A Fifth Daughter [Book 1: The Dragon Rider]

Chapter ~ 5

~ Chapter 5: Knock, Knock. Who's There? Questions... ~

Two bags – one full of clothes, the other with odds and books – and my purse sit by my bedroom door, waiting patiently for tomorrow to come. I, on the other hand, am not waiting patiently for tomorrow. I pace up and down the room length, sighing loudly and tugging my hair in slight frustration and in major nerves. Carma is reading a book in her bed, her lamp the only thing providing light in our room. She's only given me slight looks of sympathy and annoyance, but she hasn't said anything about my constant moving.

"I think I've finally reached my limit of fear." I mutter, tapping a finger against my cheek.

Carma makes a noise that would sound like a grunt if she wasn't trying to cover it up with a cough. "You shouldn't be so worried. It's only for two weeks."

I frown and finally stop moving to look at her. "How do you know that?"

She shrugs and turns a page. "Mom said Mr. Oxford dared, or challenged you to go to Dragonmage for two weeks."

"How does she know that?"

Another shrug. "She was in the room with you."

That's true, but she hasn't said anything to me about it.

"Don't think too hard on it, Mom knows everything." That's also true – annoyingly. Carma shuts her book and puts it on her nightstand. "Now, go get in bed. I'm turning off my light."

I obey, only because tripping over things isn't fun. My bed is cocooned in bookshelves, which are filled to the brim with books. A knee-high wall creates the perfect nightstand. I've been collecting books for as long as I can remember. The first one was Little Red Riding Hood, the latest being the one Mother Tyra is letting me borrow. Which reminds me that I need to read it, and probably before I leave tomorrow morning.

The book is on my nightstand glaring at me as I turn on my lamp. The fine, swirling writing seems to be glowing and the book looks very warn and very tattered. The pages are falling out and the bind bent from overuse. This is the book of a writer placing his thoughts into words. This is a book waiting to be read. And I'm afraid that that reader is me.

Sighing, holding my breath, and fidgeting are just a few of the things I do as I procrastinate my way to the book. But with great gusto, bravery, or whatever else might be considered a worthy adjective toward my situation; I pick up the book.

That wasn't so hard, now was it? I hate the voice in my head right now.

I open the book somewhere in the middle and low and behold; words. There are words everywhere: In the margins, between the lines, and each page number is scribbled in pen. It looks more like a journal than a guide book to Fifth Daughters. But ignoring that, I turn to the beginning and prepare myself for whatever is waiting for me.