Bloodrush (Scarlet Star Trilogy #1)

Chapter 8 - The Man and the Magpie

'Must keep running. I'm not letting that fucking Queen win this. I'm not going to die on her terms.'

7th May, 1867

For the first time in over a fortnight, Merion awoke to find his bed was not trembling. That is, his head was comfortably wedged on a friendly pillow, rather than a stranger's lap, and neither was it numb from being pressed against a rattling window. A scraping noise had awoken him. It was coming from under the bed. Merion opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. The light was streaming throughout the holes in his curtains and making his room glow. It was too bright and cheery for his liking. He reached for the blanket and pulled it over his face. It smelled like mothballs.

'Must you always sharpen your sword this early in the morning?' he asked in a muffled voice.

'Best time to do it,' came the equally muffled reply. Merion felt Rhin's words reverberate in the centre of his back. 'Never know what'll happen after breakfast.

The very mention of food stoked a fire in Merion's belly. He was ravenous after emptying his stomach into the bucket the night before. The whiff of eggs and bacon sneaking through the cracks in his door did not help matters. If he concentrated, he could hear his aunt whistling in the kitchen. Before Merion braved the sunlight, he turned his mind to his day and what he would accomplish. Was he sure he wanted to do this, to brave the rail and the high seas all over again? Merion was not truly sure, but that sounded all too much like giving in—and Harks did not give in. The only way out was through. Merion spent the next five minutes with his eyes scrunched up tight, devising a plan, tiptoeing along the edges of slumber at the same time.

Rhin's voice brought him abruptly back to reality. 'You getting up or not?' he asked.

'Yes indeed.' Merion said, and via his strength of purpose and hunger, he threw himself out of bed and onto the wooden floor. He was surprised to find the planks were warm under his bare feet, in contrast to the cold rug and marble of his vast bedroom in Harker Sheer. Merion grumbled as he reached for his shoes.

Rhin poked his head out from under the bed. 'Bacon and eggs. Sounds great.'

'Yes, yes, I'll see what I can do. You just worry about your sword,' Merion said, mumbling around a yawn.

'And beans too, if there are any. I hear Americans like their beans.'

'And just where did you hear that?'

'On the train.'

Merion shrugged. They had heard a lot of things on the train. 'Fine. Keep quiet.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Merion opened the door and was instantly enveloped in a wall of grey smoke. He grimaced and put a hand to his mouth. 'Aunt Lilain?' he yelled. 'Something appears to be on fire!'

'Only me!' came the reply, from the right. He could see a shape moving about in the smoke. 'Now, I don't normally cook, so my apologies if it ain't what you're used to.'

Merion's stomach didn't care. It dragged him forwards into the smoke and into a chair at the small round table in the centre of the kitchen. Lilain busied about the room, checking pans and stirring the contents of assorted bowls. A plate landed in front of him. Its edges were so hot they burnt Merion's fingers when he tried to move it closer. The breakfast came slowly at first, in little bits and pieces, splatters and splotches. Soon enough it became a landslide. Bowls began to gather around his plate, full of porridge and jam and milk and sauces. Sausages rained. Beans spread like oil slicks. Slices of toast began to tower around him. Merion could barely get his fork in edgeways as the food kept coming. It wasn't long before he was staring at a fortress of a plate. Merion didn't even know where to start.