Is that…?Grimble backed up a few steps.
“Adele’s weather magic.” Elizabeth eyes widened with delight. “It’s responding to the match before it’s even set. The fates are in agreement.”
The miniature storm intensified, swirling faster as Elizabeth completed the proposal with a flourish. As she signed her name, a crack of thunder split the air.
Elizabeth looked up to see storm clouds gathering over her garden, despite the clear starry night of moments before.
Grimble eyed the gathering storm with concern.I hope this marriage goes smoothly.
Elizabeth sealed the proposal with melted wax and her family crest, unconcerned by the weather phenomenon. Her smile grew wide and a bit mischievous as lightning illuminated her face. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that?”
CHAPTER TWO
ADELE
Warm and cold air currents collided above my workstation, creating the perfect miniature storm system I’d been trying to replicate for weeks. I leaned closer, my nose almost touching the jutting pattern, watching how the thermal layers interacted exactly as I’d hypothesized.
“You beautiful thing,” I whispered to the spinning vortex. “You’re proving everything I’ve been saying about predictive thermal patterns.”
I scribbled notes frantically, my handwriting deteriorating with each line. My tower laboratory, perched at the highest point of Grandmother’s estate, provided the perfect isolation for weather experiments. Tall windows on all sides allowed natural light to pour in while offering unobstructed views of cloud formations in every direction. Weather instruments, scrolls, and multiple experiments in various stages of progress cluttered the room.
To my left, a small rain cloud hovered over a collection of drought-resistant seedlings, providing exact measured precipitation. To my right, a contained snow flurry swirledabove a model mountain range, demonstrating how air currents affected snowfall distribution. The room hummed with magical energy as I controlled multiple weather phenomena simultaneously.
Somewhere below, a clock chimed, but the sound barely registered as I made another notation.
“If the pressure systems align according to this pattern, then…” I traced lines on my chart.
A low whine came from somewhere near my feet, followed by a heavier sound that might’ve been a sigh, but I was too engrossed in my calculations to pay much attention.
“The implications for agricultural planning alone would be revolutionary.” I spoke to myself often while working through complex theories. Somehow, they made more sense when I said them out loud. “Not to mention disaster prevention protocols.”
The whining grew louder, followed by scratching against the wooden leg of my workbench. I absently reached down to pat whatever part of Fletcher I could reach without taking my eyes off my notes.
“Not now, love. I’m about to prove that weather patterns follow mathematical sequences that can be predicted thirteen months in advance instead of just one.”
My hound companion huffed, his basset jowls probably quivering with indignation. I knew that sound well. It was hisyou’re ignoring something importantnoise.
“Five more minutes,” I said, still not looking down. “I need to record these thermal shift measurements before they dissipate and I forget what they looked like.”
Fletcher growled, unusual for my friend, but I continued working. The miniature storm above my workstation had achieved perfect equilibrium, demonstratingexactly what my equations had predicted. This could be the breakthrough I’d been seeking for years.
A tiny thunderclap exploded beside my ear, making me jump and scatter my papers across the floor.
“Fletcher.” I spun around to find my basset hound companion sitting on his haunches, looking up at me with an expression that somehow combined both disapproval and panic. “What in the name of all the fates was that for?”
Wedding,he said.Your wedding is today!
I blinked. “What are you talking about? My wedding isn’t?—”
Then it hit me. My wedding. To the dragon shifter king. Today.
“Oh blessed moonbells,” I whispered, slumping against my worktable. “What time is it?”
Fletcher gave me a look that needed no telepathic translation.
“Three?” I asked hopefully.
Five forty-six, he said.
