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Chapter Forty-Four

I 'm not gonna lie, part of me expected we'd travel on an old-fashioned sailing ship.

Not a private jet. Okay, well, not private , but when you fly super-luxurious-first-dragon-class, it feels like it.

There's an actual door between us and the rest of the plane, and just two seats in our tiny cabin, which turn into beds.

We hadn't even bought the tickets in advance, just strolled up to the counter with Dav's black credit card.

So we're feeling pretty confident that Lt.

Gov. Dipshit didn't have enough time to mobilize his spies, or bug this compartment, or whatever else he might try to do to keep us from leaving Canada.

(Doesn't mean we don't check under every cushion, though.)

Dav started sending a flurry of emails back to Wales while we were waiting to board, outlining his desire to introduce his parents to his Favorite, and to check up on his sibling's egg.

As far as anyone hacking our phones or tracking Dav's spending would know, we're simply heading over for a surprise family reunion. Immediately.

While Dav sets up our digital paper trail, I'm doing some phone-time of my own, telling my family the same things about the trip, but also re-reading some of the research I'd saved on Simcoe.

Specifically, I want to know what his middle name is.

"What if this goes tits up?" I ask, as we're taxiing along the runway. "What's the worst case scenario?"

Without looking at me, Dav says: "My titles and lands are stripped from me, you are severed from my hoard, I'm sent to Wales in disgrace if not outright executed, and Simcoe finds a way to take over Onatah's territory, possibly killing her and all of her family in the process."

I suck in a sharp breath. "Shit. So, like, you've thought about it."

"A tactician must always face the worst outcome in order to avoid it." Now he does look at me. He links our pinkies, and lifts them for a quick kiss. "But that will not happen. Because I will not let it."

"Neither will I."

"So we're in agreement," he grins, eyes crinkling. "Nothing horrible will happen, so there's nothing to worry about."

"Okay," I say, trying to leave my anxiety behind as the ground through the window falls away. "Nothing to worry about."

It hits me, just as the seatbelt light blinks off, that I'm about to meet the parents.

Oh my god. That's a big worry. I haven't met the parents since… since Rebekah's cop dad. He'd found my verbal spewing charming, thank god, but Dav's parents are…

They're going to be fancy, aren't they?

They'll be dragons, for a start.

And nobility.

And British.

Dav's lived in Canada longer than he ever lived in Wales, but his parents are going to be properly British, with scones and clotted cream, and the right way to hold your teacup (is pinkies out a thing? I don't actually know), dry humor and, oh god, they're going to eat me alive .

"I can feel you panicking from here," Dav says gently, lifting the arm between our extremely plush chairs to turn it into a loveseat.

I snuggle into Dav's side, and take as many deep, slow breaths as required for my heart to stop racing.

As the flight attendant wheels in a cart to dole out hot towels, alcohol, and a snack, I explain what has me worried.

If she's a spy, it'd be good for her to hear me talking about meeting the fam. It'll solidify our alibi.

Dav rubs my back. "You'll survive whatever disaster comes, I expect."

"What, no reassurances that I'll charm them, and everything will go smoothly, and I have nothing to worry about?"

Dav snorts. "I've met you."

I blow a raspberry.

"So long as you don't harm the egg, there's little you could do that would actually make my parents dislike you," Dav says gently, once we're alone again.

"They're pleased I have a Favorite to introduce to them at all.

After Charlie, there was worry I would never, ah…

" He swallows hard. "At any rate, they know I love you, and that will be sufficient for them to do the same. "

"Will they still love me when they learn we're coming to upend their way of life?"

Dav shoots a glance at the tasteful briefcase of notes that Pedra dropped off during my Long Dark Night, stowed by his foot.

"We still have to figure out what we're actually gonna propose in that thing," I remind him. "Handing the Parliament a jumble of papers without an actual plan isn't smart."

"Agreed. How did you work out your thesis presentation?"

"Working backwards. The desired end game is a decentralization of governance, and breaking up of the oversized, unwieldy territories, right?"

"And a return of land to Indigenous dragons wherever possible.

We want dragons encouraged to—no, enthusiastically participating in the daily lives of those humans on their territories," Dav says, warming to the topic.

"Moreover, they ought to be laboring alongside and in service of those humans.

And, importantly, using their fire to cook, without punishment or derision. "

"Yes, yes," I say, already falling down the essay rabbit-hole. "Gimmie my laptop, babe. I'm gonna start outlining."

