The girl was named Antoinette. She had no last name; Fitzdraca would do if one was needed. She was dragon-blooded. She would stay with them until she learned to control her abilities. They would treat her as one of the family. Artair had explained those facts briefly, and to say that his tone had brooked no disagreement would have been untrue only in implying that any tone of his had ever allowed for argument about anything. Antoinette was staying. It was a fact, from that moment as unchangeable as the hills around them.
Later Erik had discovered that Toinette had marched up to Artair, told him of her situation, and offered to demonstrate her powers. He and Cathal had speculated about whether she’dstartedby sticking her hand in the hearth fire just to get Artair’s attention. It had seemed like the sort of thing she’d do.
Poor relations, especially illegitimate ones, were supposed to conduct themselves with a certain humble gratitude, and while Toinette had never seemed ungrateful, she’d been far from humble. From the first, she’d kept up with the MacAlasdairs, refusing to be left behind or to keep her questions to herself. Erik, fifteen and very conscious of his dignity as a young man, had thought more than once about throwing her into the loch. His own status as a guest had tied his hands, though, and he’d never managed to persuade Cathal to do it, not even when Toinette had won all of their pocket money at dice.
He outdid her in hunting, in both forms, and he was far better with dogs and falcons. Those were his consolations.
Over three years, he’d found out very little about her past. Her father had been a scholar calling himself Antonio. He’d not bothered marrying her mother, which explained some of Artair’s interest in her. Since the MacAlasdairs had settled Scotland, if not before, no man of their line had accidentally sired a child on a mortal woman. Toinette’s father, by inference, must have been only a generation or two removed from the Old Ones, the true and immortal dragons. Toinette didn’t talk about her mother.
She’d grown up in London, not quite a child of the streets but not far from it either. At twelve, on the cusp of womanhood, she’d started changing in more ways than one. She’d managed to make it out to the countryside before her first full transformation, she said, and since Erik had never heard stories of a dragon rampaging in London, he was inclined to believe her.
He’d never heard exactly what rumors she’d followed to find the MacAlasdairs. Toinette didn’t talk much about that either.
Not that she’d been silent, by any means. As a girl, Toinette had been full of questions and opinions, songs and stories and challenges. At fourteen, she’d broken her arm trying to outdo the others in flight, and even the quick healing of their blood hadn’t spared her a week of miserable boredom. At fifteen, she’d taken to writing bad poetry. Erik and Cathal had found some and read it aloud, and Erik had gotten a water pitcher to the head for his pains.
By the time he’d been eighteen and Toinette sixteen, she’d been tall and willowy, finally graceful in skirts. Her hair had grown. Braided about her head, it had looked to Erik like a flaming halo, though she’d never achieved any kind of sainthood.
He’d more than reconciled himself to her company. Their fights had continued, but with an undertone that had left him with a spinning head and embarrassing dreams.
Then Artair had sent her away. He’d been kind about it, letting her choose her path. She’d ended up leaving with the traders who’d brought her, with enough money to give her a good start regardless of her sex.
“I could go to a convent, too,” she’d said as they’d sat behind the forester’s cottage on her last day at Loch Arach, enjoying an adolescent refuge for the final time. “But I couldn’t see myself among nuns.”
Neither could Erik, but he didn’t consider it the better part of chivalry to say so. “I can’t see why you have to go in the first place,” he said. “To go back on hospitality after so many years—”
Toinette had rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a fool if you can help it. You and Cathal are old enough to wed now. Any lord who’s thinking you over for his daughter will go sour on the whole idea if Artair has a ward around old enough to warm your beds. He cares more about land and arms than blood, so I’m a hindrance right now. Sensible man.”
“Heartless, you mean,” Erik said, trying to pretend his face was red from outrage.
“Hearts don’t do anyone much good. He’s been nicer than I’d a right to expect. Besides”—she shrugged—“it’s about time I saw more of the world. But before I go—”
She’d leaned forward, awkwardly since they were both sitting, grasped his shoulders, and pressed her open mouth to his.
Girls hadn’t beenrarein Loch Arach, but Erik had never gotten the nerve to approach one. They were servants, or villagers, and he was a guest at the castle. He’d no wish to risk Artair’s wrath. He’d looked, and dreamed, and thought things might be different when he went home.
At the touch of Toinette’s lips, his body had lit up with internal flame. He’d kissed her back clumsily but intensely, their tongues sliding against each other, and wound his fingers into the red silk of her hair. He was leaning toward her, trying to figure out how to get closer without falling over on her, when a voice called her name from a short distance away: Agnes, Cathal’s older sister.
Instantly they broke apart, and Toinette sprang to her feet. “I’ll be there directly!”
Erik—not inclined to stand up just then and unsure he’d be able to any time before sunset—had stared up at her. “What… Why did you do that?”
“I wanted to know,” she’d said, “if it’d be better now I’m older. And it was. Thank you.”
Then, skirts whirling as she turned, she’d left him to his confusion and lust.
Three
Crew vanished at every port. Some found new ships, some tired of life at sea and headed off to seek a farm, and a few met a more final end, whether by tavern fights or spoiled food. Toinette was only thankful to be seeing fewer deaths from the plague.
Erik’s mission meant losing more than usual. Men who’d been quite content to sail from France to Muscovy, or London to Spain, heardmysterious island west of Englandand shook their heads. Sailing was dangerous enough on the routes men knew practically by heart. They sailed on respectable merchant ships, not as pirates or explorers. The whole venture sounded foolhardy.
Knowing that very well, Toinette didn’t bother trying to convince them. It wouldn’t have done any good, and she had a conscience, shriveled and shrunken though it might be. Risking her life and those of willing men was as far as she would go.
Thus she drew more heavily than usual from the taverns. TheHawkwould sail decently with ten men. Counting herself and Marcus, that left eight. Erik would likely be useful if they met with pirates, but she didn’t want to count on him for running up the sail or manning the wheel.
“And you don’thaveto come,” she told Marcus as she made her plans, the notion having occurred to her while she slept. “I’ll not hold it against you.”
He made apfahsound through his beard. “And will I live forever if I stay?”
