Egg brain.
Geoffrey pinched the bridge of his nose to try to compose himself, but it was of little use.
What he wanted was out of reach, and, if he was honest with himself, never fully attainable in the first place.
Without waiting for his assent, Angela, Geoffrey’s housekeeper, dropped to her knees and began to lay a fire in the grate.
“It’s a dreadful gloomy day, sir,” she went on, pretending, as usual, that she was a character in a Victorian romance novel. “Not the heroine, mind you,” she’d sometimes say, “but the trusty maid who can keep a secret.” Then she’d smile, like it was a private joke between them.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He wondered what time it was. He couldn’t make out the face on the gilt and porcelain ormolu clock that sat ticking on the marble mantle.
“It’s just past six, sir. Would you like dinner? I could thaw some of the oxtail broth and make vegetable soup.”
It sounded almost appetizing. “All right.”
“Excellent. And a croissant? I baked some this morning.”
Geoffrey nodded. Angela was an excellent baker, having studied and received a degree in pastry from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. Geoffrey wondered if Matthieu would appreciate her efforts as much as Ian did, and the thought caused more shadow to fall over his mood and the ache in his heart to redouble.
Despite their plan, Geoffrey could see that none of it would come to pass. Ian and Matthieu would mate. It seemed inevitable. And once mated, Matthieu would cease being interested in his freedom. He would want a clutch, and Ian would inseminate him, and they’d be a family. Geoffrey could see them; two bright heads with a passel of whelps the color of sunrise.
There’d be no room for Geoffrey in their lives, with his dark, somber self and deviant desires. There was, he thought, no room for him anywhere. Dragon after dragon would mate with Disgraces and sire young, and Geoffrey would be alone.
He thought of how he’d told Matthieu that dragons were limited to three millennia. Two of those stretched before Geoffrey in a long, gray line. It made him tired just thinking about it.
“I do wish you’d eaten something,” Angela said.
“Hm?” Geoffrey glanced up and saw that his soup sat, untouched, on the table beside him. It looked cold and partially congealed. Next to that lay a croissant that had been torn into a myriad of tiny pieces. “Oh, Angela, I apologize. I suppose I don’t have much of an appetite tonight.”
“You’ll feel better once Master Ian is back. You mark my words.”
Geoffrey started. “What?”
Angela frowned. “Well, sir, I know as how you and Master Ian are particular friends, despite him being a Topaz. I think it’s sweet.”
Geoffrey’s blood ran cold. Did she know? He thought they’d been so careful. He and Ian had been models of discretion, yet he’d first had hints from Ian’s sire, and now more from Angela. How many people knew? How many suspected?
In such a short period of time, everything had begun to fall apart.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?”
Geoffrey shook his head. What could Angela possibly give him to fix a broken heart?
He closed his eyes and fell back into reverie.
* * *
Geoffrey had known it was a mistake to follow the Topaz whelp out of the council headquarters, but he’d done it anyway, drawn by desire and fatalism and a curious magnetic pull he couldn’t deny. Then he’d seen the contraption and had second thoughts.
“What the devil is that?”
It was yellow. Very yellow, as Geoffrey supposed befitted a Topaz, and very showy. Geoffrey didn’t own an automobile—his legs were perfectly functional, and when the distance was too great for walking and not prudent for flying, he took a cab—but if he had, it wouldn’t have looked like that.
“It’s a Mitchell Speedster,” the whelp pronounced proudly. “She was made in Southern Wisconsin.”
“She?” Geoffrey asked.
Ian flapped his hand. “Figure of speech. Get in. I’m taking you home.”
