Chapter 5
brIGID
Matty takes my hand, leading me down the main stairwell. Garlands studded with dried orange slices are wrapped around the railings, filling the air with the scent of pine needles, citrus, and cinnamon.
Music drifts up from one of the lower levels, a choir of guttural throat noises blending with ethereal voices singing in ancient Dracalyrian. The high notes send shivers down my spine, crystallizing like icicles. I don’t need to understand the language to know they’re singing about the Solstice.
“My Queen, may I have a moment?”
I swivel my head toward a tall dragon in his humanoid form, clambering down the steps. Matty stops and turns smoothly, draping an arm over my shoulder as we face him. “Yes, Grayson?”
He dabs his emerald scales with a handkerchief and shoves it in his pocket, juggling a clipboard in his other hand.
My eyes snag on the portrait clipped above a stack of papers.
It shows a gorgeous dragon with opalescent scales and deep violet wings.
Below it, there’s a miniature painting of a female humanoid dragon with hair like moonlight spilling over her amethyst scales.
“I have great news,” Grayson says. “Lady Beatrix of House Foxglove has arrived at the front gates. She’s decided to put herself forward as a candidate for tomorrow’s ceremony.”
My stomach turns, and I press a hand to my navel, surprised by the sudden flash of envy.
There’s nothing to be jealous of. I’m not vying for the Queen’s hand.
It would be absurd to even consider such a thing, but I can’t help thinking how wonderful it would be to have someone like her truly care about me.
“Splendid.” Matty pulls me closer. “I’ll be happy to see Lady Beatrix at the ball tomorrow, but today, I have company.”
“Your Majesty,” Grayson pleads as Matty sweeps me down the stairs. “Don’t you want to speak to her? A betrothal to someone so powerful would be beneficial for the monarchy, and she is a beauty.”
Matty presses her lips to my hair and whispers, “Blah-dee-blah-blah. Lady Beatrix wrote to me last week proposing an arrangement that would allow her to keep seeing her lover while we put on a good show for the Dragon Territory. I consider her a dear friend, but she’s interested in a crown, not me.
Not romantically at least.” Clearing her throat, she raises her voice to reply to Grayson, “I’ll keep your suggestion in mind, old friend. ”
Dismissing him with a wave of her hand, she picks up the pace, jogging away with me before he can continue the argument.
“Would it be so awful to consider a practical arrangement?” I ask. “You wouldn’t have to stop searching for your true love match.”
“I would never disrespect my chosen or fated mate like that,” she says, her jaw set. “When I make a vow to someone, I intend to keep it.”
Queen Matilda is one of the last true romantics, I guess. She’ll be clinging to the chance to find her fated mate up until the last minute.
We’re moving so fast that we nearly collide with someone else trying to put in a good word for an eligible noblewoman. She’s holding a frame showcasing a painting of another pretty dragon.
“Not now, Jocelyn,” Matty calls, the portrait blurring in my periphery.
“But the Solstice ball is tomorrow,” I remind her as the older dragon balks behind us. “I won’t hold it against you if you need to speak with your council, or even take some time to fret over your choice for a little while.”
“No,” she says firmly. “What did I tell you I’d be doing today?”
I roll my eyes, but her giddiness is contagious as we run through the castle. “Giving me warm fuzzies?”
“Yes, that’s my entire to-do list.” She ducks her head to protect her horns from the low-hanging crystal snowflakes dangling from the mezzanine ceiling.
I can’t contain my smug grin as we slip past the crowd of elderly dragons gathered around the spruce tree in the foyer to watch the carolers. Matty is on a mission to make me feel good, and she’s succeeding.
I’m starting to think I might still be trapped in that iron chest because this all feels like some hazy dream induced by oxygen deprivation. I can’t think of a logical reason for Matty to be this kind to me.
Or maybe I can.
We’re kindred spirits, both of us searching for something. A true love match for her, and a true home for me, a place where I can be happy and free.
Maybe I’ll even feel secure enough to wish for a true love story too, eventually. I’d love to experience a real romance that feels something like this.
That unbidden thought about our quick fling steals my breath.
“Is something wrong?” Matty asks.
“Not at all.” A literal queen wants to pamper me for a day. There’s no need to ruin the easygoing nature of this arrangement by overthinking my future to death.
“Good. We’re almost there,” she says. “You’ve got to meet my friends and help us with our annual soup tasting. It’s tradition!”
She greets the maids rushing around the back corridor and pushes through a set of double doors leading to the kitchen.
A slim humanoid dragon sings as she pours melted chocolate into a bubbling cauldron.
