Page 71 of Nine-Tenths

Chapter Fifty

I am a very good boy and keep my hands to myself for the whole three hour car ride to Whitehall Palace.

It is very difficult when Dav is looking so delicious.

When we reach London, I'm distracted by the surprise of Christmas lights and holiday decorations in every storefront.

The drive along the Thames is beautiful, and as we cross Westminster bridge, Big Ben and the London Eye both twinkle elegantly, attired for the season.

Have we really been over here that long?

Apparently, yeah.

Whitehall is Elizabeth Regina's nesting ground, the beating heart of a territory that encompasses a third of the world. The wall around the palace is tall, made of pale stone, equally historic and impressive as the rest of the city, and smothered with bas-relief carvings.

"What…" I ask, twisting my head to get a good look at them as we cruise by. "Is this all…"

"Her achievements and victories are too numerous for her door.

" Dav points to a specific section of the wall when we stop and wait for the driver to confirm our appointment at the front gate.

"See there? That's Elizabeth Regina standing on the cliff at Tilbury, giving her speech to the troops before the Spanish Armada was engaged. "

"Pfffft. She certainly has a high opinion of herself. Look—is that her blessing Shakespeare?"

"Everyone's histories are filled with bragging," Dav says. "There's a lot she's proud of."

My eyes catch on a section of the wall that appears to be the presentation to the queen of tobacco, potatoes… and Indigenous humans.

"Oh yeah. Lots to be proud of," I sneer.

Dav squeezes my knee. "We'll be on the wall after today. She'll get the glory, but we'll get the change."

He seems so sure. I hope he's right.

And then we're rolling through the massive iron gates.

"I was kinda hoping we'd be, like, turned away," I confess in a whisper, nerves surging.

"Why?" Dav asks, "We've worked so hard—"

"I never said it made sense," I interrupt, and lift his hand to my mouth to kiss the back of it. It's the only place on him I can't muss up. "It's just the brain weasels talking."

"Don't listen to them," Dav says gently. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

So, there's a little bit to be afraid of.

We're led not to a nice, intimate sitting room as Dav and I had assumed we would, but an echoing, circular chamber lined with arched windows, stone columns, and heavy curtains.

The only people in the room are the queen herself, and three others.

Two are about a decade older than me, but I've stopped trying to judge dragon-adjacent people by their apparent age.

They're not servants, they're dressed too elegantly for that, but I can't tell if they're human because the thrall of the queen is overwhelming.

Every organ feels suddenly magnetized toward her, every cell filled with a deep thrumming.

It's not uncomfortable , but it's certainly weird.

The remaining person is human, and I do know this because he is slim, sloe-eyed, and appears to be around the same age as the queen. This is Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, the queen’s Favorite.

Like Raibert Righ, Elizabeth Regina greets us in dragonshape. She’s seated in all her shining glory on a chaise raised on a dais, which is the only piece of furniture in the room (Where am I going to put the briefcase down? Can I kneel to open it on the floor without looking like a child?)

The queen is distinctly serpent-shaped, long and thin, with a tail held in a tight coil. Her head is narrow, her nose studded with tiny horns that grow into a full fin along the back of her head. And she is gold . Not yellow, not orange, but straight up, blinding gold with black talons and horns.

So, an intimidating and chilly environment, check.

No sound at all but the ringing of our heels filling the void of the vaulted space, check.

And just in case we might have missed that fact, there are multi-tiered candelabras on either side of her, making sure she shines like a stereotypical treasure pile.

Extra intimidating, check, check, check.

This isn't going to be the friendly reunion and open-minded conversation Dav and I had been counting on.

Shit.

As we make our way across the chamber, to where the dais is set against one window, the queen changes . It's slow and showy, not the way that Dav does it, which is sort of all at once like a sneeze.

The queen sits up, her tail sliding around behind her, body turning paler and…

That's a flex! I think as I'm distinctly reminded that a dragon's clothing doesn't change with them.

We come to a stop a few feet from the base of the dais, and Dav slides down into a very deep bow with his painted eyes firmly aimed at his knees. I quickly do the same.

There's the rustle of fabric, and someone eventually says, "Rise."

Leicester finishes tying an elaborate cloth-of-gold wrap dress for the queen, and steps away.

The queen's brilliantly golden wings stretch up and out, like an angel illuminated in stained glass, then fold slowly to nothingness behind her.

