Chapter 4
from beneath her bed and began to read Toolkit for the Well-Prepared Dragonslayer. She had tried once before and quickly set his papers aside. She could hardly read a paragraph without her eyes starting
to sting and blur, the words doubling themselves on the page. The notes in the margin were the worst. “G., I know I’m phrasing
this badly, any ideas?” and “G., is the reader having fun here? Are YOU having fun?” The book was an immense crossword puzzle.
He had meant for them to finish it together, a thought that had been, for a while, unbearable to her.
Now, though, she wanted his voice, longed for his company, before she ran out of time. It was bad enough that King Sorrow
had not allowed them to be together, but it was worse—it was obscene—for Gwen to hold him at bay when she didn’t have to anymore.
So she turned the pages and read his book and, after a while, began to make notes in the margins herself, carrying on the
conversation he had started there.
It was a good book, what there was of it.
On the surface, it was about dragons and how they were defeated in the old stories.
But beneath that, she thought he wanted readers to see how the qualities of the successful dragon fighter might be of use in everyday life.
He felt there were still modern applications for a sense of personal honor, a desire to serve something bigger than the self, humility about the limits of one’s own knowledge.
He felt gallantry was a quality that never went out of fashion.
He also recommended a good, leisurely breakfast before fighting evil, which she thought was sound advice.
If she had two years left, and not two months, she might’ve finished the Toolkit for him, and Robin could’ve published it.
She was in her bedroom, at the desk, working her way through the second notebook, when she felt her cat, Old Ben, put his
paws on her right leg, as he often did before he jumped into her lap. But he didn’t jump up. He just left his paws there,
and then she remembered she had buried Old Benjamin three years ago and looked down and it was King Sorrow’s black claw resting
on her thigh, almost in her crotch, his ancient yellow talons, long and thick as the teeth of a crocodile, tracing the inside
of her leg, and she screamed and jerked away so fast she went over backward in her chair. By the time she rolled onto all
fours, he was gone.
“That all you got, bitch?” Gwen asked. But her voice was shaking.