Teacup dragons wearing cream uniforms flit between cast iron pans hanging from the ceiling, pairing up in teams of two to carry steaming pots over to the fire range.
I suck in a breath, feeling the call of my element.
Don’t do it, Brigid. I grit my teeth. Do not make this kitchen burst into flames.
Matty squeezes my hand as my power surges against my ribs.
“It’s ok,” she murmurs into my hair. “You can control it. You’ve got this.”
Steadying myself, I avert my eyes away, focusing on the tiny dragons scurrying across the flour-dusted countertops on all four legs. They pick up cookie cutters and press them into a sheet of rolled dough, making tree and star shapes.
“What are you doing here, Matty?” a cerulean dragon asks without looking up from his boiling cauldron. He gives it one more stir before setting his spoon aside and striding toward us, standing about two heads taller than me. He even looms over Matty.
“This is Alistair. He’s one of my oldest friends from my time with the Dragon Peace Committee, and one of the best cooks in the entire territory,” she says. “Alistair, this is Brigid. She’s—”
Her mouth opens and closes, a smoldering line of burning embers showing between her scales as she fumbles for an introduction.
“I’m a witch!” I offer, extending my hand.
“How enchanting,” he says, his claws swallowing my fingers in a quick handshake as he winks at Matty. “I’m glad you made it. I thought for sure you’d be deep in a cup of spiked eggnog, wallowing in your misery over tomorrow’s events.”
Matty leans back on a counter. “I’m actually feeling better about things.”
“Really?” Alistair flicks his eyes toward me. “What’s changed since the last time we spoke?”
Matty lifts a shoulder. “I met Brigid.”
I flush beneath Alistair’s intense ruby gaze. If they’ve been friends for a long time, I’m sure he can guess what Matty means, and why she’s spending the day with me.
“Aha,” he says, giving me the same look I saw on her cousin’s face earlier.
He flies up to a stone cupboard placed high out of reach, its hinges creaking as he throws it open, pulling out two linen satchels filled with hunks of crusty bread.
“Then I’m so glad you both are able to join me for the annual soup tasting. ”
Matty and I take turns dipping our bread into ceramic sampling bowls, soaking up different broths and ranking our favorites. It’s hard because I love so many of them. I think I could eat soup every day in the winter and never get tired of it.
“Alistair started doing this when the Peace Committee was negotiating a treaty with Mortellia. It was a harsh winter, and it helped to boost everyone’s spirits,” Matty explains, using a spoon to scoop a potato from a creamy stew and feed it to me.
“Every year since then, we’ve taken a vote to see which one is the best. That’s the soup we serve for the Solstice. ”
Two small pink dragons fly by, carrying a tray of gingerbread cookies shaped like wyverns over their heads.
“It’s time to make the decision," one of them announces, pushing the tray into the oven. “Let the voting begin.”
Matty sits on a stool and pulls me onto her lap as the miniature dragons tally the votes on a chalkboard in the corner of the kitchen. The winter vegetable and broccoli cheese are perilously close when they get to Matty.
Broccoli cheese. Broccoli cheese. Broccoli cheese. I chant it in my head, willing the best choice to win.
“Winter vegetable,” Matty says, bringing them both to six votes each. “Your turn. Be the tiebreaker, Brigid.”
“This is the soup that will be served at the ball tomorrow?”
“Yep. Be honest.” Alistair folds his arms over his chest. “And don’t try too hard to impress that one,” he says, cocking his head at Matty. “She’s always had excellent taste in friends, and shit taste in soup.”
I look around and find a dozen sets of eyes on me, all eagerly awaiting a decision I probably shouldn’t be making.
Picking a soup might seem like a trivial matter, but I’m sensitive to disapproval after a lifetime of it. I’ve learned to bend myself backwards to make people like me, sometimes pretending to enjoy a dish, or that I’m ok with taking on an extra project just to please somebody.
No one ever asks for me honesty, but the vibe in the kitchen is warm and welcoming. I lean back against Matty and get the notion that I can be myself here as I inhale her comforting scent.
“Broccoli cheese, obviously,” I answer, half-expecting everyone to chuck spoons at me for choosing a different answer than their Queen.
Instead they all cheer, the commotion to prepare tomorrow’s feast already beginning.
The kitchen explodes with the chaos of boiling pots and beating wings, and I close my eyes, hyperaware of the flames on the fire range.
Matty rubs her thumb along my waist and whispers, “It’s feeling a little crowded in here. Would you like to go for a walk?”
I nod without asking what she has planned, ready to go wherever she wants to take me.