Silver Dragon

by Zoe Chant

  “I caught a glance as I came in. Very fine watercolors.”

  Godiva’s fierce gaze relaxed, her black eyes twinkling as Mikhail followed her into the bakery proper. Framed in pride of place by the front door was a tall watercolor of Jane Austen drinking tea as she looked down at a manuscript, one hand reaching for scones on a plate. He recognized those scones. Mikhail realized these were faithful reproductions of the scones that had been demolished during the readings.

  He glanced at the glass case, and sure enough, a little label, written in fine copperplate, marked a now-empty tray: Jane Austen Scones. On the other side of the door, Sherlock Holmes sat with his magnifying glass and his pipe, reaching for a Baker Street Tartlet. Victor Hugo sat behind a plate of éclairs, and so on. Famous writers, artfully painted, paired with pastries.

  Godiva lowered her voice. “Bird painted those for Linette when she bought the bakery. It was a dump back then, with crappy fifties décor and pastries that tasted like they’d been sitting around since then. Linette’s baking is great, but she was still struggling. Then she offered to let us meet here. Since we were meeting in a bakery and half the group was writing mysteries at the time, we called ourselves the Baker Street Writers. And that gave Linette the idea for her theme.”

  “It’s quite clever.”

  Godiva flashed a grin. “Bird offered to paint these and refused to take a dime. Linette’s business became a success, but Bird still won’t take her money. She’s like that. She lives in a dinky cottage, on social security, but she does art for anyone who wants it. The most she ever charges is five, ten bucks, and that’s from institutions like the city council. She’s got a heart as big as all nine planets.”

  “That does not surprise me,” he said truthfully. He had seen that generosity in her eyes back on the beach—it was the first thing that bewitched him.

  “Of course,” Godiva added trenchantly, “we take care of our own. Linette won’t take Bird’s money either. Bird can come in any time and if she wanted a Boston Cream cake, Linette would box it right up. You noticed everyone chipping in for the refreshments, but the first time Bird tried, Linette stuffed it right back down the front of her shirt.”

  “Linette sounds like an excellent friend, as good as her baking. But there must be a reason you are telling me these things?”

  Godiva eyed him. “I noticed you watching Bird. I liked seeing that—but I also saw her face when you two came back inside. You just showed up in town, and nobody knows jack diddly about you. The fact that you’ve got the good taste to notice Bird is a point in your favor, but if you’re thinking of a casual fling, she isn’t a casual fling sorta gal.”

  This one is fierce as a fire dragon. His dragon’s hum resembled that of a contented beehive, times a thousand. Mikhail’s dragon added with approval, She is gallant.

  That she is, but don’t distract me, Mikhail replied. This is difficult enough.

  “I wish to assure you that my intentions are entirely honorable.” Mikhail had little expectation that his promise would mean much, here where no one knew him. And Godiva, being mortal, was not sensitive on the mythic plane or he’d sense her.

  But whatever Godiva saw in his expression seemed to reassure her. She gave a snorting grunt of approval. “Just making sure. You could tell me that Bird’s a big girl, and her business is her business, but!” The word rang like a gunshot. “There are lot of us who would take it very badly if we saw her getting hurt again.”

  “Again?” Mikhail said carefully.

  “I hate gossips,” she said grimly. “But. Bird’s ex, a dickweasel from Planet Scumsucker, wasn’t satisfied just to dump her. He took everything away—her earnings from her books, which won all kinds of awards, her kids, and most of all, her self-respect, just because he could. So . . .”

  At that moment Bird emerged from the restroom.

  Mikhail bowed to Godiva. “Thank you for your entirely justified warning. It is a relief to see that she has loyal friends.”

  Godiva’s smile hitched higher, then she walked away, muttering, “Then go get her.”

  By then Bird had joined a small group. As he approached, they were in the midst of saying goodbye. He watched her turn, her polite smile flashing to delight when she saw him, but immediately it dimmed to mere politeness, shadowed with doubt.

  The little fire dragon woman is correct, Mikhail’s dragon commented. (For him, the highest compliment was to equate humans with dragon-kind.) There is a wound on our mate’s spirit.

