May. 16th, 2008

alhammitt_alhammittsson: (ten: well I well I just shut up)
The sea fry they’d stuck in the windowsill to keep fresh had been eaten overnight by the ants, and Mitt couldn’t help but stare at them miserably.

Siriol came up the stairs, noisy in his clogs, and came into the room without even being invited (though Mitt was too hungry to be that upset about it). “Lost your breakfast, Isee,” he said. “You’d better come round to mine and have some. And best thing I can see, Milda, is for him to sail with me in the future. I was thinking of taking an apprentice.”

“Well—” said Milda, the worried line down her cheek stark.

“Free Holanders look after their own,” said Siriol.

To say that! Siriol had betrayed his father, and let kind Canden be blown to pieces. Mitt was in a rare state of speechlessness. He had to stand there, and let Milda refuse for him—but she didn’t! She smiled gratefully at Siriol, and kept thanking him and agreeing.

All Mitt could think to say was “I don’t need breakfast,” dully.

When Siriol left he turned on Milda. “But he informed!” He yelled at her. “What did you want to go and agree for?”

Milda shrugged, face bitter. “I know. But we have to live. And maybe you’ll see your way to getting even with him if you keep close to him.”

Mitt was mollified by that.

It made a good difference that he had a job. The first day he forgot to coil a rope like Ham had shown him, though, and Siriol picked up the end of the offending rope—which was knotted-and hit Mitt across the back with it.

“Do it,” said Siriol. “Do it right. Or else. You’ll be glad to know one of these days.”

It’s from this that he wandered into the sometimes-bar, on his way back home from his first night fishing.

[Dialogue from Dianna Wynne Jones' Drowned Ammet]


alhammitt_alhammittsson: (Default)
Mitt (or Al, or Ham) son of Al (or Mitt, or Ham)

December 2009

1314 1516171819

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 24th, 2017 01:48 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios