Charlotte, Beckett, Swanmere lives as her father's untrimmed hedge.
Merlot Rainbaum searches for a miracle cure to heal her mother, who is none other than the Queen of the Mermaids.
Railey Ferntoss, renown across the Western Sector as the Dragon Mas...
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"Really?" Brat raised one brow. "You traveled pretty far while following orders for you to not be able to follow them."
I frowned, my eyebrows bumping together in the middle of my head. "You're saying I'm good at following orders? I didn't know where I was going, and I almost died, like, seventy times."
"Charlotte—" Brat trilled, and my skin broke out in familiar goosebumps. This child copied how Headmaster Ralph said my name. Slapping a hand on the cushion with a dull thwap, the Goddess's messenger leaned forward. "As always, everything you say makes me angry." It smiled, pointy canines glooming menacingly. This nymph was supposed to offer guidance under the Goddess's name? Not with a smile like that. "If you can't acknowledge your successes, then how are you ever going to change that self-doubt? You, by yourself, got to the Haspa Mines without dying. That's a success, lady. Take it."
I know I shouldn't turn defensive, but it happened anyway. Crossing my arms, I leaned into the chair behind me until a fluttering of wings slid the seat away as the baby dragon tried reclaiming its space bubble. "So I do one thing right and suddenly I'm not useless anymore? Is that how it works?"
"You. Are such. A pain." Brat's eyes flashed, like, really flashed. It looked like the sun eclipsed its muddy brown irises for a mere instant, but then it was over. I blinked, in case it was my messed-up vision again. "I can't talk to bullheaded elvants like you."
Please. This child was calling me an elvant?
"This is just what I am," I said, pretending my voice didn't crack even once. "You said you knew everything, so you must know that I'm a failure. And yeah, yeah, I get it. That's not an excuse. Whatever. It's not like trying actually helps anyway. I was born this way. I can't change it. It's not something that can be changed. You wouldn't understand because you have everything all figured out, don't you?"
"You just had to turn it on me, didn't you?" Brat rose up onto its knees, the Pixie-made device thudding out of my sight. There was no expression on its face. A spike of fear curdled in my chest, spreading out to all my limbs. I hated those faces the most. Father always wore a blank one, too. How could I brace myself if I couldn't see what was coming?
I bared my teeth. "What of it? What are you going to do?"
A pause was followed by the quiet snuff of the dragon. I glanced behind me to see it rounded into a ball on the cushion. For such a big thing, it sure could curl into a tiny little circle. Soft snores rippled through those furry white cheeks like a blanket swaying on a clothesline.
"I don't have a name..." Brat began, mulling over the words before they left its mouth. Each one appeared to taste sour, though its palette didn't seem to love the acrid twist of tang as much as mine did. "...because I haven't earned one yet."
