Page 175 of Nine-Tenths

"Oh, man, that's good," I say around a mouthful of something eggy and crisp, and remember to cover my mouth with my hand so I don’t spray it.

I'm trying to decide if a) I actually want tea this late and b) if it would be rude to pour for myself, when Dav's dad pops up, and heads for a table with a drool-worthy spread of decanters that my own father would have drooled over.

"You drink whiskey?" Owain asks.

"Heck yeah," I say, then, "Yes, please, uh, sir."

Owain cuts a mock-glower over his shoulder at me, and I relax. Okay, sure, no 'sir's here.

"Cherries?" he asks, and it's only then that I realize he's making Old Fashioneds.

I swallow hard against the unexpected lump in my throat. Owain would have gotten onfamouslywith my Dad. I ask for extra, then stuff another sandwich in my face to swallow the embarrassing sniffle that's threatening. We're halfway through our drinks, making a good job of silently demolishing the pile of carbs, when the jetlag catches up with me.

"Up you go, son," Owain says softly, when I list to the side, the ice in my tumbler rattling. "The old wyrms will be takin' their time. I'll see you to your bed."

I make my reply in the form of a jaw-cracking yawn.

I'm too tired to do more than shuffle behind him up the stairs and through some corridors that, to my exhaustion-blurred vision, all look tasteful, oldey-timey, and worryingly identical. Iam totally going to get lost in the middle of the night searching for the washroom.

Maybe Ishouldfeel worried, or maybe lonely, or maybe even abandoned, being left in the room I'm shown to alone. Instead, when I flop face-first onto the bed, still in my grimy travel clothes, all I can think of is how kind and welcoming these strangers (who will be my family for the next few centuries) have been.

And how lucky I am because of it.

Chapter Forty-Five

The housedoeslook like a castle from the back. Where what Owain called the "new build house" (onlyfour centuries old) blends into the older Medieval manor and fortified courtyard, there's a grand gray-stone gateway topped with pointy gables and archer’s windows, bordered on either side with low round turrets, twinned with ivy.

"Thank you!" I throw my arms up at it. Yesterday's drizzle has let up, and this morning the stone glitters in the sunlight. "Finally. Something living up to the stereotype!"

Dav arches an eyebrow. "Are you disappointed I don't live in a drafty old castle, and sleep on a bed of gold with a princess I stole from a neighboring clan?"

"I mean, yeah?" I wrap my arms around his waist and slide my hands into his back pockets. "What's the point of having a dragon if you don't get the castle?"

"I note that you're not adverse to comparing yourself to a princess." He presses his cheek against my temple, nose buried in my hair.

"I know my role in this little fantasy."

"Fantasy?" Dav pulls back to catch my eye, his oblong pupils fattening with interest. "You didn't tell me it was afantasy."

"Not like that!" I protest. Then I reconsider. "Okay, maybe a little bit like that."

Laughing, Dav pulls me down the wedding-cake-tiers of the slope towards the water, a cute little babbling brook with artificial waterfalls, and unnaturally straight banks in a lush, carefully manicured lawn.

The whole back of the building is an Italianate Garden, charming and rigidly wild in that uniquely English way. The carved dragon door is on this side of the building, which means that at one time this had been the main entrance. I imagine the stream being something wilder and mightier in centuries past, deep enough for barges to sail up from the bay and deposit visiting dignitaries at the bottom of the hairpin stone staircases. This door is carved with as much lovingly rendered detail as Castle Frank, but unfortunately most of the symbolism is lost on me. I do catch that the dragon carved at the bottom of the doors, head twisted up to breathe fire from which the rest of the little figures and scenes rise, looks exactly like Dav.

"That your Mother?"

"Grandfather," Dav corrects. "The family resemblance is strong."

"Speaking of, how's your sister?"

"Much further along than I thought," Dav says. "Her shell is lovely."

"What's the nest like?" I ask, wondering if the egg is in a literal nest of blankets and jumpers that smell like her dad, or buried in gold, or is in the back of a secret water-lit grotto under the house.

Dav laughs and wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my head as his hands cup my hips. He's slow and clingy this morning. I don't think he got much sleep. He was there when I woke up, but I don’t know when he came in. I conked right out. I didn't even have the wherewithal to go poking around the room to see if we'd been put in Dav's childhood bedroom. There must be embarrassing trophies, or crayon drawings, or, ooooh, even an old stash of the Regency version of porn mags…

"Just a nursery," he says genially.

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