Page 54 of Twisting Twilight (Homesteader Hearth Witch #9)

“Yes, sir.” I swayed briefly and caught myself before I could fall.

This was going so well. “Here.” I thrust out the Redbudians’ gifts, as well as one more.

“A bar of chocolate, which is considered a delicacy among my people, a spoon of pure silver for all your glitzy or magical needs, and a magic cache.”

The dragon’s forked tongue tasted the air between us. “What need have I of candy, this pitiful lump of silver, and your magic? I eat meat and my treasure hall is vast. What is your magic compared to a draig’s? You think this worthy of a boon?”

“It’s all I have,” I said meekly. Unless he wanted the little crocheted bat Shari had made me that was still pinned to my shoulder?

“Then your want is not great enough.” He withdrew his head with a snort that left tendrils of smoke twisting up from his nostrils.

Now wait just a minute. I had not come this far to be dismissed by a dragon. These brutes were as vain and proud and elitist as the fae. Except Kian.

And I couldn’t fail. And I wouldn’t leave my friends behind, not again.

“Then I offer you my true name,” I told him boldly, “and a favor in exchange for one of yours.”

The red draig laughed and the earth quaked. “A favor from you? What need have I?—”

“Know me better and find out.”

No one interrupted a red draig, and his massive head dropped back to eye level with alarming speed. But I had the Green Mother’s protection, for now, so he didn’t attack. Instead, his lips peeled back to reveal each and every one of his fangs. Oh my Green Mother, the heat and stench of his breath…

“Rest your hand upon me, fool, if you so dare,” the red draig snarled.

Summoning my magic, I shoved my hand hard against a platter-sized scale on his snout. Bring. It. On.

A presence rushed into my mind like Ossian, like the Blight.

But neither compared to the overwhelming awesomeness of a red draig.

Rhydian flipped through my memories like they were nothing but pages in a scrapbook, lingering briefly on Arthur, Sawyer, and Thistle.

It was invasive and callous and smacked of superiority, but he wasn’t the only one delving into another’s mind.

I’d learned that trick too, but since I wasn’t a pompous ass, there was no smugness on my part to alert him.

His memories were far too overwhelming to idly flip through like he did mine, but I caught glimpses of his greatest sorrows, his incandescent joys.

The loss of his home. The birth of his first clutch—a cloud of thousands upon thousands of turquoise draigfly rising from a single egg and enveloping him with little kisses of their wings. A mate with shiny scales who slumbered beneath a mountain, unable to wake for another hundred years.

Glyasta.

Rhydian suddenly became aware of my snooping.

His mind crushed down like claws around an egg, and my magic oak tree answered.

Instead of darkening defensively into Death’s Sword, it flared proudly as the Tree of Life, showing off every strong root and branch and every glittering leaf.

Emblazoned upon its heart, the amber-colored cat shone brilliantly.

Rhydian broke contact with me, flinging his head back.

Then an ancient voice tinged with fear blasted through my mind, “The magic at the heart of the world!” He smothered his shock with anger. “How dare you help yourself to that name. Not even the high lady knows it!”

In the carriage, Sawyer yowled. The dragon’s voice had been so strong, it had even traveled down my familiar bond to the tabby tomcat.

While that was fascinating, what the dragon had revealed was more so.

The Green Mother’s red draig friend was keeping secrets from her.

My curiosity was piqued, but I forced myself to stay on topic.

Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, I declared, “I am Meadow Lavender Hawthorne, Violet’s Heir, Primal Witch, Bonder of Cats, Tamer of Faelene, and Healer of Manann mares. And Friend of Draig, if they’ll let me.”

The red draig snorted again, shifting back. Respecting my space.

“Will you help me?” It wasn’t wise to push him when his emotions were as unsteady as a toddler post Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair, but we were on a deadline.

His yellow eye seemed to peer into my soul. “I will. But you will not saddle me like some dim-witted stag. I am draig, Meadow Hawthorne.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

“What did the faelene tell you about gratitude in this realm? I do what I will because I will it. And this is a transaction—a favor for a favor.”

“And what favor can I do for you?” Hopefully nothing that would delay our return to the portal any more than it already had.

“I will redeem it when it suits me.”

Great. I kept the discontent off my face and asked with my actual voice, “Is the carriage an acceptable shape, or would you prefer something more aerodynamic?”

Rhydian snorted and walked past me, the land trembling with each step.

The Green Mother flicked her hand and roots sprang out of the ground around the Manann mares to dismantle their harnesses.

The white horses neighed and sprang away from the roots, tails flashing.

It was impossible for them not to notice the approaching draig, and fae bargain or not, they weren’t interested in milling around.

“Thank you, Enbarra,” I called as they dashed away like streaks of white cirrus clouds. I’d never not thank someone for helping me, fae or not.

The Green Mother slipped a hand over my shoulder then squeezed. “Well done, Niece.”

A silver spoon, a bar of chocolate, and my last bleached tourmaline—what had I been thinking? “He would’ve eaten me without your protection.”

She nodded. “Oh undoubtedly. Yet he learned, perhaps for the first time, what fruits patience can grant.”

“I’m still eating first and asking questions never,” Rhydian snapped. “Especially those who think bows like the one she gave me are sufficient enough to appease a draig.”

He passed his claws over the carriage, testing its oblong shape.

Inside, Kian shrieked and promptly fainted.

Rhydian gripped the carriage with both front paws, claws puncturing into the interior.

Alarmed female voices drifted out the windows, and Flora stuck her head out with a glare and a glowing fist. Only an Ironweed would be so bold. I quickly waved her off.

“If your head is not buried in the dirt up to your neck,” Rhydian continued, “then you haven’t bowed deeply enough. Remember that, witch, the next time you try to deal with a draig.”