Page 55 of The Beauty and the Griffin

Of course, I played and sang it for her. Again. Along with several more love songs.

“How are you doing?” the Gamekeeper asked. Feeling the warmth of his body at my back, I was tempted to lean against him.

“My voice is giving out,” I admitted while vamping another jazzy chorus on the keyboard. “I can feel her moving in there. She’s tired, but she’s awake.”

“You do realize she’s drawing this out for maximum drama, don’t you?” Dry humor laced his voice.

I tipped my head back and groaned. “Of course, she is!” Clapping both hands over my face, I giggled. I must have sounded loopy, but I couldn’t help it. If the Gamekeeper thought I was out of my mind, so be it. I was halfway in love with a mostly invisible monster-man while also cherishing a crush on a handsome dream king. If that wasn’t the definition of insanity, what would be?

As soon as I could speak, I asked, “What should I do?”

“I suggest you take Chicky back to the nestbox and leave her there until she hatches.” The fond amusement in the Gamekeeper’s voice was as welcome to me as his physical warmth.

So, I slid off the bench with my arms beneath the bundle of egg and blankets, soothing my griflet with the voice I used only for her, “Chicky babe, we’ve got to move you back to your nest by the fire now.”

She seemed a bit sulky, so I whispered, “I’m so excited to see your little face for the first time!”

That cheered her. And it was true. Thanks to Dodger, I knew what to expect. I was ready to coo over my Chicky to her little heart’s content no matter how homely she was.

The Gamekeeper offered me a cushion to shove under my backside, and I settled onto it beside the hatching box. His quiet support was reassuring. “You could sit beside me here,” I offered. “There’s plenty of room.”

With no warning, Chicky started hammering at her shell. Worried, I bent over her, but she ignored my inquiries, completely focused on her task. When I saw the crack in her shell widen, my hand twitched with the desire to help, but I pulled it back. “Is she all right?” I couldn’t help asking.

“She’s doing well.” He spoke near my ear. “She is irked, but that should motivate her to finish up.”

Why would Chicky be irritated? Was I thinking too much about the Gamekeeper during her big moment? Could she read my mind?

Chicky shoved again, and pinfeathers appeared in the crack. Another shove, and when I saw her wing struggling to be free, I reached out, then flinched. “Oh! I keep wanting to help her.” Without thinking, I slipped the erring hand back over my shoulder, and he took it in his.

For a moment I forgot the hatching griflet. The Gamekeeper’s hand was very large. Powerful. And a bit furry.

My heart raced in a confusing blend of fright (the claws I felt could easily rip me to shreds) and delight (I was holding hands with the Gamekeeper!) and more emotions I couldn’t (or chose not to) identify. I could’ve pretended he was simply being helpful by preventing me from interfering with Chicky’s hatching, but I knew better.

As I drew a long, quivering breath, I realized that he was as spellbound as I was. There I sat, hunched over a hatching griffin egg and holding hands with the most powerful mage in the world, who wasn’t exactly human. If that wasn’t the definition of foolish romanticism, I couldn’t imagine what would be. Yet I didn’t care. I’d loved him for years, and our connection didn’t have to bethatkind of romantic. We were just . . . very good friends. I knew instinctively that he was every bit as hungry for emotional connection as I was. Maybe more likestarved.

With a crackle and a slurping sound, Chicky used her head to pop the top off her shell, then thrashed one slimy wing until it slid free. But the rest of her was still trapped in the shell, which infuriated her. Amid a flurry of flapping and squawking and glaring eyes, I heard “Off it! Off it!” in the strangest voice I’d ever heard—something between the call of a bird of prey and the snarl of a big cat, only in falsetto.

“She can speak!” I realized in sudden pride. My beautifully hideous griflet flopped and thrashed, scattering straw everywhere. One foot wriggled free, and the other slipped out of the shell as I watched, breaking off another large chunk of shell. Then her whole body convulsed, and she leaped from the remaining dome of eggshell to sprawl halfway out of the nesting box with her sharp beak and eagle talons in my lap, her lion body and legs stretched thin, and her hind paws and tail still tucked inside the last bit of shell.

“Beeetrice,” she squawked with almost frightening clarity. “MyBeeetrice.” Her yellow eyes, still bleary, focused on the person looming at my shoulder as if warning him away.

“Love is given and received freely, never claimed.” The Gamekeeper’s tone was firm.

After a brief standoff, the griflet blinked, and her defiant attitude dissolved. “Chicky hungry.”

“I will bring your food,” the Gamekeeper said.

“Thank you!” I reluctantly released his hand as he rose, doing my best to focus entirely on the newborn griflet. Who wastruly fascinating. I realized that Chicky could become intimidating if I failed to establish authority immediately. “Now, baby girl, you must focus on drying yourself and exercising your wings and legs.”

Chicky blinked again. “Chicky love Beatrice,” she cheeped sweetly.

My heart melted. “And Beatrice loves Chicky very much. I would like to hold and hug you, but first you must free your feet and tail, then walk to me.”

She brightened, and I sensed her determination. Kicking with both hind legs, she rid herself of the last piece of shell. Her hindquarters resembled a lion cub’s apart from the long stringy tail, but she was more developed than any newborn lion or bird of prey. I felt rather like a griflet expert after watching two of them hatch.

Chicky struggled to draw all four limbs beneath herself, hampered by the clunky raptor toes and talons on her front feet and the soft toes and claws on her hind feet, not to mention her flailing wings. The wet, sticky hair on her back, belly, and hindquarters would soon dry into the soft fur of a cub, and the globs on her head, chest, and wings would dry into fluffy down, but both griflets’ pinfeathers would probably be unattractive until they were nearly grown. What a fascinating and biologically impossible combination griffins were!

Just as Chicky successfully climbed into my arms, the Gamekeeper returned with her meal. I smiled up at him over the bedraggled baby curled beneath my chin, who was purring like a chainsaw. As soon as I looked away, I realized that I’d seen him clearly.

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