I stiffened, my hand tightening instinctively on Lysa’s waist. Old habits died hard, and walking into a room full of people usually preceded an accusation of dark magic or a demand forsomething. But the wall of sound that hit us was a roar of delight.
Warmth, thick with the scent of bergamot, roasting coffee, and the sugary smoke of pastries, washed over us. The shop was packed to the rafters, literally. A dozen small book-dragons had escaped the neighbouring bookshop to perch on the high beams, their scales glittering as they chirped a synchronized, chaotic welcome.
“Easy,” Lysa murmured against my shoulder, her thumb brushing the back of my hand. “They aren’t armed. Mostly.”
“I see a lot of cake knives,” I said, scanning the perimeter.
Behind the counter, Steady, the massive copper-scaled barista dragon, reared up on his hind legs. He let out a trill that vibrated through the floorboards, a sound suspiciously like a tea kettle reaching critical mass, and puffed a smoke ring that drifted over the crowd to halo us.
Maren, Lysa’s best friend, pushed through the throng, her pink head-wrap bright against the steam rising from the cups she carried. She shoved a tray of something sparkling and purple into the hands of a bewildered Councilman violently enough to make him spill a little, then threw her arms wide.
“They survive!” Maren shouted over the din. “And look! He’s wearing colours other than ‘funeral shroud’ and ‘ominous shadow’!”
“It’s charcoal,” I said, though I found myself grinning. “It is a respectable shade of joy.”
Before I could defend my sartorial choices further, a whirlwind of emerald silk and floral perfume collided with us. Briony flung her arms around Lysa’s neck, knocking us both backward.
“You did it,” Briony sobbed into Lysa’s hair, ignoring the public spectacle. “You actually fixed the brooding lord and saved the magic and look at thering! Oh, Lysa.“ She pulled back, gripping Lysa’s face between her hands. “I am so proud of you. I knew it. I knew the fairy tales were real.”
“The fairy tale involved a lot of damage and terrifying dragon veterinary work,” Lysa laughed, wiping her sister’s tears away. “But yes. It’s real.”
Mr. Emberlin stood behind his youngest daughter. Gladly, the perpetual shadow of exhaustion had lifted from his eyes. He looked at me as a man. He stepped forward and wrapped me in a crushing embrace. I hesitated only a heartbeat before returning the grip, awkwardly patting the back of the man who had raised the woman who saved my soul.
He pulled back, keeping a hand on my shoulder, then looked past me to Lysa. His voice was thick, barely audible over the cheering crowd. “Your mother would have loved him, Lysa. She had a soft spot for the difficult cases.”
“I am standing right here, Sylvester,” I said.
“I know, son.” He patted my cheek with a familiar affection that terrified me. “That’s why it’s funny.”
“Drinks!” Maren said, thrusting mugs into our hands. The liquid inside swirled gold and silver, matching the magic that now hummed contentedly beneath my skin.
I pulled Lysa into my side, shielding her from a particularly enthusiastic toast by the town baker. She leaned back against me, solid and warm and undeniably mine.
“You realize,” I whispered into her hair as Steady launched a celebratory jet of flame at the ceiling, singing the eyebrows of a hanging fern, “that we can never leave. Maren will hold us hostage with pastries.”
Lysa looked up at me, her eyes dancing with that mischievous fire. She took a sip of her brew, leaving a foam moustache on her lip which she decidedly did not wipe away.
“We have a big, empty manor to fill, Lord Stormgarde,” she said. “I think we can handle a few hostage negotiations.”
“Good,” I kissed the foam from her lip, ignoring the wolf-whistles from the corner where Thorven and Mrs. Crane were clinking glasses. “Because I have no intention of going anywhere without you ever again.” I tightened my arm around her.
