Page 15

ALICE

I had half expected Fenrother to follow me as I flounced off, as refusing to leave me alone is absolutely his modus operandi.

Flouncing is very easy in a dress the size of the one I’m wearing however, so I’m rather glad I got the opportunity to put it to good use.

But he does not follow, and I’m annoyed at the part of me which is disappointed.

We’re being forced together, expected to have sex and for me to get pregnant at the whim of a Faerie queen, and as it turns out, Fenrother is one step to the side of being virgin, given he doesn’t know what a female is at all .

But surely he’s encountered other species before?

He’s clearly met Queen Mab and she’s…

well I suppose she’s female as far as Faerie have sexes, but it seems unlikely he had the opportunity to do what he’s done with me.

Even so, and even with his claim he grew up without his parents, no one, not even a Lambton Wyrm is ever entirely in isolation.

He has to have met others.

He has to understand the difference between male and female.

Or does he? Am I applying human logic to a place which is entirely not human?

Sometimes I dislike my logical brain, especially when I need to think like a Wyrm if I’m going to survive.

I make my way down the stairs and back into the great hall.

I’d rather not look at the wall hanging over the fire, so instead I exit through another door and find myself in a long passage where I’m sure I can hear voices.

It’s not like things can get any worse, so I follow the passage, which runs along the side of the courtyard until I reach another corner turret and a heavy door.

I’m sure I can smell a wood fire and cooking, but the second I push at the door, it is as if someone has turned off a tap.

The noise, the scent—it’s all gone, and as I peer in through the doorway, the room itself appears empty.

Its vaulted ceiling is cold and the single slit window is high up in the wall, allowing very limited light into the room.

Confused, I close the door.

“Female!” Before I can move, Fenrother pins me to the wall.

“What have you done to me?”

He blinks as I gaze up at him, then he releases me, taking a pace back and looking strangely contrite.

His wings are somewhat disheveled and his tail a little limp.

“I haven’t done anything,” I say, but Fenrother is already stalking away down the passage.

I look again at the door, but there are no more sounds coming from behind it or from elsewhere.

There is only a Wyrm who needs to give me answers as much as he is demanding them from me.

I catch up with him as he enters the great hall, heading over to the table and fireplace.

“Fenrother.” I call his name.

He comes to a halt.

“Why don’t you show me your…texts?”

He turns his face in profile, not quite looking back at me.

His wings flex, then lift from their slightly drooped pose.

“You think you can interpret the texts better than me?” he growls.

“No, but perhaps I can help fill in a few gaps?”

He is silent for a while.

I keep my eyes averted from the tapestry, which means I’m staring at his bottom.

It’s not a bad place to rest my eyes given, annoyingly, Fenrother is carved like a Greek god when he’s not a dragon.

He really has no right to be so gorgeous and so infuriating.

Fenrother grunts and walks past the table and pulls aside another, less unpleasant wall hanging which reveals another door.

He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks it.

For a creature who lives entirely alone, he definitely has a thing for locks.

Without further comment, he walks through the door, and I follow him, finding myself initially in a wood-panelled corridor before it opens into a large airy room, where the walls are lined with shelves.

Empty shelves.

“It’s a library,” I gasp.

“Where are the books?”

Fenrother doesn’t answer me.

Instead he has taken a seat at a large desk.

Behind him are a row of books and in front of him are a number of open ones, dropped haphazardly on the wooden surface.

There is a pot filled with quills, a stack of unused parchment sheets, and a number covered in the same spidery writing I saw on the crumpled piece in his pocket.

“These are the texts,” Fenrother says.

“The ones which refer to taking a mate.” He sits back as if challenging me.

If this is all he had to learn about the world, about the Yeavering, then it cannot possibly be enough.

I peer at one of the books.

It looks like an illustrated manuscript.

The text is in a dense black print and covers half of the page.

The rest is a drawing, in crude medieval style, of what looks like a knight holding the hand of a lady.

Admittedly the knight seems to have a tail, but other than this slight anomaly, this illustrated manuscript could be something I might find in the British Library.

A long, thick, clawed finger slides over the page and taps at the text.

“Here,” Fenrother says.

I puzzle at the words.

It reads as if it’s been translated badly from another language into English.

On Mating: The male and female will meet, they will lie together, and she will produce young from this encounter.

The male must protect once his workings are done.

“Is there anything else?” I ask.

“This is the main text,” Fenrother rasps.

“Tell me where my gaps are.”

I look at him.

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

He really doesn’t want to believe me.

“Perhaps you should tell me something,” I say, turning away from him and running my hand over the empty shelves.

“How long have you been here alone?”