Maggie shielded her eyes with her hand to try to block out the sparkles of light bouncing off the water to obscure her vision.
Ching was still for a moment, listening, for he seemed to need to cock his black ears even to hear with his mind. “She’s moaning something about her wings being tangled.”
“Still don’t see why she doesn’t fly out, great beast like that…” Maggie said, riding a few paces up, then back, to get a better view of the dragon.
“At least we won’t have to worry about a dragon as well as a flood.” Colin shivered and dismounted. “Perhaps your sister would appreciate your visit more later, when she’s—you know—had more chance to adapt to the nomadic life.” He really didn’t expect her to insist that they sit to wait for the flood to subside, which would surely take at least days, if not weeks. And they definitely could not cross it, which would be at worst a sodden death, and at best a dreadful way to treat his instruments. “We could try again later—maybe in midsummer?”
Maggie only favored him with a venomous look and dismounted, first continuing her shoreline inspection of the stranded beast on foot, then plopping down onto a fallen tree trunk. Cupping her chin in one hand, she stared moodily out at the flood, plucking angrily at the tall grasses that grew around her with the hand unoccupied with chin.
Ching joined her, settling his white stomach onto the soft, mossy covering of the log. “Well, witch, what now?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen this sort of thing before. This is the first journey I’ve taken more than a day’s ride from home, after all, and I can hardly be prepared for everything.” She gnawed a grubby and already abused thumbnail. “Wish I had some of Gran’s good strong transformation magic, instead of just hearthcraft. I could change these horses into whales or something. As it is, we’re as stuck as that dragon.”
“I suggest we give up.” The cat closed his eyes and looked away.
“No, really, Ching, what can a hearthcrafter do in this kind of situation? I could spin a rope, but we’d never make it all the way across the river.” She reached out and snapped off one of the tall reeds at the edge of the torrent.
“Don’t be silly,” the cat scoffed. “What would I do with a rope anyway? Walk tippy-toe across it, or hang by my tail?”
“I don’t know,” Maggie snapped, nettled by the cat’s sarcasm, her inability to produce a solution, and the party’s generally negative attitude. “But I’m sure not going to carry you.” She curled her lip at the water. “I’m not all that fond of that stuff myself, you know. If my magic didn’t require extensive contact with scrubwater, I’d probably be as likely to melt of it as Great-Grandma Oonaugh.” She twined a second weed around the first and forced them into a rough coil in her hand.
The cat swatted at the end of the reed that protruded from her hand. “Going to make a bathing dress of these, witch?”
“Take a swim, Ching. Maybe I will ,” she stared at the reeds, replying to the concept of constructing reed bathing dresses, not to the swim. “Minstrel?” she said.
Colin hoped she had decided after all that they would turn back, now that he had patiently given her time to reflect on the impossibility of their situation. He expected she, as would any reasonable person, would reach the obvious conclusion. “Yes?”
“Help me pick some more of these rushes, please.”
“Uh—why?” A qualm made him pause before he picked the first of the reeds.
“Umm—just a little idea of mine,” she replied, as she energetically began to snatch up every reed in sight.
His qualm became an uneasy twinge as he dropped an armload of reeds on top of those she’d already gathered. She stopped gathering finally, but signaled him to continue, and sat down and began to weave the rushes into a large, flat coil.
“Funny time to make a rug,” Colin remarked, smiling at his
Ching was still for a moment, listening, for he seemed to need to cock his black ears even to hear with his mind. “She’s moaning something about her wings being tangled.”
“Still don’t see why she doesn’t fly out, great beast like that…” Maggie said, riding a few paces up, then back, to get a better view of the dragon.
“At least we won’t have to worry about a dragon as well as a flood.” Colin shivered and dismounted. “Perhaps your sister would appreciate your visit more later, when she’s—you know—had more chance to adapt to the nomadic life.” He really didn’t expect her to insist that they sit to wait for the flood to subside, which would surely take at least days, if not weeks. And they definitely could not cross it, which would be at worst a sodden death, and at best a dreadful way to treat his instruments. “We could try again later—maybe in midsummer?”
Maggie only favored him with a venomous look and dismounted, first continuing her shoreline inspection of the stranded beast on foot, then plopping down onto a fallen tree trunk. Cupping her chin in one hand, she stared moodily out at the flood, plucking angrily at the tall grasses that grew around her with the hand unoccupied with chin.
Ching joined her, settling his white stomach onto the soft, mossy covering of the log. “Well, witch, what now?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen this sort of thing before. This is the first journey I’ve taken more than a day’s ride from home, after all, and I can hardly be prepared for everything.” She gnawed a grubby and already abused thumbnail. “Wish I had some of Gran’s good strong transformation magic, instead of just hearthcraft. I could change these horses into whales or something. As it is, we’re as stuck as that dragon.”
“I suggest we give up.” The cat closed his eyes and looked away.
“No, really, Ching, what can a hearthcrafter do in this kind of situation? I could spin a rope, but we’d never make it all the way across the river.” She reached out and snapped off one of the tall reeds at the edge of the torrent.
“Don’t be silly,” the cat scoffed. “What would I do with a rope anyway? Walk tippy-toe across it, or hang by my tail?”
“I don’t know,” Maggie snapped, nettled by the cat’s sarcasm, her inability to produce a solution, and the party’s generally negative attitude. “But I’m sure not going to carry you.” She curled her lip at the water. “I’m not all that fond of that stuff myself, you know. If my magic didn’t require extensive contact with scrubwater, I’d probably be as likely to melt of it as Great-Grandma Oonaugh.” She twined a second weed around the first and forced them into a rough coil in her hand.
The cat swatted at the end of the reed that protruded from her hand. “Going to make a bathing dress of these, witch?”
“Take a swim, Ching. Maybe I will ,” she stared at the reeds, replying to the concept of constructing reed bathing dresses, not to the swim. “Minstrel?” she said.
Colin hoped she had decided after all that they would turn back, now that he had patiently given her time to reflect on the impossibility of their situation. He expected she, as would any reasonable person, would reach the obvious conclusion. “Yes?”
“Help me pick some more of these rushes, please.”
“Uh—why?” A qualm made him pause before he picked the first of the reeds.
“Umm—just a little idea of mine,” she replied, as she energetically began to snatch up every reed in sight.
His qualm became an uneasy twinge as he dropped an armload of reeds on top of those she’d already gathered. She stopped gathering finally, but signaled him to continue, and sat down and began to weave the rushes into a large, flat coil.
“Funny time to make a rug,” Colin remarked, smiling at his
Similar Books
