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The babes were immediately curious about the sweets, with their little noses twitching before she’d even gotten the spill untwisted. “If I may?” she asked, looking at Rathen.

“There is little that upsets a dragon’s stomach,” he assured her. “And nothing you are likely to have.”

Including ourselves, Kit thought, wondering if he would have given the great beast indigestion. Probably not, he decided, as the babes mobbed Gillian. But unlike him, she appeared to have no fear of either claws nor sharp-edged scales.

“No, no, no,” she told them. “One at a time!”

And to Kit and Rathen’s amusement, they obeyed, quieting down at a mother’s stern tone and waiting to be fed. Which she did, and soon had three devoted acolytes, who had apparently never tasted sugar before. They seemed in favor of it.

Like any child, Kit thought. And suddenly, he laughed. It was just so absurd, to find himself perched on the side of a massive cliff in Faerie with his new lover at his side, feeding sweets to a group of baby dragons. Never in his life, be it short or long, would he forget this.

Gillian looked at him, and her own face reflected the wonder he felt. Her eyes were almost as big as the huge bright orange ones of the babes, and that was despite the fact that they had slobbered all over her palm. She didn’t seem to care.

She laughed instead, showing her now empty hands to the little ones, who nosed around for a moment to make sure they’d gotten every crumb.

“There, you have made friends this day,” Rathen told her. “And dragons have long memories. They will remember your kindness, no matter if it be centuries from now.”

She laughed. “I’m glad, but I do not think I will be around as long as they will!”

“Still, it is good for them to meet other creatures when they are so young, it—” he broke off. And then swiftly scooped up the babes in one easy motion. “Their mother returns,” he said, putting Gillian back down. “Go.”

They didn’t argue. Kit jumped down beside her, whilst Gillian made a final curtsy of thanks to Rathen-Den. Then they were running back into the close confines of the little tunnel, not even bothering to return the cushions to their place, as there was no opportunity.

But Kit stopped by the ratty old broomsticks, his hand gripping Gillian’s arm. “Should we?”

She shook her head. “I have something better.”

Before he could ask, she pulled a silver chain out of her bodice. Kit had seen it flashing against her skin, but not noticed the shape of the charm at the center of it. And he still didn’t make it out until she snatched it off her neck as they ran, as fast as the narrow confines of the corridor would allow, back down the path that had brought them there.

But the next moment—

“You keep it with you?” he said, as an old, black, gnarled staff appeared in her hand where the charm had been.

“Always.” She sent him a flirty glance. “Well, you told me to be careful, didn’t you?”

He rolled his eyes. How she could joke at a time like this, he’d never know. Especially with the sound of a great bellow reverberating through all that stone, and pelting them with scatterings of pebbles and dust, as they reached the end of the corridor.

“Get on behind me,” she told Kit breathlessly, mounting the staff, and he hurried to obey. And clutched her about the waist as they emerged flying from the towering heap of stone.

Kit had taken a trip on the staff underneath him once before. Gillian had inherited it as the last remaining Great Mother, and while it didn’t look like much, it was both longer and had considerably more power than the average broomstick. Which was fortunate, since the earth-shaking cries from a very unhappy dragon were getting louder.

He didn’t look behind them; he couldn’t afford to, as the mother’s displeasure was threatening to bring the tall fingers of surrounding rock down on their heads and he had to push a fair few back the other way.

But once they emerged from the forest of stone, he did risk a look back over his shoulder. And had his previous question answered. For Rathen was hovering near the distressed mother, only to open his great hand and present her with three very fat, very happy, and excited-looking babes.

That’s who could tame a dragon, Kit thought. And, fittingly, it was another dragon. He smiled to see them, and to see the mother sniffing her babes and then rearing back, and giving a different sort of bellow this time—a happy one.

And then he laughed, too, because how could he not? And clutched his lover tighter as they sped away, with the wind in their hair and dragon spit on their hands. And strange, beautiful cries ringing in their ears that would live forever in their hearts.

* * *

“Eira Peverell, of the Norwich coven,” Rilda said, as they walked slowly back along the path sometime later.

The old witch was doing a braid in her shaggy gray mop, and attempting to pin it up and return herself to respectability—or as close as she ever came. But the wind kept playing with it, almost mischievously, teasing out long curls that evaded her grasping fingers. Kit thought she might have had a tad too much of the little fey’s shocking brew, and hid a smile.

Gillian moved to help her, and the older woman shot her a glance of thanks.

“She had the Ring of Air,” she added. “Constance Ruggwain, Mother of the Thetford coven, had Fire.”