Meggie felt alone and angry.
Whatever power had transported her into this godforsaken realm clearly didn't have her best interests in mind. In fact - far from them.
With a sigh, she tried to curb her building anxiety by burrowing deeper in the soft, worn patchwork covers. Rochelle wouldn't thank her if she started work grumpy and sleep-deprived. She was no use to anyone in that state, real or not. She sighed again, sleep stretching just beyond her reach, her limbs heavy with food and warmth but her mind whirring around stubbornly between her temples.
What was happening back home? Was Mo searching for her? Did anyone even know she had disappeared? Maybe she had been poisoned and this was all some kind of fever-dream; her consciousness trying to live out her pre-teen fantasies. That in itself was a concerning thought but she was pretty sure her mind couldn't substitute what she had experienced so far.
Her anger morphed swiftly into worry laced with panic. What if she couldn't get back? What if she was stuck here for the rest of her life?
Then you'll have to make sure that if one lonely young girl ever picks up Inkheart, you'll be a strong, important character. Not some fade-into-the-background secondary token character like one of Basta's cronies.
No.
If she couldn't be the starring role in her own life then she would goddamn make her mark in this one. Meggie was so incensed by her thoughts that she didn't see Dustfinger return. It was only when he whispered her name that she sat upright and saw him crouching at the bedside, a steaming cup in his hands.
"Drink this."
His expression was guarded but the hands that proffered the mug were gentle and Meggie hesitated, her heart thumping.
"What is it?"
A thin smile tugged at his lips.
"It's not poison, if that's what you're asking."
She bristled at this and he sighed, taking a deep pull from the container himself and smacking his lips together dramatically.
"See," he told her, "Delicious!"
When she didn't go to take it from him he perched on the edge of the bed.
"Drink. It'll help you sleep."
Meggie relented and took it from his grasp, sniffing cautiously and taking a careful sip. It was warm, sweet and spicy - similar to mulled wine.
She felt her muscles relax as it drifted into her veins, a smile curving her lips despite herself. Dustfinger, his overly-large frame bent over the bedcovers, looked nothing short of smug at her reaction; and when she openly thanked him he seemed positively delighted. However, he caught himself quickly and ducked his head, hair falling over his face to disguise the grin.
"Glad to be of service, Princess. Now get some sleep."
Before she could protest, he had reached out and swiped the last of the beverage from her fingertips, tipping it into his mouth and barely concealing a snigger at the expression on her face. Meggie opened her mouth to say something in retaliation, but words failed her. Her eyelids felt heavy and she yawned hugely, causing the man to allow a small chuckle to pass through him. He stood, up, tugging the blankets over her as she sank back onto the pillows, taking the first unbridled breath in what seemed like days.
"Get some sleep, firebird. You can face Inkworld in the morning."
As the girl's form finally relaxed, he sagged forward, his head almost touching his thighs, hands grasping his kneecaps, knuckles white with tension. His back rose as he took in a long, slow breath and let it out, raking shaking fingers through his hair.
All pretences and niceties be damned! What in the Black Prince's name was Silvertongue's daughter doing here?! Had she been read here? Written here? Summoned by a malevolent force?
She wasn't a child anymore. She wasn't even a youth. Meggie Silvertongue was a young woman, ripped from her world and catapulted into his. He felt as though his universe had been tilted like a kaleidoscope and he was stood, looking down at his life from a wonky angle, suddenly not so in control anymore.