I stop, and slap my hand over my mouth.

"What, Mine Own?"

"Oh my god. I actually like writing essays when it's not for school."

"You’re surprised?" Dav kisses my temple. "When you've got a topic between your teeth, I've heard you speak in essays. It's charming." He presses another kiss to my check, then a more insistent one to my neck.

"Okay, okay," I relent. "Joining the mile-high club now, outlining later. Lock the door."

I'm not gonna lie about this, either.

I was kinda expecting something a little more… castley.

When your boyfriend-husband-whatever-the-hell-we-are tells you his parents live in St. Ffagan’s Castle , you expect turrets and a moat, right?

At the very least, it should be up on a craggy cliff.

Instead, it's a quick half-hour drive from Cardiff Airport, and the house itself is kind of like a charming cottage on steroids.

It's three stories high, with white-washed walls and regimented rectangular windows, the gray-slate roof is lined with wickedly pointed dormers and red-brick chimneys.

The castle-iest thing about the place is the saw-toothed medieval wall and the neat round well in the centre of the drive ringed in rose bushes.

"I see where you get your modesty."

"It's not modest ," Dav protests. "The frontage is public. Mother would much rather spend her attention on the back gardens—"

"I'm winding you up," I reassure him. "Deep breaths, babe."

Dav follows my suggestion, shoulders unwinching only slightly.

He's been tense since we landed.

It's been two years since he’s been back, and he'd said he's anxious to see the egg. But he'd said it while staring out the window at the gray November mist, and squeezing my hand for dear life.

He's as nervous about introducing me as I am to be introduced.

Doesn't help that we're coming here with ulterior motives.

"You were supposed to inherit this?" I ask, trying to get his mind off his nerves.

"Yes." He glances around wistfully as the car stops and we get out.

"But this place is amazing." I turn in a circle to take it all in. "Why would you give it up?"

Dav laughs. "Now you sound like a dragon yourself. Are you so keen to move here?"

"Honestly? Not really."

"The truth is, I didn’t know what it would mean, to accept the march.

I was young, a feted war hero, the pride of society, and I wanted.

.. I very much enjoyed being wanted . And John Simcoe, he was steady, and honest. He was so convincing.

So flattering . But all he wanted was a warm body to fill the space.

I didn't know I would have to forfeit the right to my mother's title and the ancestral nesting grounds. "

"Babe."

"Don't pity me, Fy Nhrysor . It brought you to me, so I cannot regret it. My sibling will inherit St. Ffagan’s instead, thank goodness."

As soon as the driver has our suitcases unloaded, he whisks them away to a side entrance with a quick " Croeso adref, syr ."

"He's saying, 'welcome home'," Dav translates before I can ask.

Shit, I'm going to have to learn Welsh, aren't I?

And then the front door opens. A man with flamingly ginger hair barrels out, down the steps, and slams into Dav. Startled, I jump out of the way.

"My baby boy!" the man bellows, slapping him heartily on the back and lifting him in a bear-hug. I expect Dav to squawk and protest, but he hugs back, grin massive and eyes sparkling.

Yeah. This is not a version of Dav that I'm used to seeing.

I like it.

"Father!" Dav bellows back, when his feet are back on the ground, and takes his turn lifting the man in a crushing hug of his own.

"Yes, now, child—Oof!" Dav's father laughs. "Gently! Still human, you know."

A lightning bolt of confusion zaps through me.

Dav's father's human?

Dav sets him down and they go through a clearly beloved slapstick routine of tidying each other's hair and smoothing down the rumples in their suits, only to make it worse.

When Dav spins on his heel to face me, his cheeks are flushed with delight and hair drooping with Welsh mist and his father's attention.

Seeing them side by side, Dav's dad is closer in height to me than to his son.

There's a handsome dash of silver at his temples, the laughter lines bracketing his mouth and eyes are deeper than Dav’s, and he has genuine dimples on both cheeks.

His eyes are the color of winter ice, his pupils are as round as my own.

Otherwise, they're practically identical.

"Father," Dav says, puffing up. He takes one of my hands in both of his and presses a kiss to the back of it, showy and lingering.

Embarrassment surges, but I don't let myself fidget.

"It gives me great pleasure to introduce you to Colin Fergus Levesque, son of Helen and Jean-Francois Levesque of Orillia, in Upper Canada. Fy Nhrysor ."