Page 193 of Nine-Tenths

By virtue of being the big brother, Dav and I are shuffled inside. We're herded to the poufs arranged around the ornate egg cup, which is now on the floor in front of the blazing hearth and surrounded by feather-down which will, I assume, catch any roly-poly babies and absorb any viscera that may escape the shell with her.

Dav greets his mother with kisses on the cheek, and as I sit, he clutches my hands.

"Do I have to, like, prepare myself?" I whisper, and he raises a confused eyebrow at me. "Is it gonna be … icky?"Don't be grossed out, I warn myself.Whatever happens, don't be rude.

He smiles. "It's much cleaner than a human birth, if slower. It'll be—" and then he gasps.

I whip my head back around to watch as the top of the shell stretches, like thin leather, and then, suddenly,pop.

There's a tear in the delicate material, and a little, red, pointy nose is out in the world. The scaly nostrils flare as Dav's sister takes a few fortifying breaths, her first in the open air of the world beyond her shell.

"Come on, sweet one," Paulette encourages, leaning forward, her hands tangled with Owain's. "You can do it."

I realize that everyone is clutching someone else, likely to quash the desire to peel the shell back. Even I know that you gotta let the little babies do that themselves, when it comes to birds. Why should dragons be any different?

Dav's sister rests for a moment, and then seems to decide that she's sick of being in the egg. Her whole head emerges all at once. She looks like Dav in miniature, albumen glistening in the firelight. She huffs, exasperated with the struggle, eyes opening for the first time. I'm caught by how yellow her gaze is. Her pupils expand and contract as she adjusts, and she yawns wide enough to show off a mouthful of teeth like sewing needles.

Around her the shell deflates, and after a few tired struggles, the room erupts into cheers when she flexes her wings and rips free. She cringes at the noise.

"Oh, our apologies, my darling," Owain says, kneeling on the down to lift and wrap his daughter in a fine, soft blanket. It's embroidered with a floral pattern that matches the one painted on the rest of the baby-brooding set. "We're just happy to see you."

The baby settles with a few awkward wing flaps, allowing herself to be swaddled, and blinking sleepily up at her father. Then, still on his knees, Owain turns to Paulette, and the room drops into sudden, anticipatory silence.

"Paulette-draig Seren Addfwyn Windsor Tudor, Countess Plymouth, I present to you a child of our blood and our flesh," Owain says formally, holding the bundle of baby out like an offering. I think, for one moment, what it might be like for a dragon to reject a child presented to them like this, how easy it would be to dash the child to the floor.

Of course, Paulette would never do that—she's looking at the baby with happy, hungry eyes.

"I recognize this child as of our blood and of our flesh, and name it mine," Paulette announces, and then breaks the formality of the moment to flick her gaze first to Dav and I. "And beloved of my family."

"I give her to you," Owain goes on. "She is yours forever more."

"She is mine, forevermore."

Paulette takes the child—who has begun to fuss—and quickly tucks her against her chest. The baby settles, cooing, and presses her face as close to her mother's heartbeat as possible. Just like that, the trance of ceremony is broken. Owain hops back up onto the pouf so he can lean over his wife's arm to look into her face.

"Welcome, Carys-draig Tudor," Paulette says to her daughter, loud enough that everyone in the room can hear.

There's a collective sigh of contentment at the naming, and the crowd shuffles out. One of the nursery maids sets a kettle over the fire, no doubt for a baby bath, while the other opens all the windows, letting out the stuffy air.

"I thought you said dragons were born in humanshape," I whisper, waiting for Paulette's permission to get closer.

Dav can't take his eyes off the baby, vibrating with palpable impatience. "A human couldn't break out of the shell. Look,"Dav breathes, and by the time I tear my eyes off his besotted expression, it's already happening.

Within minutes, she's a scrunch-faced, toothless, fleshy little bundle with wide buttery eyes and a thistledown wisp of frightfully ginger hair. I'm not one of those baby-hungry queers who coos and giggles over every womb-dropping they see… but, yeah, this one is worth some cooing.

"Should we take this as a sign?" I ask. "That she decided to hatch now?"

"Eggs tend to hatch when the whole family is present," Dav says. "I would have suggested we come visit for the holidays if we hadn't come now. It was about time."

"Ithink it's a sign," Owain says.

"Birth of a new world? Appropriate," Paulette says, and then, as soon as the nursery maids are gone and we're alone, adds: "Come greet her."

Dav is across the little room in a shot, kneeling formally before his mother, leaning down to rub his cheek against the baby's. It must be sticky with egg-stuff, but Dav doesn't care. Then he gently cups the back of her head and whispers, "Hullo, Carys. Welcome home,wy bach."

I make my way over more slowly, giving them a moment. Dav takes my hand and places my palm over the baby's fragile skull, lacing our fingers together to form a protective little hat.

"Hey, kiddo," I say. "I'm totally going to be the cool queer brother-in-law who talks to you about everything you can't talk to your parents about. But, uh, not the kind who helps you pick your prom dress. Sorry."

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