The words settled heavily between them.
Estelle stared down into her tea, watching the faint ribbon of steam rise. “No,” she said at last. “It doesn’t.”
Fiona said nothing, and somehow that made it easier to go on.
“She loved her son, Julian, so much,” Estelle murmured. “And when he died, I think something in her narrowed. Everything became about holding on to what was left. At first, I told myself it was grief. That if I just gave her time, if I was patient, if I was fair...”
“But fair did not stop her pushing,” Fiona said.
“No.” Estelle let out a shaky breath. “It never stopped her. It only made her think there was always one more inch to take.”
Fiona nodded once, as if that confirmed something she had already suspected.
“I can’t let Adara go. She doesn’t know what she is yet,” Estelle whispered. “She’s too young. And when the time comes...” Her voice thinned. “I remember what it was like, not knowing what I was. Thinking I was losing my mind.”
Fiona’s face did not soften exactly, but it became intent. Listening.
“I was alone,” Estelle said. “I had no one. Maris, Adara’s mom, was the one who showed me what I was. Maris taught me how to shift without fighting it, how to live with it, how not to be ashamed of it.” Her eyes burned. “And she should have been here for Adara. Not me. Her.”
“Yes,” Fiona said quietly. “She should have.”
There was no false comfort in it. No bright attempt to polish grief into something bearable. Just truth. And because of that, Estelle felt herself breathe a little easier.
“I can’t lose Adara,” she said. “I know I’ve said that before, but I don’t think anyone understands what I mean when I say it. I don’t just mean to Margaret. I mean to fear. To confusion. Togrowing up with people who would love her and yet would not understand who she is. What she is. People who might reject her when she needed them the most.”
Fiona gave a slow nod. “That I understand.”
The words were plain, but they carried weight.
Estelle studied her. “Were you alone, too?”
Fiona’s mouth curved faintly, though there was little humor in it. “For a long while. Most of us are, at some point. Dragons are not exactly common, and families do not always pass down wisdom as neatly as blood.” She picked up her tea again. “But you learn to build a life. Brick by brick.”
That is what we are learning to do,Estelle’s dragon said.
“I keep thinking about Margaret,” she admitted. “I was looking through some old photographs. And it made me see that she wasn’t always... like this.”
“No one ever is,” Fiona said. “Grief can consume you. It can change you. Mold you into something you never imagined you could become.”
Estelle frowned. “Do you think that’s what this is? Grief?”
“I do.” Fiona tipped her head. “That does not make her harmless. But it does mean the story is not as simple as villain and victim.”
“No,” Estelle said softly. “It isn’t.”
“And that is often the most exhausting kind of danger,” Fiona replied.
Estelle glanced toward the living room where Adara slept, then back to Fiona.
“I want to stay,” she said slowly, trying the words. “I want to make our life here. But only if that means we are free of fear.”
Fiona set down her mug. “Then do it.”
Estelle blinked. “It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?” Fiona retorted. “You were drawn here for a reason.”
“Because Leo was here,” Estelle said.
