Page 17 of Seducing the Sorcerer
Fenn suppressed a shiver.
At least there was plenty of room for the horse.
“Please.” Morgrim stalked over to the fire, robe belling out behind him, and Fenn saw that the robe was in fact not all black. Two long flashes of dark red rippled down the sides, giving a subtle impression of blood, as if Morgrim were a torturer on his tea break.
Fenn followed, hat in hand, the horse at his shoulder, his stomach churning. The pink silk eiderdown kept popping into his mind, though he’d hardly trouble the master of the tower with such a domestic trifle. It was a guilty conscience. That was what it was. Because he didn’t ought to have let the horse eat it. Not that he’d been awake to stop it, but somehow he still felt to blame. The palms of his hands were sweating.
Morgrim turned his back to the fire and wrapped his robe around himself so that he resembled a giant bat, except a giant bat would have been less alarming. His eyes glittered as he looked Fenn over.
Fenn averted his eyes so as not to stare back.
The hearth was flanked by tall wooden screens that jutted out to embrace two easy chairs, the only trace of comfort in the room. But even this fireside nook was far from cosy because the screens had been carved by the same hand that had fashioned the faces on the covered walkway. The screen on the left showed ghouls feeding in a graveyard, the one on the right, dancing skeletons.
A flash of movement behind the skeleton screen made Fenn’s heart skip a beat. Could young Jasper be lurking there? Or someone else? Or, something else? Who knew what creatures a sorcerer might have at his beck and call?
Fenn swallowed with a dry mouth and rested a hand on the horse’s withers to give them both courage. It was trembling and no wonder. The sorcerer had a way of looking as if he knew everything about you and didn’t think much of it. He might have greeted them politely enough, but next there’d be a bollocking about that broken spell. And when that was done, Fenn would be told just how long and hard he’d have to work to pay the damn thing off.
“I trust Jasper saw to your needs?” Morgrim asked.
“Can’t complain,” Fenn said warily. All right, the bollocking would begin now.
“Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of plum wine?”
Fenn blinked. Wine? At eleven o’clock in the morning? Was this a test to see if he was a drunkard? Had Morgrim already made enquiries?
“No, thank you.”
“Something else? Elderflower cordial? Very soothing in the damp.”
It’d be some kind of hex potion, more like. “No, thank you.”
“No? Well, if you’re sure.” Morgrim held an arm out, indicating the easy chair to the left of the fire. “Please take a seat, Mr. Todd.”
Fenn gaped. It was rude but he couldn’t help it. First a drink, now a seat at the fireside like he and the sorcerer were old cronies? What kind of job interview was this?
“Er. You sure?” Fenn said.
Morgrim gestured at the chair again. “Please.”
Fenn eyed the chair. It was embroidered in black and dark green leafy patterns that must have taken a deal of stitching. Its back was covered by an antimacassar, not the usual white, but black with dark green lace all around.
Fenn took a cautious step towards the chair, but as he did so the horse stretched out its neck and gave the antimacassar a very interested sniff. Fenn stopped, pulling it up short. It couldn’t go eating things in here. The idea! And in any case, perhaps it was better to stand. If he sat, he’d likely find the chair was a hideous trap and he’d never stand up again. Because the court sorcerer could not want to sit down with Fenn Todd.
He took a step backwards, pulling the horse with him.
“Fine on my feet, thank you, sir.”
Morgrim bowed his head in a graceful “as you wish” gesture, and turned his attention to the horse. The creature shifted uneasily under Fenn’s hand and rippled its legs. It was beginning to steam in the heat from the fire.
“Quite remarkable,” murmured the sorcerer.
“Never seen anything like it myself,” Fenn agreed.
“Perhaps you’d be so good as to tell me how you came by it?”
“Like I said last night. Pure chance.”
Morgrim sat in the chair opposite and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankle to expose red boots, dyed the same shade as the flashes in his robes. He tilted his head, gazing up at Fenn and the horse. His pose was that of a man taking his ease, but the hem of his robe was quivering. Was he cold? Excited? Tense? Was he one of those tightly wound bastards who’d act calm and then up and brain Fenn with the poker? There was a poker too, a wicked long pointy one, hanging on a stand near the sorcerer’s right hand.
