Page 70 of Nine-Tenths

Chapter Forty-Nine

D av's sister seems to hate waiting as much as we do. We're woken mid-morning by the sound of feet pounding up and down the stairs at the end of the hall, underscored by insistent knocking on our door.

"Get up!" Owain shouts through the wood.

"What's going on?" Dav asks. I didn't think dragons could get bedhead, but the scales on the side of his face are adorably askew.

His ear has fabric creases on it. My heart clenches as I'm struck, all over again, with how much I adore him.

I get to have this, this right here, for the rest of my life. "What’s the fuss?"

"Nothing!" Owain says. "Unless you don't want to watch your sister hatch."

"She's hatching!" Dav exclaims joyfully, popping into his flesh so quickly I miss it between one blink and the next.

"Hey, hold on. Clothes!" I shout as he scrambles toward the door. He dives for the pajamas he'd left on the foot of the bed.

Hopping on one foot as he slides into the pants, he pulls the door open.

"How long?" he asks breathlessly.

"Your mother says you better come in the next ten minutes."

"Of course, yes," Dav says and smacks a kiss off his father's forehead. "Thank you!"

Owain looks past Dav, grinning, to where I'm still struggling to untangle myself. "Morning, Colin."

Oh god, I'm only wearing boxers under these sheets.

"Uh, yes, morning…" I mumble. "See you up there?"

He laughs. "Of course."

He closes the door, and Dav rushes around, fetching slippers, throwing on a robe, tossing mine at me, running into the bathroom to swish some mouthwash.

I do the same, take a piss, and wash my hands thoroughly in case someone has the stupid idea to put a baby in them.

Then we're joining the rest of the crowd of people upstairs, waiting breathlessly by the open nursery door.

Apparently a hatching is a whole-hoard affair.

By virtue of being the big brother, Dav and I are shuffled inside.

We're herded to the poufs arranged around the ornate egg cup, which is now on the floor in front of the blazing hearth and surrounded by feather-down which will, I assume, catch any roly-poly babies and absorb any viscera that may escape the shell with her.

Dav greets his mother with kisses on the cheek, and as I sit, he clutches my hands.

"Do I have to, like, prepare myself?" I whisper, and he raises a confused eyebrow at me. "Is it gonna be … icky?" Don't be grossed out , I warn myself. Whatever happens, don't be rude.

He smiles. "It's much cleaner than a human birth, if slower. It'll be—" and then he gasps.

I whip my head back around to watch as the top of the shell stretches, like thin leather, and then, suddenly, pop.

There's a tear in the delicate material, and a little, red, pointy nose is out in the world. The scaly nostrils flare as Dav's sister takes a few fortifying breaths, her first in the open air of the world beyond her shell.

"Come on, sweet one," Paulette encourages, leaning forward, her hands tangled with Owain's. "You can do it."

I realize that everyone is clutching someone else, likely to quash the desire to peel the shell back. Even I know that you gotta let the little babies do that themselves, when it comes to birds. Why should dragons be any different?

Dav's sister rests for a moment, and then seems to decide that she's sick of being in the egg.

Her whole head emerges all at once. She looks like Dav in miniature, albumen glistening in the firelight.

She huffs, exasperated with the struggle, eyes opening for the first time.

I'm caught by how yellow her gaze is. Her pupils expand and contract as she adjusts, and she yawns wide enough to show off a mouthful of teeth like sewing needles.

Around her the shell deflates, and after a few tired struggles, the room erupts into cheers when she flexes her wings and rips free. She cringes at the noise.

"Oh, our apologies, my darling," Owain says, kneeling on the down to lift and wrap his daughter in a fine, soft blanket. It's embroidered with a floral pattern that matches the one painted on the rest of the baby-brooding set. "We're just happy to see you."

The baby settles with a few awkward wing flaps, allowing herself to be swaddled, and blinking sleepily up at her father. Then, still on his knees, Owain turns to Paulette, and the room drops into sudden, anticipatory silence.

"Paulette-draig Seren Addfwyn Windsor Tudor, Countess Plymouth, I present to you a child of our blood and our flesh," Owain says formally, holding the bundle of baby out like an offering.

I think, for one moment, what it might be like for a dragon to reject a child presented to them like this, how easy it would be to dash the child to the floor.

Of course, Paulette would never do that—she's looking at the baby with happy, hungry eyes.