Of course I'm familiar with the humanshape of my monarch—the famous strawberry hair, the severe brow, the imperious expression—but she looks older than her portraits.

(Of course she does, that's how time works.) Her famous hair is now white, her heavily made-up eyes framed with the kinds of crows feet you can't get away with calling laugh lines any more.

Even still, she is scary as fuck.

Leicester nestles a tiara in the queen's hair.

It's gold too, groaning with gemstones and filled with more symbolism than I can decipher. A quick glance tells me that the other two folks must be royalty as well. The guy’s wearing a circlet similar to Dav's, with finials made up of a cluster of curly leaves, and many pearls; the woman beside him wears a subtler tiara.

My brain catches up, and I finally recognize them from the tabloids my own unfortunate face has been splashed all over.

This is the Duke of Sussex, and his human, American wife.

Okay, so, royal family all around. Awesome.

Not even remotely intimidating.

Fucking check .

Deep breaths, Colin, I tell myself. Don't fidget.

And then the duke says: "Welcome, Lord Alva-draig George Tudor, blood of the two great lines of England and Wales, Marquess Niagara.

" Dav flinches at his middle name, which, fuck, that's cruel as hell to drag out right now.

"Welcome, Colin Fergus Levesque, Dragon's Own, Favored of the Marquess Niagara. "

I notice that my parentage isn’t as important as whose property I am. Ugh.

"My thanks," Dav says, "on behalf of my Favorite and myself, Your Grace."

Oh, good. I'm actually happy the infantilizing traditions means that Dav's expected to speak for me, for once. My throat is so dry it clicks—I don't think I could have said anything if I wanted to.

There's not even any water available. This feels less like Elizabeth Regina is trying to intimidate us, and more like an active and deliberate 'fuck off.'

"And now that the formalities are over with," the queen says. "We shall begin the business."

Dav clears his throat. "Thank you, Your Majesty. It's a delight to be back. I have missed the court."

Liar, I think.

"And yet you accepted territory in Canada," the queen points out, amused.

Dav coughs discreetly, caught out. "The circumstances of that, ah, event are well known," he says, thrown off his patter.

"Yes, they are," the queen agrees. How much is actually being said under all the empty pleasantries? How much am I missing? "We celebrate your sister's arrival and the security of the Plymouth territory."

"Indeed, ma'am," Dav says. "And to the matter of territory, Your Majesty, my march borders the Onguiaahra territories, and I've had the great privilege of witnessing—"

Elizabeth Regina holds up her hand, palm out, and Dav trickles to a stop, confusion crawling over his face. My stomach drops.

Oh no.

"You misunderstand the point of this audience, Marquess," the queen says, and it's both vicious and gentle.

Pitying.

But acidic.

Oh shit.

And my poor sweet, earnest, honest Dav, hasn't gotten there yet.

"I think I do," Dav concedes after it's clear that Elizabeth Regina is waiting for him to reply. "I was given the impression that we'd been invited to present our research."

"No, Marquess," the queen says. "I have heard more than enough about your discussions with our northern neighbors to make up my mind about your research."

My brain catches on the word about .

About.

Not from.

My fear curdles into resentment.

"Then why request our presence?" I ask, feeling bold.

A small inhalation—not something so uncouth as a gasp —from the duchess makes it clear that I've probably broken some stupid etiquette rule, but I don't care. Not if they're going to treat us like this. Not if this is going to end before we're even allowed to start.

The queen turns golden eyes to me.

Dav flinches, ready to shield me from the queen's judgment with his own body. A flick of her hand nails Dav to the floor.

"I wanted to see the Favorite who so openly and boldly proclaims I am a failed and flawed ruler. Will you say as much to my face, I wonder?"

The noise that comes out of Dav is high and distressed.

Right.

Right .

I take a deep breath, screw up my courage. Fuck, if my professors could see me now. This is way more nerve-wracking than a public thesis defense.

Simply, and plainly, I say: "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Mine Own!" Dav hisses, horrified.

Leicester winces. The duke and duchess exchange a glance that comes across as… amused?

The queen sits, back straight, expression unreadable despite the narrowing of her eyes.

I hold up the briefcase. "But not just you, ma'am. The world has got it backwards. The Great Confidence? It's not working, and you know that as well as I do."

"Do you not fear our reprisal for this treason?" the queen asks.

"What treason?" I challenge.