Page 68 of Nine-Tenths

Chapter Forty-Eight

T here’s a delicious irony to the fact that Simcoe couldn't have had any freaking idea it would be my connections he had to worry about instead of Dav's.

Auntie Pattie pulls whatever strings she has hold of, and late the next morning, Dav and I are making our way through the ancient stone halls of Cardross Castle.

We hadn't brought any clothing fit for taking an audience with a king, but a quick trip to the shops as soon as they’d opened had at least landed some decent off-the-rack suits.

Mine is boring old black, though Dav has picked out a lux green shirt for me.

His suit is a gorgeously on-trend floral pattern in shades of green and dusty copper that match my shirt, and sets off his perfectly-coiffed hair.

My boyfriend (fiancé? fella?) is such a clotheshorse.

(Is the term really 'Master'? Never in a million years.)

Auntie Pattie walks a few steps behind us, in a slick pantsuit.

A few steps ahead, a footman in an old-fashioned livery blazoned with the same yellow-shield-and-red-x leads us through a vaulted gallery toward what is probably either going to be a) another fussy draconic parlor, b) some sort of conference room, or c) possibly a throne room?

I kind of want it to be C.

I've never been in a real throne room before.

It ends up being C.

Nice.

The room we’re paraded through is at least four stories high, with intricate, painted columns and bas-relief covered in gold leaf which, I'm sure, have lots of important meaning to the people who can read them.

To keep our visit as secret as possible, we were hustled in the servant's door this morning, so I don't know what Raibeart Rìgh's front door looks like, but whatever histories couldn't fit there seem to have overflowed to this ceiling.

You always sort of expect medieval castles to be gray and lightless, but the arched windows are massive, filling the room with syrupy, slanted sunbeams. Dust motes dance in the air, and there are a few loose threads on the lush red carpet.

It looks like someone actually lives here, which I like.

Dav and I pause at the base of a grand dais to bow – me with my hand over my heart – and Auntie Pattie peels off to the side to stand with a small handful of other people in equally smart suits and sparkling tokens.

At the top of the dozen or so stairs is a wide, ancient throne.

It's made of dark stone, carved with complicated Celtic knotwork. A dark red cushion on the seat supports another stone, lumpy and about the size of a wolf, and I wonder if this is the Stone of Scone that the draconic harlequins make a meal of.

And then the stone blinks.

It cracks a monumental yawn and I realize that this must be what Auntie Pattie meant by 'close to Turning Over'. Raibeart Rìgh’s hide is craggy and as gray as the highland mountains, his eyes the bold violet of the heather that dots it. He’s surprisingly…

fluffy for a dragon. His long, thin tail, which I'd mistaken for tassels on the pillow, is feathered with curls.

A mane starts around his ears and flows down over his shoulders to appendages that are rather more like paws than talons.

He mantles his wings and raises his blunt-nosed head to get us in his sights.

" An e seo an dràgon òg a tha airson an saoghal a shàbhaladh ?" he asks.

"Yes, my dear," a human says, stepping out from behind the throne. She's white, willowy, but short, and with wavy, brilliantly silver hair. At her throat shines an archaic necklace, heavy with gems and the king's signet. "Regrettably, the young Favorite only speaks English."

"Shame," the King says, the sound a cross between a thick Scots burr and the granite rumble of massive boulders grinding together. "Come closer, Dragon's Own. I am told you are descended of my hoard?"

There's a short silence, and then Dav elbows me.

Oh, I'm Dragon's Own.

"Er, my auntie's in your hoard, Your Majesty," I splutter. I take a few steps up, because the King is squinting and I wonder how good his eyesight is anymore. I just sort of hover there, not sure what to do with my hands, arms akimbo. "And my mother was born in Scotland."

"And yet you now come before me as the Favorite of a Welsh dragon," the King harrumphs and turns his head to Dav. "Little poacher."

Alarm clangs under my skin, but Dav, the bastard, just chuckles.

"Guilty as charged, Your Majesty. Had you seen how kindly and selflessly he serves his neighbors, how passionately he argues for environmental welfare, and how gently he loves his friends and family, you could hardly have blamed me."

"Doesn't hurt that he's handsome," Raibeart Rìgh chuckles.

My face immediately goes nuclear-red.

"Not in the least, Your Majesty," Dav agrees.

A loud cracking sound echoes through the gallery. It's the sound of a stone column collapsing. I flinch, but nobody around me is diving for cover, or looking up at the ceiling.

The sound was not the building shattering. It was the king standing.

