Simon had only to look at his own cracked-nail, pink-boiled paws to know that he was no great lord’s orphan son. He was a scullion and a corner sweeper, and that was that. At a not much greater age, everyone knew, King John had slain the Red Dragon. Simon wrestled with brooms and pots. Not that it made much difference: it was a different, quieter world than in John’s youth, thanks largely to the old king himself. No dragons—living ones, anyway—inhabited the dark, endless halls of the Hayholt. But Rachel—as Simon often cursed to himself—with her sour face and terrible, tweezing fingers, was
...more
