“Preventing you from making a grave mistake,” he says simply.
I gape at him. “What do you mean?”
He cocks his head. “Are you not making a mistake right now? Sitting here so far from your mate.” He bites his lip, his face merry and mischievous. “Oh dear, what a silly fopdoddle I am. I should not have used that word.”
“Which one? You use a lot.”
His laughter is like bells on the air, and a baby in his highchair tilts his head as if he hears it.
Wilfred leans closer. “Mate,” he whispers.
I rub my forehead. “You are already giving me a headache. What are you talking about?”
“Did you not know? Can’t you sense it?”
My head comes up, and my heart picks up speed. “Sense what?”
“That you are the dragon’s mate, of course.”
I suck in a breath. “What does that mean?”
I don’t modulate my voice, and the people nearby get up quickly and leave, shooting me suspicious looks. Wilfred rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers. At once, a silvery net descends from the ceiling, draping over us. It sparkles in the light, and I can smell peppermint, the scent sharp and sweet. It’s cold where it touches my skin, and the noise around us immediately stops.
“There,” he says. “I have concealed us, but we do not have long. It drains my magic quickly.”
“Why are you saying mate?”
“Ah, the dragon did not tell you. I thought so. Why, only this morning, I thought to myself, Wilfred, that dragon will make a ham fist of this business. You had best help him, or he will lose his one true mate.”
“There’s that word again,” I say faintly.
“You are a dragon’s mate,” he says simply, his eyes glowing eerily. His gaze is far away, as if seeing something I can’t see. “Each dragon is gifted one mate for all his long years. A person who will complete him—the other side of his dragon soul. You are that to Sigurd.”
I gasp. “That can’t be.”
He cocks his head. “Can it not? Can you tell me that you do not feel it deep in your bones and blood where magic still lingers?”
I consider the excitement, the sheer… joy I feel around Sigurd. The sense of rightness—of safety and warmth—I have only ever felt with him.
“Does he know?”
“Of course,” he says in blatant astonishment.
I sag. He’s right. Suddenly, all Sigurd’s words make sense. And all the conversations he’s had with other magical people where they placed importance on my role to him—he closed them down every time.
“I’ve been so blind. How could I not have guessed?”
He chuckles. “Ah, humans. You never see what is right in front of you. Mayhap it is wilful blindness, but I prefer to think that you cling too closely to your perception of the world. Anything else unnerves you.”
“But why didn’t Sig tell me?”
“He has always been a proponent of free will. He holds himself to very high standards. It is why he is revered in the magic world. There is only one of him. I have known many dragons over the centuries. They are an interesting race. Warm and kind, but quick to anger, and stubborn when they have an idea in their head. Even if it’s wrong, they will cling to it like the gold they love. He would want you to come to him yourself.”
“He said that.” I look up. “But you’re telling me. Why?”
He gives me a wide grin that creases his weathered little face. “I like you, Cary. I think you are my friend, and I love the old dragon. He is the kindest, most gentle creature, and he deserves a mate such as you. Someone who will protect his little weaknesses, someone clearheaded and as kind as him.”
“What does it mean? A mate?” I pause. “Is this wrongness I feel caused by not being with him?”
