He backed out of the coach, nudged the door closed with his shoulder, and stood for a moment, his heart pounding wildly. If whoever had brought the simulacrum came now . . . He could not fight with the child in his arms and a magical attack or defense . . . he had no idea what effect it would have on the changeling. Denoriel looked frantically around the carriage house for a place to hide what he held.In the next instant he realized he could not hide the boy—no! the construct—here in the carriage house. Whoever had brought him—it—would feel its presence. Denoriel stared down at the bundle in his arms, feeling the warmth, the steady breathing, the relaxation that felt like trust. He knew that what he should do was draw the magic out of the—the thing and let it crumple to nothingness. His gorge rose and he swallowed hard, clutching the little boy closer in his arms.He would bring it to Mwynwen. Perhaps she could save it, set a spell on it so that it could draw power from the rich flow Underhill.
