Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“Breathe in and out,” he instructs. “Deep breaths.” His low voice, with its beautiful accent, makes me shiver, and he steps even closer, warming me with his big body.
I obey him, inhaling his scent. With my eyes covered, the crackle of the fire sounds loud.
His hands tighten ever so slightly. Is it my imagination, or are they getting warmer?
I put my fingers over his. They are warmer. An intense scent billows around me. It’s gingerbread baking in the oven, the sweetness heady in the air.
“That’s so lovely,” I murmur.
The heat intensifies, but not alarmingly. Then I hear him softly speak words in another language—one that stirs my blood. The cadence evokes images of wild adventures and derring-do. Of secret caves, magic, and creatures that slumber long forgotten by man.
“Keep your eyes closed.” His hands fall away, and he sets them on my shoulders, squeezing them comfortingly. “Open,” he whispers, and I can hear the excitement in his voice.
My eyes flicker open, and I immediately gasp and fall back against him. His arms come around me, and he lowers his chin to my shoulder.
“What do you see, Cary?”
“Oh my god.” I stare around the room. Lights twinkle pink and gold, dancing along the shelves of books.
They touch the portraits, and sparks rise as they bounce off the walls.
Every time they touch something, more sparks appear, until the room seems to glow.
A strange humming noise rises and undercutting it is the sound of a low buzzing.
“Sigurd,” I gasp, and he squeezes me.
“Peace. It will be fine in a few minutes. It is overwhelming to see magic for the first time. Some men run mad from terror.”
“And now you tell me that?”
I feel him shrug. “You have me here. There is nothing to fear.”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.
He sighs and gives me a hug. “I should have known you would think so. Maybe the vestige of magic in your blood is stronger than I first thought.”
“What are the lights?”
“Ah, that is my magic in the room. It roams, you see, and left unchecked, it becomes mischievous. Once, a man stayed here, and the room turned into a zoo. He departed very quickly when a lion tried to eat him.”
I start to laugh and turn to face him. “Why would your magic do that?”
“Ah, it disapproved.”
“Of what?” He gives me a rueful look, and I chuckle. “Was it your tarty ways?”
“Aye. My magic knew what waited ahead and…” He bites his lip like he shouldn’t say more.
I get the feeling he won’t respond to any prompting, so I ask, “Was the man alright?”
“Yes, of course. He will have forgotten all about me by now.” Firelight gilds his cheekbones.
“How is that even possible? Even if I’d left here, I would have remembered you forever.”
“Maybe I did not want to be remembered. Forever is a long time when you have dragon blood, elskling.” His eyes darken with sadness, and it looks so wrong that I vow to do everything possible to make him happy.
The lights are still dancing around us. One darts at me and lifts a lock of hair, tugging at it mischievously.
“Fie,” Sigurd snaps and the light spins and shoots at him, circling his head before twirling and darting away.
“What do you mean about forever?”
He draws in a deep breath. “I cannot die, Cary.”
“What?” Some of the lights flicker rapidly, as if agitated or disapproving.
He nods. “I am a dragon, and we can live forever, and you humans are so delicate and short-lived. Beautiful and spectacular like fireworks on a clear night, but you die quickly, your sparks fading into the darkness. So, why would I want a man to remember me? It would have been pointless.”
I squeeze his hand. His voice is so melancholy. Still, I can’t help a twinge of hurt. “You will want to forget me, then?”
“Nay.” He cups my face in his big hands. “’Tis not possible. When you leave, your memory will stay with me forever, even as you go on with your life.”
I nod, appeased but also sad he has to feel this way about humans. The thought of not seeing him again like the other men he’s been with makes me feel winded.
His gaze fixes on a spot over my shoulder, and I become aware that the buzzing noise I noticed earlier is louder.
I turn in his arms and freeze. A small man stands in front of me.
He’s tiny, barely coming up to my shin, and has a wizened little face with bright eyes and a sharp nose.
He reminds me of a mouse, and he’s wearing curiously old-fashioned clothes—a white shirt, red coat, brown breeches and stockings, and black shoes with very shiny silver buckles.
As if aware of my focus, he turns his head to admire his feet.
“Oh my god,” I breathe.
Sigurd sighs. “Wrong. ’Tis a piskey,” he says in rather a weary voice.
The little creature’s mouth opens and shuts, and more noises come out.
“Is he talking to us?”
The piskey puts its hands on its hips, and I want to laugh. Even though I can’t understand his words, his body language says he’s pissed off.
“Sorry,” I say. “I can’t understand you.” I glance at Sigurd. “He’s very cute,” I breathe.
