Page 61 of Wizards & Weavers
That last part had been said much louder, called over her shoulder and toward the open door.
“He carried you here by himself, you know?” Elyssandra said, her knowing smile growing smugger and smugger with each passing moment.
“Who did?” Braiden asked, defiant, a brat to the bitter end.
“You said his name before, when you were having your lovely little dream. No harm in saying it again.”
Braiden snatched a pillow and smushed it over his face, silencing a frustrated grunt. Too late he realized that it was one of Augustin’s pillows. It carried his smell, that strange, salted fragrance of flowers and open ocean.
“Is he strong enough to eat?” Warren’s voice asked from the doorway. “What’s he doing?”
“Strong enough to go huffing pillows, at least,” Elyssandra said. “Bring it in.”
Braiden knew when he was beaten. He set the pillow aside and crossed his arms, frowning up at her face. She smiled sweetly back.
Warren strode in through the doorway, the tips of his ears brushing against the top of the doorframe. It was amusing to see the burrowfolk scout slip so easily into such a homey role, a frillyapron draped down his lean, furry body, his forehead knitted in concentration as he carried a wooden tray.
It was a breakfast table, actually, the kind with short folding legs, and on top of it —
“Oh, gods,” Braiden breathed. “Rooty tooty stew. That looks amazing.”
Warren grinned as he set the table down around Braiden’s thighs.
“Sit up so you can eat. I brought some from the village to fortify our rations. And it’s best if you eat it with this stuff.”
He pointed at a basket of white discs, their floury surfaces speckled with toasty brown. Braiden grinned. Flatbread, burrowfolk style.
“Tear them up to dip in the stew, or use them to scoop up the vegetables. It’s delicious either way.”
Braiden grimaced as he pushed himself up, his limbs still a little heavy, but his stomach pointedly ordering him to eat. He looked between the two before continuing, hands hovering over the basket of flatbread. Warren nodded.
“Go ahead. We had plenty to eat ourselves. There’s still some left over when you finish.”
Braiden cocked an eyebrow, glancing at Elyssandra, curious, yet still too stubborn to phrase his question. She rolled her eyes.
“Yes, Augustin already ate as well.”
That was all the permission Braiden needed. He tore into the flatbread — literally — pinching up quartered potatoes with the skin still on, bright orange wheels of carrot, buttery bits of mushroom. The rest he ate with a wooden spoon, scooping it out of the polished wooden bowl, soaking up the last drops of gravy with scraps of flatbread.
Elyssandra’s cottage really was so well stocked, all the matching cutlery, and a breakfast tray, too? He leaned back in bed, patting his stomach, savoring the rich remnants of theburrowfolk stew before he took a long, delicious drink of cool water.
“Hmm,” Braiden said, staring down into the glass. “It’s so different when the water isn’t fizzy.”
“We found a pool of fizzy spring water,” Elyssandra explained to Warren. “It’s very good with some crushed-up berries for flavor.”
“Right, right,” Warren said, nodding in understanding. “The fizzy stuff is good for a treat, but it gives you the rooty tooties something fierce.”
Braiden laughed, swirling the water in his glass until it made a little whirlpool, a tiny liquid tornado. He could tell Elyssandra was watching him, and he knew that she knew what he was thinking, too.
She heaved a great, exasperated sigh, then nudged her head toward the door. “He’s in the other room, cleaning up a storm. Frankly, I think the two of you are being babies about this, but you should probably go and have a talk.”
“Not a baby,” Braiden said, throwing the blanket off in a huff, then suddenly remembering himself. “And thank you for the lovely dinner.”
Warren swept into a low, slightly mocking bow. Elyssandra coughed into her fist, disguising yet another amused smirk. As Braiden stomped dramatically for the door, he noted his backpack sitting on a stool by the foot of the bed, presumably with all of those accursed Il-venessi dragons sorted back into his coin purse.
Wait. Augustin was cleaning up a storm? And what did Elyssandra mean by “the other room,” exactly? Braiden strode out into the cottage’s common room, fists held tight, full of vim and vigor — or was it piss and vinegar? He always hated that expression.
He passed the stove with its still-warm pot of leftover stew, eyeing the closed door leading to Elyssandra’s bedroom, then the slightly ajar one for the common lavatory. Was that what Elyssandra meant? Surely the Wizard of Weathervale wasn’t working out his anger by cleaning the toilet.
