Page 46 of Ink Blood Sister Scribe

As always, he couldn’t help leaning into the unexpected touch. She quickly took her hand away and said to Richard, “He doesn’t have a fever, at any rate.”

They were in the dining room eating a very pink rack of lamb rubbed in rosemary, and the bloody, herbal smell was nauseating. It reminded Nicholas too much of making ink to tempt his appetite.

“You’ve been out of sorts for weeks,” said Richard, “and Mr. Oxley tells me you barely got an eighty percent on your last test, which isn’t at all like the hardworking student I know you to be. Is anything wrong?”

“No,” Nicholas said, pushing a pile of sautéed spinach around his enormous porcelain plate. “Everything’s boring.”

“We could go to the cinema tomorrow,” Richard suggested. “Or see a play.”

“No.”

“A record store, then.”

“No.”

“Madame Tussauds?”

At this, Nicholas looked up, interested despite himself. He’d wanted to go to the wax museum for ages. Richard smiled and said, “I can ring them tomorrow morning and rent it for an afternoon next week. We’ll have the whole place to ourselves.”

Nicholas deflated. He didn’t want to wander around an empty museum while Richard watched him look at unmoving figurines of people. “No,” he said.

Maram, clearly impatient with the whole thing, said, “Oh, leave him. You can’t bribe someone out of a sulk.”

Stung, Nicholas shoved his plate away. “May I be excused?”

“Go ahead,” Richard said, forehead creasing, and Nicholas could feel his uncle’s concerned eyes on him as he escaped from the dining room. He was already regretting turning down a trip to Madame Tussauds, but dignity demanded he give it a few days before announcing that he’d changed his mind.

The very next morning, however, Richard knocked on his bedroom door and said, “Get dressed—something comfortable. I’ve got a little surprise for you.”

He had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and was wearing jeans, which was enough of a sartorial novelty that Nicholas’s interest was piqued. After Richard had shut the door again, he climbed out of bed, pulled on his clothes, and found his uncle waiting for him in the antechamber, sitting on the low sofa with an ankle resting on one knee, foot bouncing up and down with restrained energy. Nicholas managed to hold back his questions until he’d followed Richard down the staircase, through the corridors, and into the main entrance hall of the house.

Richard flung the doors open onto what was an altogether lovely morning in late spring. The sky was a peerless blue and the deer park covered in lush, emerald grass studded with daisies and clover and the brilliant sunshine yellow of buttercups. Insects and bumblebees hummed, birds chirped, and everything smelled sweet and fresh. The gardenergoats munched great mouthfuls of tender grass, their coats looking soft as rain, their ears pricking curiously as Nicholas and Richard tromped past.

“What are we doing?” Nicholas asked, finally.

“Tell me,” said Richard, “where are the boundaries of our wards?”

This was hardly the first time Nicholas had been grilled on this, and hardly the first time Richard had answered a question with a question, so he quickly rattled off the answer. “The road to the north. White fence to the east. Copse of trees in the south. The barn in the west.”

“Very good,” Richard said. They were at the lake now, and he stopped, heaving the duffel bag onto the stone bench to unzip it. Nicholas looked down, confused, as his uncle began to pull out what seemed like yards of rough bright fabric. His breath caught in his throat when he realized what he was looking at: a flat, woven rug. Richard shook it out and lay it on the grass beside the water, then took out the other item in the duffel.

Nicholas’s flying carpet book.

“Rumor has it you went behind my back with this,” Richard said, holding it in his hands and thumbing idly through the pages. “You were asking others to read it for you. You knew I’d disapprove, clearly.”

Nicholas was quiet, trying to gauge his uncle’s mood, to decide if he should defend himself or protest or apologize. Finally he said, “I worked really hard on it.”

“Yes,” Richard said, and closed it. “I can tell. It’s absolutely beautiful work, Nicholas. I’m really impressed.”

These words were like sun flooding an unlit room. Nicholas attempted to force his expression into one of nonchalance, but it was too difficult; he felt himself beaming. “Okay,” he said, fighting the embarrassment caused by his own transparent happiness. “Good.”

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Richard said. “I’ll read the spell and try out the rug first, and then, if it seems safe, I’ll let you on it with me.”

“Really?” Nicholas blurted. “You promise?”

“So long as it seems safe,” Richard repeated. “And so long as we don’t go past the wards.”

“It will be safe,” Nicholas said, breathless with sudden, ferocious excitement. “I put it in the book, you’ll stick, it won’t let you fall.”

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