Chapter 10 #2
Magdala froze in the sitting room doorway.
The mantel was carved oak—engraved with Magdala flowers.
Her namesake. She glanced guiltily at Zephyr, anxious he might notice the flowers, too, and make the connection.
But he was too busy stomping from window to window, swatting curtains aside as if he might find the prince hiding behind one.
She wondered if, like some parents, Zephyr pictured Asherton as younger than he was.
Like he was still an eight-year-old boy mischievously playing hide-and-seek instead of a grown man preparing to take a throne.
An array of animal skulls, turtle shells, and brass figurines of dragons, whales, snails, and insects adorned the mantel top.
Once ornate pots, now chipped and dusty, hosted figs and ornamental pine trees.
A strange leggy fern rustled at Magdala and then unfurled a green frond and grabbed her ankle.
With a shriek, Magdala leaped away, dragging the fern from its pot.
It sprawled across the floor in a scatter of soil and began to cry like a child.
Shaking his head and mumbling about ‘youths’ and their ‘flighty ways’, Zephyr picked up the weeping plant, as if weeping plants were as ordinary as daisies, righted its pot with his toe, and plopped it inside. It curled into a tight coil, whimpering.
“Keep clear of anything green,” Zephyr said. “Asherton has an odd affection for things with sharp teeth. If he’s not here reading, he’ll be out in the greenhouse.”
Of course, Magdala knew where the greenhouse was, but she clasped her hands behind her and followed Zephyr.
“Asherton is an enigmatic boy … man,” Zephyr said sternly, with an undercurrent of warning. “As much as his mother may wish to cast him off and pretend he doesn’t exist, he is the key to everything—to the war and the ending of it, to the survival of dragons, to the future of all three nations.”
“All three?” Magdala asked.
“His father is Ashkendoric, his mother Allageshan. So, Asherton is heir to both thrones. Protect him at all costs.”
Magdala nodded and tried to relax her scowl, but how does one hide a decade of spoon-fed hatred and curated rage?
“Have there been assassination attempts?” Magdala asked.
“Not here,” Zephyr replied. “But the fight with Julian at the ball—that was a mess—and the riot in the streets of Largotia … I do not anticipate an attempt on the island itself, but I am certain there will be one at the coronation.”
Magdala swallowed and wondered which of her father’s radicals was already chosen to pull the trigger on the day of the coronation. She wondered if she would meet them and have to choose between stepping aside or doing her duty. Both gave her chills.
Zephyr led the way along the corridor to a wrought iron spiral staircase, which wound down to the kitchen. The house was built into the side of a shallow bank, so the kitchen was partly underground.
In Seamus’s day, it had been run like an army battalion, so Magdala gasped as she emerged into a chaos of cluttered countertops, cabinets hanging open, and an almost empty larder. The sky-blue door stood open, leading to the overgrown back lawn and the gardens and greenhouses beyond.
“Who cooks for you?” Magdala asked, running her hand along the wooden counter.
Zephyr’s cheeks pinked—he seemed abashed. “We don’t keep a staff at Elegy, so we cook for ourselves.”
A pile of dirty laundry lay in the corner, beside the washbasin. A fly circled it, buzzing languidly.
“What do you eat?”
In answer to her question, the kitchen door creaked, and Asherton strode in with a line of fish tossed over his shoulder.
He was reading a book, his hair tangled over his eyes.
He didn’t bother to look up, but slapped the fish on the table in the center of the room and hurried to the counter, bumping into Magdala.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as he climbed onto the counter, opened an upper cabinet, and rooted around, knocking a jar of honey onto the floor where it shattered, the contents oozing onto Zephyr’s feet.
“Ash!” Zephyr cried. “You’re making a mess!”
Asherton turned toward him, one eyebrow raised. When his eyes settled on Magdala, he lost his balance and nearly fell from his perch.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m your new bodyguard,” Magdala replied.
He looked at Zephyr. “What do I need a bodyguard for?”
“So no one kills you,” Zephyr replied blandly. “Unless you can think of another reason to have one.”
“She’s a woman.”
“Is she?” Zephyr sighed. “How interesting. Your mother stationed her here, so we can’t get rid of her.”
“My mother? Oh, excellent.” Asherton turned back to pillaging the cupboard. “So, new bodyguard, must you kill me yourself to get paid, or shall I jump off the roof and save you the trouble?”
“Asherton!” Zephyr cried. “Your mother would never …”
“Now, where is the blasted … ah, there it is.” Asherton hopped down and held up a clouded jar crawling with tiny green beetles. They skittered up the glass, then fell to the bottom with a faint clatter that turned Magdala’s stomach. “It bloomed, Zeph.”
Zephyr whipped off his glasses. “Already? But it’s not a full moon …”
“You can tell it so yourself if you like.” Asherton tucked the jar into his pocket and hurried back out the door, leaving it open to the rain. Magdala held onto the table, afraid that, if she let go, she would race across the kitchen and slam the door, which was not a bodyguard’s job.
“Wear gloves!” Zephyr called after him. He cast Magdala a weary look. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m worn to the bone.” Waving for her to follow him, Zephyr strode outside. “Come, Miss Devney, your duties begin now.”