“We spent three days scouring the countryside for him, together with all Lord Thyme’s people, but it was as if he’d been spirited away. Can you help us, Merlin?”
The old man lost his train of thought and stared into those pale blue eyes; cold like moonlit steel. He couldn’t remember Dracomagan ever asking him for help before.
“I’m not asking for myself,” she said hastily. “But Lord Thyme is one of my most loyal subjects and besides, Parsley has rather a crush on Tym.”
Parsley blushed as pink as a summer rose and Sorrel laughed.
“How long will that last?” The tall woman mocked her affectionately.
“Can you?” Dracomagan ignored Sorrel’s banter, still staring at Merlin.
“Good.” Her Majesty turned her attention to the cold soup, mopping it up with a hunk of bread.
“I need more information though.” Merlin said reluctantly. He hated getting involved with Dracomagan’s adventures. In his experience, things always took a turn for the worse…
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© Freya Pickard 2016
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