Page 40 of Under Gorse and Stone

“How is that even possible? Even if I’d left here, I would have remembered you forever.”

“Maybe I did not want to be remembered. Forever is a long time when you have dragon blood,elskling.” His eyes darken with sadness, and it looks so wrong that I vow to do everything possible to make him happy.

The lights are still dancing around us. One darts at me and lifts a lock of hair, tugging at it mischievously.

“Fie,” Sigurd snaps and the light spins and shoots at him, circling his head before twirling and darting away.

“What do you mean about forever?”

He draws in a deep breath. “I cannot die, Cary.”

“What?” Some of the lights flicker rapidly, as if agitated or disapproving.

He nods. “I am a dragon, and we can live forever, and you humans are so delicate and short-lived. Beautiful and spectacular like fireworks on a clear night, but you die quickly, your sparks fading into the darkness. So, why would I want a man to remember me? It would have been pointless.”

I squeeze his hand. His voice is so melancholy. Still, I can’t help a twinge of hurt. “You will want to forget me, then?”

“Nay.” He cups my face in his big hands. “’Tis not possible. When you leave, your memory will stay with me forever, even as you go on with your life.”

I nod, appeased but also sad he has to feel this way about humans. The thought of not seeing him again like the other men he’s been with makes me feel winded.

His gaze fixes on a spot over my shoulder, and I become aware that the buzzing noise I noticed earlier is louder. I turn inhis arms and freeze. A small man stands in front of me. He’s tiny, barely coming up to my shin, and has a wizened little face with bright eyes and a sharp nose. He reminds me of a mouse, and he’s wearing curiously old-fashioned clothes—a white shirt, red coat, brown breeches and stockings, and black shoes with very shiny silver buckles. As if aware of my focus, he turns his head to admire his feet.

“Oh mygod,” I breathe.

Sigurd sighs. “Wrong. ’Tis a piskey,” he says in rather a weary voice.

The little creature’s mouth opens and shuts, and more noises come out.

“Is he talking to us?”

The piskey puts its hands on its hips, and I want to laugh. Even though I can’t understand his words, his body language says he’s pissed off.

“Sorry,” I say. “I can’t understand you.” I glance at Sigurd. “He’s very cute,” I breathe.

The piskey says something else, the words flowing, and Sigurd shakes his head.

“Hmm,” he says disapprovingly. “And he shouldn’t be in here. I’ve told you before,” he says to the little creature. “You cannot come in here.”

“Doesn’t he live here?” I ask.

“In my house, no,” he says emphatically. “Never. Never.Never.”

My mouth twitches. “The first never was good enough. Why wouldn’t you want him to live here? He’s so cute.”

“I’ll show you.” With a sigh, he claps his hands over my ears, and the same gingerbread smell fills the room. When his hands drop, there’s a moment of silence followed by a pop.

Sound bursts into my ears, endless rustles of pages turning accompanied by streams and streams of words.

“And so I saw you in the library, and you looked very pretty with your sunshine curls and blue eyes, and I saw you looking at the books, and I wanted to tell you that the best book is the one on the second shelf with the rather rude pictures. And then I thought to myself, no. I shouldshowyou instead. But I got sidetracked because I started thinking about missing my lunch and whether I’d be home in time for tea. And then I remembered that there is a carol service in Truro, and I need to get over there and hide the mince pies?—”

“Oh my god,” I breathe.

Sigurd nods glumly. “Nowyou understand.”

“So many words,” I whisper.

“And all of them ridiculous.” Sigurd steps closer to the piskey. “Why are you here, Wilfred?”