With a lunge, I crossed the distance to Covington and snatched the letter. As he danced backward, he crunched glass under his heel. In the shuffle, I caught a glimpse of a worn leather book in his other hand.
My eyes scanned the note, and each word felt like nails driven into my coffin. Covington knew the truth. Slowly, I lifted my eyes to meet his gaze.
“You’re harboring a wild dragon in this lair, and you’re putting everyone here in danger,” he said, his words smooth, cold, damning.
“Myth, burn this,” I said, lifting the letter high.
A tiny spray of sparks flitted from Myth’s mouth and lit the note. I released it and stepped out of the way, watching it crackle and spin as it fell to the ground.
“Reeking ash,” hissed Covington, rubbing his hand down his chin.
“I can ask him to burn you next.” My chest was heaving, my blood a reeling mix of fury and fear. I might have given Myth away, but there was no backing down now. Covington already knew my secret.
“You wouldn’t.” Covington stared at me with fierce defiance.
“You have no idea what I would do to save my dragon.”
For a moment, we glared at each other, the scent of ash burning my nose.
“What’s that?” I finally asked, pointing at the book now hanging at his side. It was small, the pages uneven, some torn and stained.
“This,” he said, lifting it, “really is none of your business.” The leather was smooth and shiny, except for the edges, which looked cracked.
“Myth, burn it,” I said flatly.
“Oy!” Covington leaped out of the way, making a run for the exit. More glass crunched against stone.
“Stop him.”
Myth’s wings extended and his tail whipped forward. In a breath, Covington was on the ground, wheezing curses. The book tumbled from his hand and lay sprawled, pages waving.
Covington’s eyes landed on the book, but I got there first. He scrambled to his feet, yanking a piece of glass from his palm.
“Don’t!” he shouted.
Curling away from him, I glanced down at the first open page I flipped to, which was dog-eared. Handwritten notes were scrawled across the thick paper. Myth, sensing the game, bumped Covington with his snout, holding him back as he swiped for the book.
At first, my eyes couldn’t make sense of the words. The handwriting was elegant, slanting, and so narrow and faded it was hard to read.
Covington was hurling curses at my dragon, trying valiantly to get around him but failing. I hurried to the other side of the den and pored over a single page.
…Enough provocation, a dragon will flame. Tested metal and stone and glass. Glass so far the best receptor. Caution: it gets hot. Wear gloves.
Gaping, I flipped a few more pages, ignoring Covington’s string of maledictions.
Aloud, I read, “‘Today I took Reggie and Rushland to the townhouse. Edgar was angry after losing the auction against an Avencian.’”
“Stop.” Covington’s tone sent a chill down my arms.
I glanced up. “What is this?” I asked again, my voice barely above a whisper.
Myth must have thought it was okay to stop blocking Covington, because he lifted his head. Covington shot forward and ripped the book from my hands. His blue eyes were wild, feral.
Edgar was the duke’s first name. Reginald was Rushland’s older brother. That book must have been… “Your mother’s journal?” I breathed. Two or three years ago, I’d read in the papers about the duchess’s death from typhoid. And not long after, the duke’s wedding, which had been a grand affair. I placed my hand over my stomach, suddenly remembering the day we’d gotten the news about Pa.
Without a word, Covington spun, grabbed his lamp from the floor, and once again marched toward the door, cradling his bleeding hand against his side.
“Wait,” I said, hurrying after him.
