Page 5 of When the Weaver Met the Gargoyle

My throat is dry, too dry, in fact, to utter a word. I work my way around the loom and stand in front of him, making stupid sounds. How and why is he suddenly here?

“Can gargoyles read minds?” Tully whispers.

He’s the gargoyle that stands guard in the watchtower. Yes, of course, he is. With all my worry and haste this morning, I didn’t put two and two together.

“I hate to intrude,” he says. “I did knock, but…”

Tully grabs his arm and pulls him inside. “Nonsense. You’re welcome here!”

His hunched back hunches further, and he seems to shrink within his hood. Not that he truly can. He’s too large to disappear into any background.

Tully cluelessly keeps on with her loud exclamations. “What is your name anyway? No one knows. My, but you’re built like a brick?—”

I want to hurry this up because he seems incredibly uncomfortable. “What is wrong?” I’m notasking this male to go with me. He won’t sayyes; he’d never sayyes. It’s obvious.

“My name is Romulus Greystone. And, um, there’s another storm coming,” he says, the light from his eyes glinting as he turns to look at the loom.

Spark snarls at him, then returns to hiding under a quilt.

Romulus glances at him, then looks back at me. “You need to bespell your home. Your shop. I mean. This is a larger storm system.”

“I’m on it!” Tully rushes out the door, leaving the gargoyle and me alone.

“Thank you for telling us, Rom,” I say. Why did I just give him a nickname? I blush furiously, feeling like I’ve crawled into the hearth fire.

Is that a grin? I can almost make out some full, dark gray lips tucking up at one side, and my stomach flips.

“It’s my duty,” he says.

“Right. Of course.” I try to clear my throat and end up coughing.

He hands over the cup of water I had sitting on the side table. I take it, and our fingers brush. A spark travels up my hand and into myarm, and I gasp. But I’m being ridiculous. I sip the sweet well water and nod to him in thanks.

“I’ll go now,” he says.

But instead of heading out, he looks around the room.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I wanted to see your dragonfox.”

The light hits his eyes again, and they flash, giving me chills that I somehow find intriguingly pleasant rather than frightening. He seems too scary to want to cuddle anything. Hopefully, he doesn’t want to eat Spark.

My cheeks warm. “Spark? Really? I thought I was the only one who likes the horrid little creatures.”

He stands, watching and waiting, so I start toward the stack of quilts by the hearth. I lift the first quilt. Spark truly is the cutest thing. His head is a mix of fox and dragon with a fox’s red fur and large, black ears and a dragon’s tiny horns, slitted irises, and scaled nose. I gently lift him, and he stretches, extending his little dragon-green wings and yawning. The gargoyle hasn’t moved, but I approach and hand the dragonfox over.

“He will simply fly away if he isn’t keen on you holding him,” I say.

But Spark permits the handover and even crawlsonto the gargoyle’s shoulder. He settles up there, wings tucked back in tightly. White fangs and teeth suddenly show in the darkness of the gargoyle’s hood.

Is Rom smiling? The look of it makes my heart quiver. He looks so foreboding, but he’s just so sweet. What would it be like to kiss someone with vicious teeth like that? I swallow and shove that thought into the very darkest parts of my mind.

He reaches up and pets the dragonfox’s snout right where fur meets scale. “Hello, Spark. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

Spark lets out a quiet purr.

“Are you always this good with animals?” I ask. Perhaps he prefers animals to society. I feel exactly the same way.