Page 121 of Nine-Tenths

"Yeah, yeah," I grumble.

"Here," Dav says, handing Janet a black credit card through the window. "Take yourself somewhere lovely for dinner. We'll text when we're ready."

Janet grins. "Thanks, sir."

As she pulls away, another limo comes up the drive. It would be weird if we were still dawdling on the steps when they pull up. So I square my shoulders, screw up my courage, and let him lead me on.

Favorites don'thaveto stand a few steps behind a dragon, but Dav thinks it would give the old-fashioned dragons in the room a favorable impression if I did so, at least when we enter. I hate the idea that I'm supposed to behave as if I'm grateful to be able to toddle along in his wake, but wearehere to appease.

Not to challenge.

Not yet, at least.

At the top of the stairs, we’re met with grandly carved wooden doors depicting scenes of early 1800s post-war bucolic bliss. In the bias relief, farmers trade swords for plowshares; the Failed Rebellion of 1837 is put down; shackles fall away from the wrists of grateful enslaved Africans; Indigenous humans lead settlers to happier lands; and glorified portraits of the ten Fathers of the Family Compact, the dragons who came up with our system of government, and guide it all benevolently. The dragon’s names are inscribed into their hides so the observer knows who each is. As if any kid who went to school in Upper Canada wouldn't.

The scene is a mix of things I consider genuinely celebratory, and things that anger me now that I'm in the middle of the game, and have a better understanding of draconic politics.

The door reminds me of the front gate at the farm. Is this a thing all dragons do—lay out their accomplishments in figures and façades, so anyone entering their nesting ground knows who they are, and what they’ve accomplished?

If so, it’s telling that Dav's is devoid of any depiction of violence. The thing he is proudest of, the thing he wishes to show the world, are his accomplishments in wine-making and farming. All the human figures on his gate are fat and cheerful, and the dragon’s wings are outstretched to protect them.

In the center of this door, the dragon depicted is more cat-faced than Dav, with prominent nostrils and ghoulish eyes. The body is serpentine, but the legs and tail are lion-esque, with a sharp-spined sail down the back. According to the little name carved into the scales, this is Simcoe the elder.

I wonder how much it burns Francis to walk through his father's doors. I bet Chorley Park’s are bigger and more elaborate. Francis strikes me as the kind who needs to one-up his dead dad.

When we reach the top of the steps, two honest-to-god-footmen pull the doors open for us. We’re greeted with a blast of warm air, and the sounds of a live orchestra playing somewhere in the depths of the building. We step into the vestibule, filled with tastefully spoopy flower arrangements on pedestals. We take a moment to smooth out each other's jackets, and adjust our masks.

"Now, Mine Own, when you’re introduced, no handshakes. You may not touch the skin of another dragon. It's—"

"Onatah's already told me."

"She has?" Dav asks, startled. "I'm grateful, it’s—"

The next set of doors, opened by another pair of footmen—oh my god, their jobs must be so boring—depriving us of privacy. Whatever Dav is grateful for, I don’t know. But as long as I don't touch anyone, I won't break any more dragony taboos. That's all that matters.

The vestibule deposits us in a room that looks more like a large drawing room than the sort of grand affair I assumed Lt. Gov. Poshbritches would go in for. The floors are gleaming dark wood, the walls paneled in the same, and there’s an absolutely massive fireplace taking up most of the far wall. There are two doors, one on either side of the open hearth, and I can see right through the fire to the ballroom beyond.

The front room itself is dotted with spindly, fancy conversation sofas and delicate tea tables, antique and uncomfortable. Despite that, there are a few people taking advantage of them, sipping from fancy glasses, dressed in their own colorful versions of the masquerade historical attire from every century. The decorations here match the room—tasteful wire-work bats, orange glitter gourds piled like a television decorating hostess herself had fairy-godmothered each one, and a galaxy of paper lanterns in the shapes of stars and all the phases of the moon hanging from the ceiling. The fire is burning green from some additive, and it's a cooler effect than I expected to find in Simcoe's party cabin.

Dav enters first, and immediately what I had assumed was just a large group of people chilling by the entrance rearranges itself into a receiving line. Dragons in front, humans lined up just behind them—some in the same livery as the door guys, some in costumes, and one holding a big silver tray of champagne flutes I don't want anywhere near me in case the trashfire part of my personality flares up. That's a lot of breakables.

Around the room, several people lift their faces, not exactly as if they're sniffing the air, but more like someone had strunga wire between them and Dav, and then plucked it. They're all dragons. I can tell because they've got that deeply magnetic air about them. That, and a smattering of their scales are out, too.

They all incline their heads politely, adding a flourish with their hands beside their faces that evokes a lick of flame. Dav returns the gesture, grave and performative.

"What was that?" I whisper.

"Just a hello."

"Oh. Should, I, uh, do the same?"

"No. When you've been presented formally, bow at the waist, with a fist over your heart."

"Ugh," I reply.

Dav cuts his twinkling grin at me. "Indeed."

The lamplight shines over his scales, cute wee ones running up the shell of his now-slightly-pointed-ear, winking like garnets. Here's another way Dav's different. Everyone else's scales are all shades of blue, green, and brown. I don't see any other red. Is it because Dav's descended from that important Welsh guy?