Wednesday has come around again and I’m happy to present this week’s flash fiction.
There had been many theories about how she had been murdered. Arwith’s least favorite was food poisoning.
Food poisoning? The insult of it. She tossed her hair and paced the cramped crypt. As if she, Arwith, chief to the bestiary, could possibly prepare food resulting in her demise.
The door grated on infrequently oiled hinges, and she spun tapping her foot.
Graffin stopped just inside at her glowering, pushing a cart between them. “You should be hiding. What if I’d been someone else?”
Arwith snorted. “Someone else? Like the biddies come to mock, I mean mourn my unrealistic passing?” She tapped her foot more furiously. “Who could buy your lie!”
Graffin winced, the least chagrin her could show, in Arwith’s opinion. Too quickly replaced by a shrug. “Apparently, all of them.”
Arwith drew back as if struck. She huffed and stalked the ten feet to the crypt’s far corner. Moments later Graffin squeezed her shoulder. Arwith threw it off with an annoyed glower.
“I’m the royals mythics’ chief!” Graffin held up his hands placatingly. “How could you perverse my reputation so?” Arwth advanced as he retreated. “How?”
“Because of this!” His voice echoed.
They paused listening and found silence. Nodding, Graffin turned to the cart and pulled off its covering drape.
Arwith gasped. Rushing forward, she ran gentle hands over the shell, already considering recipes. There hadn’t been an infant dragon in centuries.
Finally, a challenge worth her skills: feeding a baby dragon. She grinned at Graffin. “You’re my favorite.”
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