Page 183 of Nine-Tenths

"Oh. I suppose that's a shame, then. I was thinking how nice it would be for you to see your Auntie Pattie."

"Mum, Glasgow is on the other side of the island."

"Well, if it's too far, I'm sure she'd understand—" Mum stops when I groan.

No one can guilt-trip like a Scottish mother.

"Fine, but don't tell her, okay? Let me talk it over with Dav, see if we have time for it."

Our grand plans have been shot to hell.

We have nothingbuttime for it.

"She'll appreciate it so much," Mum enthuses, as if I've already said yes. "She hasn't seen you since you were in nappies."

Which is why I dread it. It's one thing exchanging letters and emails with a relative so distant you haven't touched them since you started kindergarten. It's entirely another to be forced to interact with them, likely in their house, sitting on a sofa smelling of mothballs and being told stories about other relatives you don't know, or care about.

After that, Mum and I chat aimlessly for long enough that my hand starts throbbing, and I begin to regret my tantrum. There's a split on my knuckle.

I know Dav can smell the blood, because as soon as I say my goodbyes and slump inside, his head jerks up. He inspects my hand, split-tongue licking the blood away like a cat.

"The wall will always win the barfight," he murmurs.

"I'll keep that in mind," I say, and try so hard for it not to come out glum. "Also, I… sort of told my Mum that we would go to Glasgow to visit my aunt?"

"I think that's splendid," Paulette interrupts us. "Get away for a few days and think about something else."

A thought occurs to me. "Could weflythere?"

Dav laughs. "It's too far,Fy Nhrysor. It'd take days for me to carry you to Scotland—we'd have to keep stopping for rest. Far faster to drive."

"Spoilsport."

Chapter Forty-Seven

Traveling to Scotland requires logistics. We take a few days to secure a B&B in an area of Glasgow that's supposed to be beautiful and historic, the tourist visas needed to hop across Hadrian's Wall, picking up enough Scottish Stirling cash from the exchange shop, and getting permission to cross throughdozensof other dragon’s territories via email forms, and then we're off. It's a seven hour drive, which we break up with a stop at a cidery in Manchester for lunch. I don't know Auntie Pattie’s preference, but I buy a six-pack of scrumpy as a gift.

I thought she lived in Glasgow itself, but I guess it’s been so long since I’ve sent her an actual physical letter that I didn’t realize the return address on the packages had changed about ten years ago. She’s in a walled medieval town called Rentonnow, a half hour or so’s drive from the city, so not too far to pop down and visit.

Crossing the Wall is a breeze as we get waved through a special line, and the remainder of our travels in Scotland are oddly relaxing. Nobody on this side of the Wall gives a flying whatever who Dav and I are. It’s refreshing to be anonymous again. If anyone even pegs him for a dragon, they don't say anything because it’s nothing worth noting. Dragons are thick on the ground in the Old World. Not the way they are in the colonies, where there are so few territories occupying so much space that most humans will never cross paths with a dragon in their life, but they’re recognizable from the news.

Auntie Pattie asks to meet us in a café on the far side of the city. The place is one of those ready-made-sandwich places, with run-of-the-mill coffee that can be charitably described as "drinkable".

We find a free table in the back and wait.

I'd had all day to tell Dav everything I knew about Auntie Pattie—that she was the daughter of Nan's terrible husband and his second wife, who had eventually kicked his alcoholic ass out; that Patricia and Mum had reconnected through mutual friends in Paisley where they'd both spent their childhoods; how Mum made a pilgrimage home every few years to spend time with her half-sister; how Pattie had some sort of government job that made it nearly impossible for her to get away long enough to return the visit; how Pattie had never married (and how I suspect her of being a big honking lesbian); how we swapped letters, birthday presents, and photos all the time.

So, we don't have anything left to talk about—except the merits of Scottish food and where we want to go for dinner. Neither Dav nor I have ever had haggis. So both of our heads are bent over my phone as we research restaurants when there's a chuckle—sounds just like Mum, eerie—from the other side of ourtable, and a: "I know I haven't seen you in decades, but I thought I would've got a wee bit of a warmer welcome than that."

"Auntie Pattie!" I’m delighted because for all that she had a passing resemblance to Mum, she's dressed less like a pottering older British lady, and more like Onatah.

Big honking lesbian, check.

Besides being blonde and blue-eyed like Mum, and having the same nose, Auntie Pattie doesn't look much like the rest of my family. Her eyes and mouth are creased with smile lines, and her features are finer. I might almost say we have the same cheekbones, but hers aren't as sharp and definitely don't come with my stupid ears. And her haircut is stylish, a trim glossy bob.

"Colin," she says warmly, and sets down her own mug on our table to wrap her arms around me. Gosh, it's a lovely hug. And spending as much time with dragons and hoard humans as I have, I'm starved for them.

"I'm so glad you called, young man," she teases. "Bless yer mum for bullying you into it."

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