Seabell ran into the back of him, as she had a tendency to do during the clandestine parts of their missions, and Chandler should have been well used to it by now, but he was not.
"Will you be careful?" he hissed. He heard the frantic vibration of her second gossamers as she righted herself.
"Wet floor," she whispered apologetically.
"It is not." He granted it was a little waxy, though. Mrs. Newburg had been snowed in for eleven days, and it wasn't a surprise she'd had little to do but polish and pace the floorboards.
He set the basket of food on the table, taking care that the jar of peach preserves did not clink against the jar of mushroom and noodle soup. Chef Selly's boistrous voice floated unbidden across his memory, calling out 'shrooms and noddles!' in the busy kitchens back at headquarters. The smell of bread was also making his stomach growl
( ... )
"You don't have to be so mean about it!" Seabell wailed.
"Don't mind him, kitten, he's always cranky when he has to fly." Chef Selly handed the young woman a spoon covered in icing, as if she were twelve and crying over a playground scuffle.
Face burning with mortification and rage, Chandler mopped up the mess he'd made with rags from the scrap bin. He was trembling with the nearness of getting caught, or worse, though admittedly less likely, shot. Breezy supervised him with her lips in a grim line, holding her best mop well at bay until he'd cleaned up the worst of it. "We tell you and tell you not to drink beforehand," she scolded. "You're so stubborn."
"And I tell you and tell you it's the only way I can face going!"
"You'll be facing Madcarver one of these days, rum and whiskey's supposed to be for the chosens."
"Well, I want to see him. Right now, tonight!" Chandler jabbed a finger at the floor for emphasis. "I'm not doing this any more! It's not even my fault I'm even here, it's... it's..." he straightened and glared
( ... )
Everywhere Chandler went in the following days he was accompanied by a fog of whispers swirling around his periphery.
"Who's he going to pick?"
"Do you think he'll decide today?"
He ate his meals alone, he spent hours in his quarters with a map of the waterfront community where the sea nymph and her nine children lived in a dilapidated house of driftwood on the beach, just alongside the harbor with its system of interconnected docks. He thought about who to choose as his flyer. There were three groups of people who had flyer capabilities: the Lusians, the elves, and the Glissers.
Of Lusians, there was currently only one: Seabell. She had already come to him to volunteer, and he already had told her no, and there had been a very unpleasant scene that Chandler did not want to look back on, as it filled him with guilt and regret. Seabell was a sweet kid, really, and she had saved his life once upon a time, even though the result of that hadn't been exactly what he'd wanted
( ... )
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"Will you be careful?" he hissed. He heard the frantic vibration of her second gossamers as she righted herself.
"Wet floor," she whispered apologetically.
"It is not." He granted it was a little waxy, though. Mrs. Newburg had been snowed in for eleven days, and it wasn't a surprise she'd had little to do but polish and pace the floorboards.
He set the basket of food on the table, taking care that the jar of peach preserves did not clink against the jar of mushroom and noodle soup. Chef Selly's boistrous voice floated unbidden across his memory, calling out 'shrooms and noddles!' in the busy kitchens back at headquarters. The smell of bread was also making his stomach growl ( ... )
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"Don't mind him, kitten, he's always cranky when he has to fly." Chef Selly handed the young woman a spoon covered in icing, as if she were twelve and crying over a playground scuffle.
Face burning with mortification and rage, Chandler mopped up the mess he'd made with rags from the scrap bin. He was trembling with the nearness of getting caught, or worse, though admittedly less likely, shot. Breezy supervised him with her lips in a grim line, holding her best mop well at bay until he'd cleaned up the worst of it. "We tell you and tell you not to drink beforehand," she scolded. "You're so stubborn."
"And I tell you and tell you it's the only way I can face going!"
"You'll be facing Madcarver one of these days, rum and whiskey's supposed to be for the chosens."
"Well, I want to see him. Right now, tonight!" Chandler jabbed a finger at the floor for emphasis. "I'm not doing this any more! It's not even my fault I'm even here, it's... it's..." he straightened and glared ( ... )
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"Who's he going to pick?"
"Do you think he'll decide today?"
He ate his meals alone, he spent hours in his quarters with a map of the waterfront community where the sea nymph and her nine children lived in a dilapidated house of driftwood on the beach, just alongside the harbor with its system of interconnected docks. He thought about who to choose as his flyer.
There were three groups of people who had flyer capabilities: the Lusians, the elves, and the Glissers.
Of Lusians, there was currently only one: Seabell. She had already come to him to volunteer, and he already had told her no, and there had been a very unpleasant scene that Chandler did not want to look back on, as it filled him with guilt and regret. Seabell was a sweet kid, really, and she had saved his life once upon a time, even though the result of that hadn't been exactly what he'd wanted ( ... )
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