Scent of an Angel

Nancy Springer

Description

When a dog discovers that he can't be a witch's familiar because he's white, he sets off on a quest to be the faithful aide to an angel. As his sense of smell leads him from one person in need to another, will he find the ethereal being he's looking for or will his nose, in fact, lead him to the last place he'd ever expect to find his real purpose in life? A short story.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Short story
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Untreed Reads
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 0001
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781611873085
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Scent of an Angel
By Nancy Springer
Copyright 2012 by Nancy Springer
Cover Copyright 2012 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published in GUARDIAN ANGELS, Martin H. Greenberg, Ed., Cumberland House, 2000.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
http://www.untreedreads.com
The Scent of an Angel
By Nancy Springer
I am a couple hundred years old now, but I was just a nameless he-puppy in my first fur when I chose for myself an oddling’s path. A long, weathersome road it’s been, and sore paw pads. It happened because—there is no telling why it happened, really. But on the surface of it, it happened because I bespoke the haughty, braggart cat from the neighboring cottage.
A fat black cat, larger than I was, with her tail in the air. “My mistress is a witch,” she told me with a glare of her copper eyes, “and I am her familiar. Why should I hold converse with you, dog?”
Having experienced little more than cuffs and harsh words in my young life, I was not offended. My mother was dead, her head crushed in the jagged jaws of a bear trap, so there was no one to teach me that cats were meant to be chased. In my puppy mind I accepted the tales the cat told me as simply as I had accepted my mother’s death. “Is the old woman truly a witch?” I asked humbly. I had heard the humans say that the bent old crone in the next cottage was a witch. They said they could tell because she lived all alone and talked to herself. They said her mumbling made hens lay bloody eggs and milk cows go dry, and she could do worse than that with her evil eye.