Page 11 of Blood of Wolves

The drake stood up, scales swishing along the grass as he uncoiled his tail, and leaned down over her shoulder, radiating heat. He snorted, loud and sharp, and Connor took two slow steps backward, expression going careful.

Amelia grinned. “And don’t you forget it.”

“Have you named this horrible thing?” Connor asked, eyes pinned to it.

She’d debated about it; it felt wrong to have a relationship like this with an animal – so much like her relationship with Shadow – and not to have a name to call him by. But what did someone name a dragon?

“I’ve just been calling him Alpha,” she said, finally, laying a hand on warm, smooth scales.

The dragon – Alpha – purred in response, and she supposed that was as close to approval as she’d get.

~*~

The truth of it was, despite her preference for dirty-handed hard work, breeches and boots instead of skirts, riding astride and watching a good practice match in the stable yard, and her dislike of gossip and tea parties, Amelia had never sought anything like a true leadership role. She enjoyed the role of “my lady” amongst her men-at-arms, but with Father the duke, and John set to inherit, she’d never seriously considered leading troops into battle; never thought to be the glue that held together a council meeting.

She hadn’t been able to eat, earlier, and her stomach fluttered with useless nerves, now, as she walked toward the manor’s ballroom. There were a host of salons and parlors, of course, and the dining room, her father’s old study – but when the war first started, and the Drakewell gatherings shifted from teas and musical evenings to something more like war councils, Father had moved the meetings to the ballroom. In the vast, echoing, gilded space, the goddesses painted on the ceiling had been witness to hushed, tight conversations; the mirrored walls had reflected tense shoulders, and furrowed brows.

Her mother walked beside her, keeping up easily despite the length and heft of her skirts. Connor and Reginald walked along behind them; it felt a little like having an entourage, the unlikeliest one she could have ever imagined.

“…responds well to a straightforward approach,” Katherine was saying, and Amelia shook errant thoughts away and focused. “Phineas and Isadora Sutcliffe, however, enjoy flattery.” The flatness of her voice spoke of restrained, but deeply-felt distaste.

“Then perhaps you should be the one to address them, Mother.”

“No.” Katherine halted, and Amelia did the same, turning so they faced one another. Reginald and Connor hung back – but not far enough. Katherine wore a formidable expression, and whatever she was about to say, Amelia wished they didn’t have an audience.

“It has to be you, Amelia,” she said. “I’m only a Drake by marriage – you’re the true Drake. You’re the one the dragons came to, who they’ve attached themselves to. You’re your father’s heir.”

Surprise sent goosebumps rippling down her arms. “Heir,” she repeated, and her lips were numb. “But I’m–”

“His oldest living child.” Katherine smiled small and tight, but something glittered in her eyes that Amelia was hesitant to callpride. “Strong, and brave, and with a true understanding of this duchy’s people. You go out there, with your men.” She nodded toward the wall, and all the land that stretched beyond it. “You see, and you hear. You understand this place in a way that I – that I never have. I can wine, and dine, and steer the flow of gossip, but I can’t lead soldiers.”

Amelia swallowed. “Mother.”

Katherine’s smile flickered, lifted a fraction. “It has to be you, at the head of this table.” She turned toward the men. “Don’t you agree?”

Reginald dipped his head, and said, “Of course, my lady.”

Connor said, simply, “I do.”

They regarded her in a way that left her throat tight, and her chest aching, so she looked away, and met her mother’s firm resolve again.

“Now. Are you ready?”

Amelia nodded, took a deep breath, and started walking again.

The engraved double doors of the ballroom stood open, and as they neared them, she caught the tail end of the conversation taking place within.

“…ridiculous,” a high, feminine voice was saying. Atsk. “It looks like something a child came up with. It’s far too fanciful. What are they thinking?”

Amelia crossed the threshold, her mother at her side, her new allies at her back, and found Lady Isadora Sutcliffe standing beside the table, beautiful face twisted with disgust as she looked down at the banner that had been unfurled down the length of the mahogany. Green edged with gold, stitched at the center with the Drakes’ new crest – their true crest: a drake with wings outstretched and jaws open. Connor had described the banners he’d seen in books at the capital, and Katherine’s very talented seamstress had rendered it beautifully.

“Fanciful,” Amelia said, startling the table’s occupants – Isadora, especially, if the way she jerked upright with a gasp was anything to go by. Her face pinkened, and she pressed her painted lips together, and Amelia couldn’t resist saying, “That’s rich, considering what those diamonds in your hair cost.”

Isadora’s flush deepened. She opened her mouth to retort–

And her husband pushed to his feet. “Now see here,Lady Amelia.” The title was an insult on his lips – thin lips, topped by a scanty mustache that looked penciled on. He was a tall, almost skeletal man with large ears and mouse-brown hair, and Amelia knew for a fact Isadora entertained a string of lovers, and had only married him for his money.

“No,” she said, and he spluttered, chest puffing up and ears going red. “All I see is someone dismissing the banner of my house as ‘ridiculous’ when I’ve called you all here today on very serious business.” She was proud that her face stayed cool, and composed, and didn’t slide into the nasty territory that left her sounding young and foolish when she sparred with her mother.

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