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They all incline their heads politely, adding a flourish with their hands beside their faces that evokes a lick of flame. Dav returns the gesture, grave and performative.

"What was that?" I whisper.

"Just a hello."

"Oh. Should, I, uh, do the same?"

"No. When you've been presented formally, bow at the waist, with a fist over your heart."

"Ugh," I reply.

Dav cuts his twinkling grin at me. "Indeed."

The lamplight shines over his scales, cute wee ones running up the shell of his now-slightly-pointed-ear, winking like garnets.

Here's another way Dav's different. Everyone else's scales are all shades of blue, green, and brown.

I don't see any other red. Is it because Dav's descended from that important Welsh guy?

Now's not the time to ask, though, because suddenly we're standing in front of Simcoe.

You whipped him , I think suddenly, the intrusive black thought pressing hard against the inside of my skull. Something about my vibe must change, because Dav rests his hand on my elbow, a soothing, gentle message: He's not worth it.

I school my expression as best I can. I may hate the man, but it's not a good look.

Simcoe is at the head of the receiving line, dressed in a resplendent cloth-of-silver outfit absolutely sagging with military braiding, and a silver mask worked up to look like the moon. The woman next to him, also a dragon, is in copper and red, evoking the sun.

"Ah, and here are our men of the hour. Everyone is dying to meet your little conquest, Alva," Simcoe says, without even looking at me.

"I'm honored to be in your presence again, Your Excellency," Dav says, formally.

He bows deep, at the waist. I follow with what is probably the awkwardest bow in this history of awkward bows, to a man I truly despise.

It's made harder by the fact that I'm not used to heeled shoes, and I tip forward more than I thought I would and have to shuffle to catch myself.

Ugh.

"Oh, none of that, now," Simcoe says, with a joviality loud enough that it's clear he's speaking at volume deliberately. He wants to be overheard. "Old Etonians like us, chum. No need for such formalities."

Of fucking course they went to fucking Eton together.

"Very well, Frank," Dav says. "Lieutenant Governor of Upper Canada Francis Simcoe, may I make known to you Mine Own Favorite, Colin Fergus Levesque, son of Helen MacTavish of Edinburgh and Jean-Francois Levesque of Laval.

He bears proudly the insignia of my clan, and enjoys the hospitality of my home, my bed, and my protection. "

Oh, sure, just tell everybody in the room that we fuck on the regular.

No, no, that's not even remotely mortifying.

I can feel my ears getting redder and choose one of the buttons on Simcoe's waistcoat to stare at so I don't have to meet the eyes of anyone who may be wondering what kind of a lay I might be.

"Welcome, Mister Levesque," Simcoe responds, as if butter wouldn’t melt.

"Uh, yeah, thanks," I mutter.

"My wife, Georgiana," Simcoe says, gesturing, and I raise my eyes to the elegantly attired woman standing beside him. She's speckled with scales in shades of forest-green, and so are the dragons dressed as constellations in the receiving line after her. "And my daughters Florence, and Anna."

Just behind each of them stands someone I assume is human, in various shades of skin tones and genders. They’re staring with blatant curiosity, and inclining their heads as their dragons are introduced. Simcoe didn’t even mention their names.

Snob , I decide, making a point of meeting each of their eyes.

"John?" Dav asks, nodding attentively with that little finger flick to each of the ladies. I return their nods with shallower bows, hand over my heart, and it seems like that's the right thing to do because nobody comments.

"Ah, my son couldn't get away from Ottawa," Simcoe says congenially, and pats Dav on the shoulder, like it's a tough break.

I've never heard Dav mention John Simcoe the younger before, so I can't imagine they're close.

"You know him. Up to his ear tufts in politics, as always.

We've now got airplanes that go so fast he could be here in an hour, but no, he won't leave that Bytown cabinet for love or money. "

Dav chuckles, as he's expected to do, at what's clearly a worn-out family joke.

And then Simcoe refocuses his gaze on me. "Speaking of devotion to one’s scholarly pursuits, how are you finding Fynyth?"

"Oh, uh, just fine," I lie as convincingly as I'm able, shooting Dav a puzzled look.

The farm , he mouths back.

Oh.

Oh, of course his cute little farm has a fancy name like 'Pemberley.' I'd pinch him for keeping me at a disadvantage, except that Lt. Gov. Shitface is pleased I’m on the backfoot.

"Perhaps we can get you from 'fine' to 'happy' tonight." He makes a sort of absent-minded flapping motion over his shoulder. "I’ve asked my Favorite to take special care of you this evening."

A woman steps out of his shadow, and I realize I am a terrible person. I had been ignoring her exactly as everyone else had been ignoring me while acknowledging Dav.

She's white, cutely plump, shorter than me, with a mess of dark hair pinned up in an elaborate cloud of curls. 'Cloud' is an apt description, because she's dressed to match the Simcoe family—as a tinkling raincloud. Sapphires drip from her dress, sparkling as she moves.

She steps around Simcoe and offers me her hand to shake. I cut a look at Dav, and he nods encouragingly, so I take it.

"It's permitted between Favorites," the woman says, dark eyes amused by my hesitation. "That’s why everyone's scales are out this evening."

"Uh, that's thoughtful, I guess," I say, and place my palm in hers.

"A pleasure to meet you, Colin Levesque." She pumps my arm once, firm and self-assured. "I'm Laura Secord."