Page 65 of Nine-Tenths

"No," Dav allows.

"Then, I don't know… we have to try harder."

"There is a blockage at her advisers," Paulette grumbles. "I do feel certain she would at least listen to your proposal, if you could—ah, but the court is so convoluted."

"So we find a way to cut through it. There's gotta be… didn’t commoners used to petition royalty directly on open court days and, I don't know, give them a chicken for their table?"

"Genovia isn't a real country," Dav reminds me with a chuckle.

He steals a sip of my beer. I may be on my third, or fourth one, I don't remember, so I'm feeling tipsy and passionate, and yeah, a little horny watching him put his mouth right where mine was not a few minutes earlier.

"What about going to tea or something, then. A social call. Surely as family—"

"Invitations of that sort must come from the queen," Paulette says. "And we've rather tipped our hand."

"Shit," I say.

"Shit all around," Paulette agrees with me in her crisp accent, and joins Owain as they head up to the bar to fetch a round.

"So what now?"

"We wait for it to blow over," Dav says. "Come back to it when Simcoe thinks we've given up."

"How long will that take?"

"A decade, maybe a bit more," Dav says slowly.

"A decade," I repeat, aghast.

"You'll live to see it," Dav assures me.

"Yeah, but maybe not my Mum. Maybe not my friends . All the good you could do right now, and we're just supposed to sit around with our thumbs up our asses? Fucking hell."

Dav wraps his arms around me and sticks his face in my neck, soothing. It’s soporific, the heat and the weight of my dragon curled around me, protecting me from the outside world and all its aggravations.

"I don't like it any more than you do," Dav assures me.

"Yeah." I run my palm along his jaw.

He needs a shave.

And maybe to sleep more. His puffy eyes rival Paulette's.

I've been sleeping like a baby. A happy contented full baby, the way I have been every night since Dav and I started having sex.

Suddenly, I feel guilty for it. Here I am, getting every advantage of swapping spit with my lover, while every other person I love is dying by inches and I… I just can't… it's not fair .

"Excuse me," I husk out, and head to the door with no clear thoughts beyond needing a few minutes of fresh air to get my shit back together.

"Good morning, mo leanbh !" Mum's voice trills across the line almost before I realize that I've called her. "How's Cardiff?"

"Damp, Mummers," I tell her honestly.

For a brief millisecond, I consider telling Mum everything.

About the enzymes, and the way that Simcoe whipped Dav, and how I'm trapped in a relationship with a man I love but in a structure we resent.

About how the dragons who hoard us all could cure her of her need for hearing aids, and knowingly, selfishly, choose not to.

About how they probably could have saved Dad—

But it’s not fair to dump it on her.

Ignorance can actually sometimes be bliss.

Instead, I punch the wall until it starts to hurt.

With my right hand, of course.

Wouldn't want to damage my new ring.

"Colin? What was that sound?"

"Nothing—some drunks on the street," I lie as I shake out my hand.

"Tell me about what you're up to, mo leanbh ," Mum hedges, not believing me. I tell her about the gardens at St. Ffagan’s, and what little of the castle I can see across the road, rising above a stone wall topping a grassy berm, and Dav's forthcoming sibling.

"Haven't gotten out to see the sights, yet?"

"Dragons aren't big on straying too far from home," I admit. "Though maybe I can convince Dav to show me all the places they filmed Doctor Who ."

"Oh. I suppose that's a shame, then. I was thinking how nice it would be for you to see your Auntie Pattie."

"Mum, Glasgow is on the other side of the island."

"Well, if it's too far, I'm sure she'd understand—" Mum stops when I groan.

No one can guilt-trip like a Scottish mother.

"Fine, but don't tell her, okay? Let me talk it over with Dav, see if we have time for it."

Our grand plans have been shot to hell.

We have nothing but time for it.

"She'll appreciate it so much," Mum enthuses, as if I've already said yes. "She hasn't seen you since you were in nappies."

Which is why I dread it. It's one thing exchanging letters and emails with a relative so distant you haven't touched them since you started kindergarten.

It's entirely another to be forced to interact with them, likely in their house, sitting on a sofa smelling of mothballs and being told stories about other relatives you don't know, or care about.

After that, Mum and I chat aimlessly for long enough that my hand starts throbbing, and I begin to regret my tantrum. There's a split on my knuckle.

I know Dav can smell the blood, because as soon as I say my goodbyes and slump inside, his head jerks up. He inspects my hand, split-tongue licking the blood away like a cat.

"The wall will always win the barfight," he murmurs.

"I'll keep that in mind," I say, and try so hard for it not to come out glum. "Also, I… sort of told my Mum that we would go to Glasgow to visit my aunt?"

"I think that's splendid," Paulette interrupts us. "Get away for a few days and think about something else."

A thought occurs to me. "Could we fly there?"

Dav laughs. "It's too far, Fy Nhrysor . It'd take days for me to carry you to Scotland—we'd have to keep stopping for rest. Far faster to drive."

"Spoilsport."