2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

I had survived the Wyrm—survived Amarantha. And I had been granted gifts.
Considerable gifts.
Like strength.
I was strong.
I slammed a hand against the chimney wall, as low as I could get. The Weaver hissed at
the debris that rained down. I smashed my fist again, rallying that strength.
I was not a pet, not a doll, not an animal.
I was a survivor, and I was strong.
I would not be weak, or helpless again. I would not, could not be broken. Tamed.
I pounded my fist into the bricks over and over, and the Weaver paused.
Paused long enough for the brick I’d loosened to slide free into my waiting palm.
And for me to hurl it at her hideous, horrible face as hard as I could.
Bone crunched and she roared, black blood spraying. But I rammed my shoulders into
the sides of the chimney, skin tearing beneath my leather. I kept going, going, going, until
I was stone breaking stone, until nothing and no one held me back and I was scaling the
chimney.
I didn’t dare stop, not as I reached the lip and hauled myself out, tumbling onto the
thatched roof. Which was not thatched with hay at all.
But hair.
And with all that fat lining the chimney—all that fat now gleaming on my skin … the
hair clung to me. In clumps and strands and tufts. Bile rose, but the front door banged
open—a shriek following it.
No—not that way. Not to the ground.
Up, up, up.
A tree branch hung low and close by, and I scrambled across that heinous roof, trying
not to think about who and what I was stepping on, what clung to my skin, my clothes. A
heartbeat later, I’d jumped onto the waiting branch, scrambling into the leaves and moss as
the Weaver screamed, “WHERE ARE YOU?”
But I was running through the tree—running toward another one nearby. I leaped from
branch to branch, bare hands tearing on the wood. Where was Rhysand?
Farther and farther I fled, her screams chasing me, though they grew ever-distant.
Where are you, where are you, where are you—
And then, lounging on a branch in a tree before me, one arm draped over the edge,
Rhysand drawled, “What the hell did you do?”
I skidded to a stop, breathing raw. I thought my lungs might actually be bleeding.