“Your sword?” I huffed. “Dropped it, I’m afraid,” he replied. He staggered a bit but managed to keep his feet. “Give me another pencil.” “I only had the one on me!” “One? Who are you?” His teasing didn’t allay my worry, though; I had never seen him so spent. Was he truly immune to faerie poison, or was it merely a slow-acting draught? “A pen, then.” “Goddamn you.” I found one of my pens in another pocket and tossed it at him. “If you’ve magicked any of my books, I will shove you into that river with the sheerie.”