Raibeart Rìgh climbs to his feet, barrel-chested and majestic. Even the stone-dust that puffs into the air glitters like fairy-dust.

"Bob, should you be—?" His Favorite asks, in a low, urgent whisper.

"We will retire to our study to hear the Marquess," the king says, amiable but firm. He pauses, eyes immeasurably sad. "The future comes faster than we'd like it to, Mo Sheud . And I wish to see my people cared for. In the best method possible."

"Wise, Your Majesty," Dav says gently.

"You don't need to flatter quite so obviously, little poacher," the king says affably.

I'm not so versed in reading dragon faces that I could tell you exactly what his expression is, but I'm pretty sure it's amused.

"Come with me now, Alva-draig Tudor. Margaret Banrigh sends her regrets, as she is promised elsewhere, but my son David Beithir waits for us in my chambers. Let us talk."

Dav gives my shoulder a firm pat, and starts up the stairs.

I move to follow him, but the king's Favorite is already coming down towards me with a grin. "This way, Mr. Levesque. We'll leave the wyrms to their chatter."

"But it… it's my plan, too," I protest, as Dav reaches the king's side and looks over his shoulder for me.

"Do ye not trust your dragon?"

At least she didn't say "master."

"Of course I do, but—"

"It's fine, Colin," Dav says. He pats his pocket where the flash drive with copies of all of our documents sits. We’ve been carrying a backup with us at all times, just in case. Good thing.

Not wanting to cause a scene, I wave him on miserably.

Dav gives me his sunrise smile, and places a hand on the king's shoulder and lets the ancient dragon lead him to a door to the side of the throne.

"Welp." I turn to Auntie Pattie. "Now what?"

"Now we take our ease, my friend," the Favorite says, instead of letting my aunt answer.

I don't know if it's a hierarchy thing, or a Being Favorites thing, but it kind of rubs me the wrong way. I didn't ask her.

"Off you go with Lady Isobel, boyo," Auntie Pattie says. "I have actual work to do, unlike you lucky lot. I’ll fetch you for lunch."

"Uh, okay." I drop a kiss on her cheek, and scramble to catch up with Lady Isobel, who is already halfway down the gallery and walking with all the confidence of someone who is used to getting things exactly her way.

Not arrogant. Just so sure that it comes off as dismissive.

I won't be like that , I promise myself.

"And do you have a job I'm keeping you from?" I ask Lady Isobel when I catch up. She tosses an amused glance at me.

"My job is to see to Raibeart Rìgh's happiness and ease."

"Then shouldn't we be, you know, in there then? With our…?" I let it hang, wondering if she'll give me a term.

"No," she says instead. Damn, foiled. "They'll send for us if that changes. No need to fash yourself."

I’m not going to connect with Lady Isobel the way I did with Laura Secord.

Oh, Laura.

Man.

I haven't thought about Laura in weeks.

I want to call her.

I want to be her friend .

But Simcoe.

That's another thing I can't have because of him. I can't build a friendship with someone amazing, and clever, and insightful because… This sucks.

Lady Isobel leads me into a comfortably plush sitting room filled with jumbled groupings of furniture that look expensive but mismatched, probably cast offs from renovations.

This place must have seen hundreds of updates in its time.

A few other people are already seated in little groups, chatting and clutching cups.

Everyone looks up and gives a respectful nod when we enter, but nothing so ceremonial that it makes me think there's some sort of protocol for greeting a royal Favorite.

Thank fuck.

Lady Isobel leads me to a little kitchenette, and asks me what she can make for me.

"Coffee," I say, and then, when she steps up to, honest to god, the most orgasmically beautiful fucking espresso machine I've ever seen in my goddamned life, I add: "Oh no, no, no, please. Please , allow me."

It starts to snow while I'm impressing the king's hoard with my latte art. When Auntie Pattie pulls me away from my adoring audience for lunch in the super-fancy canteen, the world outside is slowly acquiring a soft, calm blanket of white.

We catch up on family gossip, managing to entirely avoid talking about the exact reason we’re both sitting at this particular table, until Auntie Pattie asks, out of nowhere: "Do you love him?"

Except not entirely out of nowhere, because I'm staring at my ring, watching the way it catches on the sunlight filtered through the whispering snowflakes.

"More every day," I confess.

"Even with all these… curve balls thrown at you?"

I drag my eyes back to hers. "As much as it pisses me off to be flat footed once a week, every week, Dav was smart to string out the revelations."

"Yeah?"

"I don't like being told what to do."

Auntie Pattie snorts.