"I recognize this child as of our blood and of our flesh, and name it mine," Paulette announces, and then breaks the formality of the moment to flick her gaze first to Dav and I. "And beloved of my family."

"I give her to you," Owain goes on. "She is yours forever more."

"She is mine, forevermore."

Paulette takes the child—who has begun to fuss—and quickly tucks her against her chest. The baby settles, cooing, and presses her face as close to her mother's heartbeat as possible.

Just like that, the trance of ceremony is broken.

Owain hops back up onto the pouf so he can lean over his wife's arm to look into her face.

"Welcome, Carys-draig Tudor," Paulette says to her daughter, loud enough that everyone in the room can hear.

There's a collective sigh of contentment at the naming, and the crowd shuffles out. One of the nursery maids sets a kettle over the fire, no doubt for a baby bath, while the other opens all the windows, letting out the stuffy air.

"I thought you said dragons were born in humanshape," I whisper, waiting for Paulette's permission to get closer.

Dav can't take his eyes off the baby, vibrating with palpable impatience. "A human couldn't break out of the shell. Look," Dav breathes, and by the time I tear my eyes off his besotted expression, it's already happening.

Within minutes, she's a scrunch-faced, toothless, fleshy little bundle with wide buttery eyes and a thistledown wisp of frightfully ginger hair. I'm not one of those baby-hungry queers who coos and giggles over every womb-dropping they see… but, yeah, this one is worth some cooing.

"Should we take this as a sign?" I ask. "That she decided to hatch now?"

"Eggs tend to hatch when the whole family is present," Dav says. "I would have suggested we come visit for the holidays if we hadn't come now. It was about time."

" I think it's a sign," Owain says.

"Birth of a new world? Appropriate," Paulette says, and then, as soon as the nursery maids are gone and we're alone, adds: "Come greet her."

Dav is across the little room in a shot, kneeling formally before his mother, leaning down to rub his cheek against the baby's. It must be sticky with egg-stuff, but Dav doesn't care. Then he gently cups the back of her head and whispers, "Hullo, Carys. Welcome home, wy bach ."

I make my way over more slowly, giving them a moment. Dav takes my hand and places my palm over the baby's fragile skull, lacing our fingers together to form a protective little hat.

"Hey, kiddo," I say. "I'm totally going to be the cool queer brother-in-law who talks to you about everything you can't talk to your parents about. But, uh, not the kind who helps you pick your prom dress. Sorry."

"He's really not," Dav chuckles, sniffling wetly.

"Hey, hey, babe." I hold out my arms so he can bury his face against my neck, and squeeze my ribs. "It's okay, don’t cry."

"I'm so happy," Dav says, and I can't help the tears that spring into my own eyes.

It's fine though, because everyone else is already crying, and like, shit.

Yeah.

This is awesome.

It's even awesomer when a courier arrives a few hours later with a gift from Onatah—an entire boxful of baby-sized novelty socks.

The summons to court comes four days later.

Carys is laying on a play mat in the nursery, and I am totally laying beside her to get the perfect Tummy Time Selfies to send home to Mum, Gem, and Stu.

Her face has started to look less squashed and more baby-plump.

She's got her wings popped and it's the cutest damn thing.

I can appreciate when my sister-in-law is being fucking adorable, okay?

And I'm allowed to touch a dragon this young, which is nice because it means I get to play with her as much as everyone else.

"Two days from now," Dav says, coming into the nursery from where he'd gone downstairs to accept a letter addressed to him. It's old fashioned, hand-written and sealed with wax, and must have been hand-delivered. I give it a read over, then hand it to Owain, who has followed him up.

"They're giving you an audience?" Owain says.

"The throne is willing to hear us out. We'll speak to the queen first, and if she approves, we'll present to the Court of Peers."

Having little-to-no experience with royal anything, I ask, "So this is like a really fancy thesis presentation?"

Owain snorts so loud, Carys jolts and stares up at him with wide, scared eyes.

"Oh, no, cariad," Dav says, scooping her up before she can begin to wail, cuddling her close. "No monsters here."

"Me, a monster," Owain repeats, sarcastically. "Honestly."

I take the letter back, and read it again.

"So, okay, an hour with the queen and if things go well, two hours with the peers.

That's… not a lot. But I'm the champion of distilling a couple hundred pages of science gobbledygook into a compelling powerpoint.

I just gotta… call Pedra. And finish that powerpoint.

And, um, write a couple of abstracts. Like. Right now."

"Make sure you leave time for a fitting or two," Dav says as I pull myself up.

