She found him in the sunroom—a domed glass addition to the back of the house. Asherton knelt on the copper-tiled floor, rolling a walnut to Anton. The plant nudged it back to him and Asherton smiled. His smile faded when Magdala entered.
“The beast is growing,” she said, nodding at Anton.
“In a month, he’ll be the size of a tree and capable of eating an entire cow.”
“Capable of eating me?”
Anton rubbed his jaw on Asherton’s knee, purring like a cat. “As you are smaller than a cow, yes, capable of eating you,” Asherton replied.
Curse Huxley. He had painted this as a simple job, in and out in a day. A day and a night had passed, and Magdala was beginning to fear she would be stuck here forever.
A little dragon whizzed into the room, wearing a leather pack on his back. It was no larger than a hummingbird. Magdala stared at it, puzzled. “What is he doing?” she asked.
“Sprites won’t come all the way out here,” Asherton said. “So dragons bring the mail. Check it. It’s probably for you.”
Reaching into the dragon’s pack, she slipped a tightly folded letter out. She recognized her father’s handwriting addressed to “Magdala Slorus; ? Huxley Davenport”. Her father’s use of his surname instead of her mother’s nettled her, but she overlooked it. Below the address, in Huxley’s neat cursive, “Elegy Island, Manor House.”
Magdala dropped a kib into the dragon’s pack and it flew off. Turning away from the prince, she unfolded the paper.
Faithful daughter,
I miss you so. My meals are tasteless, as I cannot cook(Magdala hated it when men said they couldn’t cook. She wasn’t born with some innate culinary knowledge. It was a skill, learned like any other skill which, in the absence of a convenient woman, men often miraculously mastered).
Huxley will not tell me where you are, but he says you’re serving your country, so I hope you’ve got a knife in the gullet of the bastard prince at this moment.
Magdala cast a guilty look at Asherton.
I’ve written to tell you I’ve had a bad turn of luck, and l fear I’ve lost the cottage. I did save the furniture, though. I am living at the tavern for now, until my luck changes.
A moan escaped Magdala.
“What?” Asherton asked.
“Nothing,” Magdala replied.
Why wouldn’t he sell the furniture to save the cottage? And where was it now? She imagined her father sitting atop a mountain of stacked tables and sofas and chairs in his tiny tavern room, drinking tea with his pinky raised.
How lucky am I to have a devoted, generous daughter so willing to help me? You are my pride and joy, my meadow hen, and I love you with my whole soul.
Your father,
Seamus
She crumpled the letter in her fist and tossed it on the floor, where Anton snatched it in his jaws and swallowed it. Frowning, she watched the lump slide down his stalk.
“Bad news?” Asherton asked with polite interest.
“Not news, but bad,” she said. She knew her father. He hadn’t had bad luck; he had refused to work and couldn’t pay the rent. “You don’t suppose I could get an advance on my salary, do you?”
Asherton raised an eyebrow. “I thought you had an alternate income stream.”
She rolled her eyes. “If I did, which I don’t, I clearly haven’t collected on it yet.”
“I’ll try to accommodate you and choke on a chicken bone at supper.”
Magdala sighed. “What chicken? You only eat eggs.”
“Huxley sent an advance on your salary,” Asherton admitted. “Zephyr has it in trust. If you want to get paid early, Zephyr might be able to accommodate you.”
