Page 187 of Nine-Tenths

I blink hard, eyes burning, throat closing up.

I hadn't expected to be smacked between the eyes with a frank discussion of Dav's fuckingdeathtoday.

"And… and what about me?" I ask, voice trembling, and Dav splays a hand on my chest, over my heart, against my lungs. Reminding me. Breathe. Breathe into his hand. Just breathe. So I do. "Favorites live as long as their dragons. Do… do I turn into a goddamned statue, too?"

"You'll simply fall asleep," Dav says softly, pressing his nose into my hair. His voice is low, as much to comfort me as to keep this from being overheard by anyone else. "Not long after I do."

I judder once all over. There's something particularly morbid about knowing exactly how you're going to die.

"Okay!" I shake off Dav's arm and wipe at my face. "Okay. Topic change, please. Before I actually have a full-on meltdown."

"Actually, I'd rather we return to the first one," Auntie Pattie says, stamping her feet to warm up in the chill Scottish air. "What, exactly, are you two bully lads up to that's got every uppity priss twitching?"

Dav shoots me a look that says,Can we trust her?

My reply look saysAfter everything she's offered us? Yes.

So we lean in close, make sure nobody is paying us too much attention, and we tell her everything. When we're finished, she shoves her hands in her pockets, rocks back on her heels, and has a good chew over what we said.

"Well, now," Auntie Pattie says at length, and then stops, thinking.

She doesn't go on, and we give her space to contemplate.

"Well, now," Auntie Pattie repeats, chewing on her lower lip, the same way my Mum does. Same way I do. But this time she finishes her thought: "Seems to me that if you cannae get in to see a queen, perhaps you ought to be seeing a king instead."

Chapter Forty-Eight

There’s a delicious irony to the fact that Simcoe couldn't have had any freaking idea it would bemyconnections he had to worry about instead of Dav's. Auntie Pattie pulls whatever strings she has hold of, and late the next morning, Dav and I are making our way through the ancient stone halls of Cardross Castle.

We hadn't brought any clothing fit for taking an audience with a king, but a quick trip to the shops as soon as they’d opened had at least landed some decent off-the-rack suits. Mine is boring old black, though Dav has picked out a lux green shirt for me. His suit is a gorgeously on-trend floral pattern in shades of green and dusty copper that match my shirt, and sets off his perfectly-coiffed hair.

My boyfriend (fiancé? fella?) is such a clotheshorse.

(Is the termreally'Master'? Never in a million years.)

Auntie Pattie walks a few steps behind us, in a slick pantsuit. A few steps ahead, a footman in an old-fashioned livery blazoned with the same yellow-shield-and-red-x leads us through a vaulted gallery toward what is probably either going to be a) another fussy draconic parlor, b) some sort of conference room, or c) possibly a throne room?

I kind of want it to be C.

I've never been in a real throne room before.

It ends up being C.

Nice.

The room we’re paraded through is at least four stories high, with intricate, painted columns and bas-relief covered in gold leaf which, I'm sure, have lots of important meaning to the people who can read them. To keep our visit as secret as possible, we were hustled in the servant's door this morning, so I don't know what Raibeart Rìgh's front door looks like, but whatever histories couldn't fit there seem to have overflowed to this ceiling. You always sort of expect medieval castles to be gray and lightless, but the arched windows are massive, filling the room with syrupy, slanted sunbeams. Dust motes dance in the air, and there are a few loose threads on the lush red carpet. It looks like someone actuallyliveshere, which I like.

Dav and I pause at the base of a grand dais to bow – me with my hand over my heart – and Auntie Pattie peels off to the side to stand with a small handful of other people in equally smart suits and sparkling tokens.

At the top of the dozen or so stairs is a wide, ancient throne.

It's made of dark stone, carved with complicated Celtic knotwork. A dark red cushion on the seat supports another stone, lumpy and about the size of a wolf, and I wonder if this is the Stone of Scone that the draconic harlequins make a meal of.

And then the stone blinks.

It cracks a monumental yawn and I realize that this must be what Auntie Pattie meant by 'close to Turning Over'. Raibeart Rìgh’s hide is craggy and as gray as the highland mountains, his eyes the bold violet of the heather that dots it. He’s surprisingly…fluffyfor a dragon. His long, thin tail, which I'd mistaken for tassels on the pillow, is feathered with curls. A mane starts around his ears and flows down over his shoulders to appendages that are rather more like paws than talons. He mantles his wings and raises his blunt-nosed head to get us in his sights.

"An e seo an dràgon òg a tha airson an saoghal a shàbhaladh?" he asks.

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