Page 173 of Nine-Tenths

"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 beingwanted. And John Simcoe, he was steady, and honest. He was so convincing. Soflattering. 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 smoothingdown 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."

Dav's dad offers his hand. I wipe the kiss off on my jeans before I take it. He laughs, that boisterous, joyful thing that I've only heard my own dragon loose on very rare occasions.

"Colin, meet Owain ap Rhys Tudor, Earl of Plymouth."

He's a Favorite too. And a Favorite who…

"Ah-ha! So Iamgoing to have to take your last name!" I say, as Dav's dad pumps my hand jovially. He's got a grip like a rugby player.

"Only if we marry in the human way," Dav corrects me offhandedly. "Father, please don't pull his arm off."

"Right, right, too used to hanging about with dragons, I am." He lets go. His accent is thickly Welsh, and if I didn't watch as much BBC science fiction as I do, I might have a harder time understanding him.

Do I call him the Earl? Do I call him my Lord or… Father? I never called my own Dad that.

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