The piskey says something else, the words flowing, and Sigurd shakes his head.
“Hmm,” he says disapprovingly. “And he shouldn’t be in here. I’ve told you before,” he says to the little creature. “You cannot come in here.”
“Doesn’t he live here?” I ask.
“In my house, no,” he says emphatically. “Never. Never. Never.”
My mouth twitches. “The first never was good enough. Why wouldn’t you want him to live here? He’s so cute.”
“I’ll show you.” With a sigh, he claps his hands over my ears, and the same gingerbread smell fills the room. When his hands drop, there’s a moment of silence followed by a pop.
Sound bursts into my ears, endless rustles of pages turning accompanied by streams and streams of words.
“And so I saw you in the library, and you looked very pretty with your sunshine curls and blue eyes, and I saw you looking at the books, and I wanted to tell you that the best book is the one on the second shelf with the rather rude pictures. And then I thought to myself, no. I should show you instead. But I got sidetracked because I started thinking about missing my lunch and whether I’d be home in time for tea.
And then I remembered that there is a carol service in Truro, and I need to get over there and hide the mince pies—”
“Oh my god,” I breathe.
Sigurd nods glumly. “Now you understand.”
“So many words,” I whisper.
“And all of them ridiculous.” Sigurd steps closer to the piskey. “Why are you here, Wilfred?”
I inhale and choke on my spit. “Wilfred?”
The piskey glances at me. “Yes indeed,” he flutes. “I am Wilfred. The first Wilfred of my clan.”
“And the only one in the future I would think,” Sigurd says.
Wilfred nods. “It is true that some of my brethren prefer to play tricks on humans, but I like the giant creatures. They are entertaining. My name is a way of honouring the connection between man and piskey.”
“That humans are completely unaware of,” Sigurd interjects disapprovingly.
Wilfred winks at him. “Yes, but they feel the loving effects.”
I laugh and then smile at him. “Well, I like the name Wilfred. It’s very noble.”
The little creature puffs its chest out adorably. “I can see that you are a human of rare taste and judgement.”
“Has literally never been said before about me but thank you.”
“Why are you here?” Sigurd sighs.
Wilfred looks at him, and there’s something sly and almost naughty in his gaze, a brand of mischievousness. “Well, I had heard rumours.”
“What rumours?”
He waves his tiny hand. “Oh, of dragons and myths and the old legend of a dragon’s one true—"
“Enough,” Sigurd snaps. “Off with you.”
Wilfred slumps. “Really?” he says shrilly.
“Aye. There’s a coach of travellers leaving the Minack in half an hour.”
Wilfred brightens immediately. “Why didn’t you say that before?” He offers me a little salute. “Nice to meet you. I shall tell everyone you are here.”
“I’m sure you will,” Sigurd says glumly.
“It was lovely to meet you too,” I offer. “Thank you for stopping by.”
Wilfred whistles. “Well, dragon. It looks like the manners are going to improve in your family.”
“Goodbye,” Sigurd says.
Wilfred winks at me. There’s a sharp crack and the smell of cordite, and he’s gone.
Sigurd shakes his head. “Piskies are naturally garrulous creatures, but with Wilfred, you get a certain amount of longevity in that area. He never stops talking,” he bemoans. “Never,” he finishes glumly.
My lips twitch. “He was very cute. How old is he?”
“It is hard to tell with the piskies. They have very weathered faces. I believe he’s about five hundred years old. He is one of the youngest.”
“Oh yes, he’s practically a baby.”
He chuckles.
I remember to ask, “Why did you mention the bus?”
“Ah, piskies like nothing better than to cause mischief with travellers. He’ll pop over and rearrange coats and belongings. They have a rare affinity with satnavs and misdirections I’m afraid.”
“I bet he knew the one in my hire car.”
“Undoubtedly.” He reaches into his back pocket and tosses a small parcel to me. “For you.”
“Really?” I tear open the paper and blink down at the shiny box. “A phone?”
He nods. “To replace the one you lost, Cary.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I protest. He just smiles at me. “Thank you,” I say fervently. “That was very nice of you.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “No need for thanks.” He looks intently at me, and his face brightens as if he’s seeing something very dear to him. “So, how do you feel? You have seen and heard magic.” He winks. “Heard a lot thanks to the silly piskey.”
I move closer, loving the way he immediately pulls me to him. I stare up into his eyes. “I want to see more.”
He stays very still for a few seconds, and then I watch in awe as his golden eyes kindle and tiny flames spark up in the pupils.