon grinned. “ Has she, now?”
“He also claims that she’s been interfering with the surveillance magic he set up with your permission. He says that the recorded data has been tampered with.”
“I suppose it’s too much to expect that he has any proof?”
“No, your majesty,” said the valet cheerfully. “Just hot air!”
“That settles it,” said Markon. “He can complain to my steward. I’ll be in my library, working on trade agreements and not to be disturbed.”
When Markon got to the library Althea was already there. Much to his amusement, she was fast asleep on his fattest armchair, her cheek resting on the plump red armrest and her head cradled in one arm. The other arm had dropped over the side of the chair, lost in the folds of her skirt, and her feet were curled up beside her. The russet-red of the armchair showed up the paleness of her face and the smudges beneath her eyes, so Markon left her to sleep instead of waking her to mendaciously demand if she was leaving Faery dirt on his chairs from her shoes. It would have been a more pleasant past-time, but Althea needed the sleep and the trade agreements wouldn’t revise themselves, after all. He resolutely sat down at his desk and forced himself to concentrate on the papers, and when lunch came and went without Althea doing more than stirring vaguely and muttering in her sleep, he shook off the languor that always came with a morning spent hunched over papers, and went to fetch his own lunch. He could have had it brought into the library, but his legs needed the stretching and Althea looked as though she was likely to sleep for a while longer anyway.
There were voices issuing from the library when Markon returned. He’d brought a tray with him, dismissing the footman who would have carried it for him, with the unformed idea that the smell of it might waken Althea– and that waking, she would be bound to be hungry. To hear voices, therefore, was something of a surprise. Markon halted and listened: that was Parrin’s voice, of course, readily recognisable. After it came Althea’s, friendly and pleasant. The library door was already ajar, so he shouldered it open and trod softly into the room with his tray.
Althea was no longer on the fat little armchair she’d been sleeping in: instead, she was sitting close to Parrin on the love-seat by the window, both of them leaning forward slightly, both of them engrossed in their conversation.
“I’m inclined to think the Head was right,” said Markon, with a last, amused look at the prone fey. She gave him a glare with her golden eyes that made him step rather more quickly to Althea’s side, grateful that the Door now seemed to be well and truly open. It was achingly good to see the darkened interior of the castle.
Markon slept only a little later than usual that morning despite the fact that he didn’t get back to his room until it was already early morning. He might have slept in longer if he hadn’t gone to bed in his sticky, leafy clothes and woken just as sticky and uncomfortable a little after his normal rising time. Markon stripped himself hastily before he rang for his valet, disposing of the worst of the Faery leaves out the window, where they danced away in a rather curious manner. They seemed to chase the wind, joyfully tumbling in the early morning sunlight.
Markon left them to flit away any way they would and then rang for his valet, who brought with him a fresh set of underclothes, outerclothes, and the intelligence that Doctor Romalier wished to complain about the enchantress.
“He can complain to my steward,” said Markon firmly, rubbing his hair dry with his facecloth much to the valet’s dismay. “What is it this time?”
“He claims that she’s been encouraging the female staff to, well, make snide remarks when he questions them,” said the valet, trying not to laugh.
Markon grinned. “ Has she, now?”
“He also claims that she’s been interfering with the surveillance magic he set up with your permission. He says that the recorded data has been tampered with.”
“I suppose it’s too much to expect that he has any proof?”
“No, your majesty,” said the valet cheerfully. “Just hot air!”
“That settles it,” said Markon. “He can complain to my steward. I’ll be in my library, working on trade agreements and not to be disturbed.”
When Markon got to the library Althea was already there. Much to his amusement, she was fast asleep on his fattest armchair, her cheek resting on the plump red armrest and her head cradled in one arm. The other arm had dropped over the side of the chair, lost in the folds of her skirt, and her feet were curled up beside her. The russet-red of the armchair showed up the paleness of her face and the smudges beneath her eyes, so Markon left her to sleep instead of waking her to mendaciously demand if she was leaving Faery dirt on his chairs from her shoes. It would have been a more pleasant past-time, but Althea needed the sleep and the trade agreements wouldn’t revise themselves, after all. He resolutely sat down at his desk and forced himself to concentrate on the papers, and when lunch came and went without Althea doing more than stirring vaguely and muttering in her sleep, he shook off the languor that always came with a morning spent hunched over papers, and went to fetch his own lunch. He could have had it brought into the library, but his legs needed the stretching and Althea looked as though she was likely to sleep for a while longer anyway.
There were voices issuing from the library when Markon returned. He’d brought a tray with him, dismissing the footman who would have carried it for him, with the unformed idea that the smell of it might waken Althea– and that waking, she would be bound to be hungry. To hear voices, therefore, was something of a surprise. Markon halted and listened: that was Parrin’s voice, of course, readily recognisable. After it came Althea’s, friendly and pleasant. The library door was already ajar, so he shouldered it open and trod softly into the room with his tray.
Althea was no longer on the fat little armchair she’d been sleeping in: instead, she was sitting close to Parrin on the love-seat by the window, both of them leaning forward slightly, both of them engrossed in their conversation.
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