Read Online Twelve Days of Faery by W. R. Gingell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: W. R. Gingell
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When they saw Markon, the conversation stopped abruptly and each of them sat back a little. Parrin’s face looked distinctly conscious, and even Althea looked slightly taken pink: they were the very picture of lovers interrupted.
And let that be a salutary lesson to you , thought Markon bitterly to himself. She’s at least fifteen years younger than you and she’s promised to Parrin. Keep your mind on breaking the curse.
Aloud, he said: “Hungry, children?”
“I should think so!” said Parrin eagerly. Markon couldn’t help feeling somewhat sardonic. The boy was fond of food, it was true, but his powers of misdirection and concealment hadn’t improved since childhood and it was far too easy to see that he was merely trying to divert his father’s attention from the somewhat intimate setting in which he and Althea had been found.
Althea, it seemed, was rather more sincere in her acceptance of the food Markon had brought. Not only did she eat more of it than Parrin did, she also failed entirely to notice that he’d left the library while she was solemnly engaged in choosing comfits from the silver-and-pearl box of sweetmeats.
When she did notice that he’d gone, all she said was: “We may as well get on with it, then.”
Markon, filching the box of sweetmeats before she could eat all of them, said: “Get on with what?”
“Planning, of course,” said Althea seriously. “Didn’t I tell you? No, I fell asleep before you got here. I pulled more fae magic from the infirmary: it’s led me to another usable Door into Faery.”
Day Six
There was someone sitting next to him on the bed. Markon’s breath hissed between his teeth, one hand on its way to grasp his assailant’s throat before he realised that it was only Althea. Markon’s hand dropped back to the bed and then dug through his rumpled hair as he huffed his relief into the darkness of the room.
“I’m beginning to think Doctor Romalier is right,” he told her.
Althea, who hadn’t so much as flinched at his instinctive lunge to attack, tilted her head and said: “Really? I wouldn’t have thought it was very likely.”
“He says that you’re a disrupting influence and a drain on the monarch’s resources.”
Althea gave her low, delighted chuckle. “I suppose it’s true, really! A case of the cherry tart calling the raspberry red, though, isn’t it?”
“I thought you didn’t like pie rhetoric,” countered Markon, pushing aside the bed covers. He’d been better prepared last night: he’d worn a pair of loose trousers and one of his old fencing shirts to bed. Neither of them were particularly fine (the shirt in particular had more than a few darning scars, hence his mother’s insistence upon shirts specifically for fencing) but they were loose and comfortable, and had the benefit of not creasing easily.
“I don’t,” said Althea, watching him tuck in the shirt and grope blindly for the light shoes he’d set aside. “It makes me hungry. I think I might have caught some of your Montalieran ways.”
“Just as well,” Markon said, carefully light-hearted. “If you’re going to marry into the family you’d best start practising now.”
Althea was difficult to see in the shadows, but Markon thought he caught a small, private, and entirely delightful smile as it flitted across her face. It was still in her voice as she said: “I had, hadn’t I? Your shoes are over here.”
They went through the back passages, following a thin, winding way through narrow halls and steep staircases that stirred in Markon’s mind as vaguely familiar. It wasn’t until Althea stopped at a meeting of corridors and counted three sconces from the left as they walked that he remembered why it was so familiar.
“Third to the left, warp and weft,” he said. He reached past Althea and found the hidden catch in the sconce, which clicked beneath his fingertips and set off a dusty scraping
And let that be a salutary lesson to you , thought Markon bitterly to himself. She’s at least fifteen years younger than you and she’s promised to Parrin. Keep your mind on breaking the curse.
Aloud, he said: “Hungry, children?”
“I should think so!” said Parrin eagerly. Markon couldn’t help feeling somewhat sardonic. The boy was fond of food, it was true, but his powers of misdirection and concealment hadn’t improved since childhood and it was far too easy to see that he was merely trying to divert his father’s attention from the somewhat intimate setting in which he and Althea had been found.
Althea, it seemed, was rather more sincere in her acceptance of the food Markon had brought. Not only did she eat more of it than Parrin did, she also failed entirely to notice that he’d left the library while she was solemnly engaged in choosing comfits from the silver-and-pearl box of sweetmeats.
When she did notice that he’d gone, all she said was: “We may as well get on with it, then.”
Markon, filching the box of sweetmeats before she could eat all of them, said: “Get on with what?”
“Planning, of course,” said Althea seriously. “Didn’t I tell you? No, I fell asleep before you got here. I pulled more fae magic from the infirmary: it’s led me to another usable Door into Faery.”
Day Six
There was someone sitting next to him on the bed. Markon’s breath hissed between his teeth, one hand on its way to grasp his assailant’s throat before he realised that it was only Althea. Markon’s hand dropped back to the bed and then dug through his rumpled hair as he huffed his relief into the darkness of the room.
“I’m beginning to think Doctor Romalier is right,” he told her.
Althea, who hadn’t so much as flinched at his instinctive lunge to attack, tilted her head and said: “Really? I wouldn’t have thought it was very likely.”
“He says that you’re a disrupting influence and a drain on the monarch’s resources.”
Althea gave her low, delighted chuckle. “I suppose it’s true, really! A case of the cherry tart calling the raspberry red, though, isn’t it?”
“I thought you didn’t like pie rhetoric,” countered Markon, pushing aside the bed covers. He’d been better prepared last night: he’d worn a pair of loose trousers and one of his old fencing shirts to bed. Neither of them were particularly fine (the shirt in particular had more than a few darning scars, hence his mother’s insistence upon shirts specifically for fencing) but they were loose and comfortable, and had the benefit of not creasing easily.
“I don’t,” said Althea, watching him tuck in the shirt and grope blindly for the light shoes he’d set aside. “It makes me hungry. I think I might have caught some of your Montalieran ways.”
“Just as well,” Markon said, carefully light-hearted. “If you’re going to marry into the family you’d best start practising now.”
Althea was difficult to see in the shadows, but Markon thought he caught a small, private, and entirely delightful smile as it flitted across her face. It was still in her voice as she said: “I had, hadn’t I? Your shoes are over here.”
They went through the back passages, following a thin, winding way through narrow halls and steep staircases that stirred in Markon’s mind as vaguely familiar. It wasn’t until Althea stopped at a meeting of corridors and counted three sconces from the left as they walked that he remembered why it was so familiar.
“Third to the left, warp and weft,” he said. He reached past Althea and found the hidden catch in the sconce, which clicked beneath his fingertips and set off a dusty scraping
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