“Come, now. You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“I broke the world,” she told the chimera. “I have no intention of doing it again.”
Peregrine lowered his sword. The flame on the blade sputtered and died. “The earthquake? That was you?”
“Yes.” She did not mention the mirror she had thrown, or the ebony-handled brush that had come with the set. Mystical or not, it remained in her bag on Thursday’s ship. Probably for the best.
“My little brother ran away and I was angry,” said Saturday. Who knew what price Trix had paid for that anger.
“Remind me never to make you angry,” said Peregrine.
“Too late,” said Saturday. She might have laughed if her limbs hadn’t felt as heavy as her heart. Responsibility burdened her already-tired soul. Her defenses were so far down that she put up no resistance when Peregrine took her in his arms and kissed her.
He was warm and clean and his kiss was soft on her sensitive lips. He held her tightly and she held him back. She reveled in his embrace like a gift she did not deserve. She clung to the feeling as he stepped away, knowing that the moment she let it go, the guilt and filth and exhaustion would subsume her.
If Peregrine started reciting love poems, she would punch him. But when he finally opened his mouth to speak, what he said was “Turn the rake around and shovel with the handle.”
It took her a moment for his words to register. Saturday relaxed her clenched fist.
“You can sleep here tonight.” He crossed the room to where he had fallen and slid the runesword into his belt before picking up the gauntlet, still damp with gryphon’s tears.
Sleep here? In the wretched cold, with no fire or pallet or blankets? There were but a few torches on the walls . . . and then Saturday remembered the flaming sword. She’d make do. She thought she heard something scurry away in the shadows, but she paid it no heed.
“We’ll find you tomorrow. Good night, Saturday.”
And with that, they were gone.
10
Destined for Destruction
“WHAT WAS that?” asked Betwixt.
“A very good question covering a myriad of subjects,” Peregrine said in a scholarly tone. He’d waited until they were some distance away from the armory before wiping his face with the end of his sleeve. It would have been a rude thing to do in front of Saturday. He sniffed his shirt; her smell still lingered on him. It wasn’t pleasant. The kiss, however, was another matter. Peregrine wiped his mouth again and grinned into the cloth. “Where would you like to begin?”
“Let’s start with the kiss.”
The kiss. The thought made Peregrine’s knees tingle, and every fiber in his body that wasn’t furious smiled. “Okay. So . . . you were right.”
“While that’s usually true,” said Betwixt, “that’s not the answer I was looking for.”
“Does Saturday look familiar to you?”
“Of course,” said the chimera. “She looks like Jack.”
“That’s what I thought too. At first.” They came to a split in the tunnel. Peregrine decided there was more work to do in the kitchen, so he selected the one on the left. “And then I realized I’d seen a face like hers more recently than that. So have you.”
The chimera whiffled through his beak. “I have?”
“It was her eyes that did it. Her eyes and that mad grin as we prepared to fight.”
“When you dropped your sword.”
“She looked at me with those bright eyes filled with fury, and I knew.” He’d known her then for who she was, just as he’d known his heart and soul were lost forever. He should have recognized her when the gods delivered her to his doorstep.
“You knew that I was right?”
“I knew that Elodie of Cassot was not the woman in my visions.”
Betwixt yowled. “Oh, gods. Your infernal sketchings. That was Saturday?” The catbird yowled again in affirmation. “That was Saturday!”
Peregrine balanced the tear-stained gauntlet and the torch while he lifted his skirt to maneuver around the small pillars and rock shelves in the floor. “‘Infernal.’ So apt a description.” Here and there the runesword scraped against the calcite, leaving a trail of glittering snow in his wake.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to change my shirt and wash my face. I will not be kissing that girl again until she’s had a proper bath. Then I plan on burning a few of my possessions before the witch can get her claws on them. Want to help?”
Betwixt swatted at Peregrine’s skirt with a paw. “That’s not what I meant.”
“You mean what am I going to do about being in love with Stubborn-Britches Woodcutter when I’m betrothed to another woman?”
The gryphon’s chuckle was more of a fluttery purr. “It is a dilemma.”
Peregrine raised a finger. “You’re not seeing the bigger picture, my friend. As a traitorous birdie-witch just told us, we’re all about to die. That pipe dream I had of returning to the world? Never going to happen. For once, I hope that after all this time dear Elodie was smart enough to carry on without me.”
“I hope so too,” said Betwixt. “For her sake, and yours.”
Peregrine was too wound up for serious conversation. Having reached the kitchen, he walked straight up to the shelves that contained most of his pantry items. He carefully poured the last few gryphon’s tears into an empty vial, and then slipped the vial into his pocket. The next vial he picked up and threw into the fireplace. The glass broke and spiced mold spilled everywhere. The smokeless coals began to emit strange violet fumes.
“So, since our happy, comfortable lives will be cut short in the very near future, I feel that we should live every second as if it were our last.” A hammered helmet full of dried mushrooms exploded against the back wall. Several pieces of coal shot out of the chimney alcove and sizzled as they burned shallow holes in the icerock floor. “Don’t you agree?”
“I’m not so sure,” muttered the chimera.
Every piece of armor held something in this pantry, and Peregrine was of a mind to destroy it all. A pauldron of brownie teeth followed the mushrooms.
“I am free to love Saturday Woodcutter all I want. I can hug her and kiss her and fight her and reveal my deep and abiding love for her as we’re freezing to death on the mountainside or sucked through a demon hole. Which would you prefer?” He dumped out a poleyn of dried seeds he’d been saving. There was nothing to save them for now.
“You’re still upset,” said the chimera.
“Right again!” cried Peregrine. “Why have I never realized just how astute you are? We should celebrate. A shame there’s no alcohol. We could have a toast.”
“You never liked it anyway,” said the chimera.
“Not the point! But since there’s no alcohol, I say we continue burning things.” Having reached the back of the shelf, he extracted Leila’s handmade book of recipes and spells. The pages were a mixture of parchment and animal skins and other substances that Peregrine was happy not to know. Several loose sheets fluttered to the ground as he carried it to the fireplace. He snatched them back up again—every shred of this book must be destroyed. Leila herself had instructed as much in the frontispiece, and now Peregrine knew why: the lorelei needed more avenues for her power like the world below needed a waking dragon. He’d risk forgetting these tidbits of wicked wisdom in the short time they had left in this prison.
“Peregrine, I’ve never seen you like this,” said Betwixt. “Should I be worried?”
Peregrine did not answer, watching the fireplace as the flames licked the pages. The edges blackened and curled in on each other. The smoke that rose from the book was chartreuse and white, and the overpowering smell of cinnamon filled the room.