"Fitting?"

"It says court attire," Dav says. "My court suit is quite out of date, and we haven't had yours made up yet."

"Court attire," I repeat. "Like… ermine cloaks, and crap?"

Owain grimaces ruefully. "Afraid so."

"Right, okay, fittings," I mutter to myself. "Fittings, and power points, and physical copies in case there's no smartboard..." I pop up to my feet, and ruffle Carys' bright orange hair before doing the same to Dav. "I have work to do."

I’m so into my head about the whole thing that I nearly trip down the stairs.

Colin the disaster academic is back.

As a reader of historical romance, I know all about symbolism and the rigidity of Attire Laws as laid down by Elizabeth Regina.

But as I prefer the historicals, it means I don't have much of an idea of what to expect in a twenty-first century Court Suit.

My brain had flashed to ostrich plumes, wide panniers, capes with massive trains, and skin-tight buff-coloured breeches.

What I get is, I gotta be honest, ten times better.

And thank fuck, a lot more modern.

The morning of the audience, I'm in the foyer double checking the files, hand-outs, data sticks, and other assorted accouterments that I've stashed in the obscenely tasteful emerald-coloured leather briefcase that had appeared in our rooms. It matches my equally obscenely tasteful emerald velvet suit jacket—the cut resembles a modern blazer, though it still has the posture-improving old-fashioned back-set shoulders of Regency fashion.

I talked the tailor out of going all-green, and opted instead for black trousers with a subtle pattern of Tudor roses, and a matching waistcoat.

There's an emerald neck-cloth to go with it, but I've got it tucked into my pocket.

In part because I have no clue how to tie it.

But also because I'm currently drinking coffee and the last thing I want to do is drip.

Dragon-roasted coffee.

Because, like, I'm still in for that penny, right?

We'd grabbed some green beans in Cardiff when we'd gone to the tailors. My well-stocked briefcase contains little packets of coffee in different stages of roasting so we can hand them off to any scientists who want to experiment with them. Or humans who might want to try drinking it.

I snuck a cup of it this morning, and fucking hell, it’s still amazing. I missed it. (Dav toasted me my first ever s'more last night and they are as fantastic as everyone said.)

" We're gonna be late if you keep primping!" I call up the stairs, when I reach the bottom of my mug.

"One moment!" Dav calls from the gallery. "I need… ah, there it is! Everything must be perfect, Colin."

"Come down, babe. I wanna see you."

"I look nothing as elegant as you," Dav complains. "Fashions have changed since I was last at court, and not in a way I expected. I blame Hollywood entirely."

"Shoooooow meeeeeee," I whine.

"If only to stop you from making that noise, Mine Own." Dav heaves a sigh, and then turns the corner of the landing and steps into view.

He looks (trust me, I have tried to find better ways to describe this and there are none) like the Empire from Star Wars vomited all over him.

And honestly?

It's a good fucking look .

Sinfully tailored black breeches tuck into knee-high boots.

His jacket is a Regency cut-away with a double row of brightly gold buttons, fanciful frogging, and no epaulets.

Otherwise, it screams military. It's in the firm cut of the shoulder, the tight mandarin collar, the rolled gold hems. A detailed gold waistcoat peeks out beneath the bottom of the jacket, and there's a tasteful row of ornate medals pinned over Dav's heart.

Dav's wearing a circlet across his brow, which instead of forming a full circle at the back of his head, wings out just past his ears into stylized maple leaves cradling four perfect pearls, two per side—the symbol of a Canadian marquessate.

And his eyes.

My god.

I have always loved me a dude unafraid to rock some guyliner at Pride. But Dav's lids are full-on caked with gold the exact shade of his freckles. His lashes are black with mascara.

Every cell in my whole body screeches with lust, and for a second I completely forget how to breathe.

"There's certainly less embroidery than my original court suit, see, there’s nothing at all on the sleeves. But I’m told modesty is more the thing, now.

It's my first audience since I've been created Marquess, and I want to make a good impression.

Is it… is it not good?" Dav asks, as I stare at him, gawp-mouthed.

"The opposite," I say, all the sarcasm punched out of me. "Although…"

"What?" He asks, looking up, worry and self-awareness digging frown lines beside his mouth.

"Are you sure I'm the princess here?"

"Oh," Dav puffs out in a small chuckle. "Mine Own, I say this with the utmost love and affection, but…"

"But?"

He dimples at me. "Fuck off."