“Thank you,” I say softly. I carefully wash and dry my hands. “You should try that with Sigurd.”
I approach the book again, touching a page tentatively, holding my breath as if it might disintegrate into dust. When nothing happens, I breathe out a sigh of relief, profoundly glad that no one is here to see my ridiculous behaviour. I turn the page, keeping my fingers as light as a butterfly, and smile in enchantment as a picture of a dragon comes into view. Brief explanations of the dragon’s anatomy are printed in clear, small letters, each description accompanied by an arrow pointing to various spots on the dragon. I read about fire glands under the snout and the size of the typical wingspan. I turn more pages to find stories of famous dragons and find that Roland appears to have looked on dragons much more favourably than stories in other texts I’ve read. He seems fascinated by them, and their tales of bravery and loyalty become increasingly enthusiastic.
One page has an illustration of a dragon and a group of men dressed in armour with swords and spears. It’s beautiful, the lines are bold and colourful, and I know it’s the same artist whopainted the picture of Roland at the beginning of the book. As I narrow my eyes, taking in the detail, one of the lines seems to move. Did I rattle the page?
No. Seconds later, the entire image seems to animate, with the armoured men dancing around the dragon, brandishing their spears, and the dragon cocking its head. There’s something very familiar in the dragon’s movement, and I give a startled laugh when I recognise it’s Sigurd. The pink, gold, and midnight blue of his scales are quite distinctive.
The next surprise comes in the form of faint voices. Of course, they too are coming from this magical book.
I bend closer and hear, “Take this, dragon!”
One of the knights flourishes his sword in rather a spectacularly douchebag way. “Forsooth, sir. The serpent shall die tonight, and we will dine well in the village as our reward.”
I bristle. “Serpent? Sigurd isn’t a fuckingsnake,” I hiss at the little knights.
Then I jump as I hear a throat clear from behind me.
“I thought I should find you in here, Cary.”
I spin and find Sigurd leaning against the door, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He’s wearing a heavy, cream-coloured fisherman’s jumper with jeans, and he’s barefoot. His hair is loose, and his posture seems relaxed, but I can detect the signs of strain around his pretty eyes.
I open my mouth to hopefully say something profound, but as usual, that doesn’t happen. “This is you, isn’t it?” I say, pointing at the book. “The dragon in the book.”
He cocks his head. “And if it is, what then?”
“I’d want to know exactly how old you are.” His eyebrows rise, as if he was expecting something else. I shake my head. “Bloody hell. I wouldn’t stop there with my questions.”
“I would not expect you to,” he says promptly. “Even an hour’s acquaintance told me of your inquisitive nature.”
“You can say nosy. It’s perfectly okay.”
He chuckles, his face lighting up, and some of the worry eases away. “So, how did you find your way into the library tonight?”
“The door opened, and it seemed to expect that I’d come inside. This room seems a trifle bossy.”
He straightens, removing his hands from his pockets. “The door opened?”
I nod. “Yep. Swung right open. Then I came in, and a fire started, and the book opened."
“I should not wonder that you have charmed my library just as you have its owner.” He winks. “Mayhap it is your insistence on book care as much as the power of your pretty blond curls.”
To my horror, I feel myself blush. There’s such honest admiration in his voice. I clear my throat. “You have very low standards for being charmed.”
“I think not.” He moves closer, and there’s something cautious about the movement that hurts my heart.
He’s expecting to be rejected. My chest fills with a protective feeling that I have never once felt about anyone, and I smile at him. “Come and look at this book,” I exclaim, grateful when his shoulders relax. I hold out my hand, and his golden eyes fill with cautious happiness as he takes it, and I squeeze his big hand before pulling him over. “Just look. The images are moving and speaking,” I say. Then I slump. “Oh, it’s not doing it anymore.” I touch the edge of the paper gingerly. “Did I break it?”
His smile is wide. “Nay, Cary. Twas a…” He searches for words. “…a vestige of previous enchantment. I should be surprised that you even saw that much.” He presses his lips together.
“Should be?” I prompt.
He reaches up to push my hair back from my forehead. His hand is warm and already shockingly familiar, and I nestle into his touch, watching in fascination as flames kindle to life in hiseyes. Then he shakes his head, and they go back to their usual colour, but I know I saw it, and I know why now.Dragon.
“You have some magic in you.”
My thoughts scatter immediately. “What? Have I?” I look down at my body as if the magic is going to stand up and wave a hand. “Where?”
He chuckles, his hands sliding onto my shoulders and squeezing them. “You cannot see it, and you cannot use it in your present state. It is just an echo of an older magic that ran in many of your kind.”