  Mikhail sensed it as well. As her mate, it was his privilege and his pleasure to heal it. But first he had to figure out the intricacies and hidden pitfalls of human courtship. Beginning in a safe public space had not been as easy as he’d thought.

  Perhaps getting her alone, just the two of them, but still in a place she felt safe?

  “Bird,” he said, stepping closer. “I am new in this town, and know no one. You have lived here for a time, yes?”

  “Twenty-seven years,” she said.

  “What is your favorite place at which to dine? I would like to invite you to dine with me.”

  Bird’s lips parted and her gaze darted wildly. He could feel the intensity of her turmoil, and cast about for something easy and safe. Then he remembered his mission, which he’d almost forgotten in the immediacy of this life-changing discovery.

  Why not combine the two? He hesitated half a heartbeat, remembering the intensity of the empress’s dream. But he had not sensed any immediate danger in that cavern. And he would never send her in there alone.

  We will protect her, his dragon hummed.

  Bolstered by his new courtship plan, Mikhail said, “I was reliably told that you are responsible for the excellent art in this bakery here. The paintings are very fine. The attention to detail in particular impressed me.”

  Bird’s lovely face pinked with pleasure. Inside Mikhail, the dragon hummed like a contented beehive, now times a million.

  He could do this! “I believe I mentioned I was here in part in an investigative capacity. Might you be interested in executing an artistic commission for me? I am convinced that your skills are precisely what I need. We could discuss it over a meal.” He remembered hearing somewhere that contemporary culture favored the midday meal for business and the evening meal for pleasure, and added, “We could meet for, ah, luncheon.”

  He watched the tension in her smooth out, replaced by a glow of pride. His beehive hum ratcheted up to ten million.

  “I—I, lunch would be wonderful,” she said, and delight filled him at the happiness in her voice. “I would be very interested in hearing what you propose.”

  “Excellent. Are you free tomorrow? I can arrange for a vehicle—”

  “I can meet you anywhere,” she said quickly.

  If she felt safer that way, it was his part to agree. “Tell me where you recommend, and I will be there.”

  She suggested a restaurant with an ocean view, and then they parted. He watched Bird get into Doris’s car, and realized that he would have to get one. Then he stepped around the corner, drew invisibility out of the air and rainwater, and shifted to dragon form to drift over the rooftops toward the sea.

  Did you mark that? Our mate chose a place of eating that looks over the water. Our mate loves the sea, the dragon bugled triumphantly. Our hearts have chosen well.

  Chosen or been chosen? Mikhail had never had occasion to think about the mate bond before. It seemed all the more mysterious now that it had happened to him, taking him—who was so very cautious—entirely by surprise.

  As he soared skyward he listened to the bond singing through his blood with possibility. Just the memory of Bird’s presence shimmered in his nerves, and the memory of her voice ignited a sun in his heart.

  Until now, he had believed that he had flown through his lifetime to the peaks and depths of the entire range of emotions, enjoying the satisfaction of success, the fire of triumph, the pleasures of things as simple as a good meal, and as exalting as the music of t
he celestial sphere when the empress calls all the dragons home to celebrate the lunar new year.

  At this state of his life, he had achieved a hard-won serenity, regarding himself as one intended for the solitary life. Until now he had never thought the happiness found in love would ever be his.

  It will come when she is with us, his dragon insisted.

  But she isn’t with us yet, Mikhail snapped back. It’s all very well for you to be smug. You’re not the one trying to learn courtship.

  To learn human things, of course you must go to that human-thing, the words and pictures in the frame boxes.

  Of course! The computer! He ought to have thought of that. But where to find one? Then he remembered his phone was one.

  Mikhail flew to his motel, shifted back to human form, and turned on his cell phone. With a sense of triumph—he had finally learned to use these modern machines—he typed in the word “courtship.”

  Several thousand possibilities popped up, dismaying him. It would take days to wade through all that!

  Look for that which has been successful longest, the dragon directed with supreme confidence. Tried and true is best trusted.

  Mikhail accepted that as reasonable: all the fighting forms he had mastered were centuries old. Feeling triumphant that he was on the right track at last, he narrowed his search parameters to items no more recent than two centuries.

  After a time, he set down the phone. “Matchmakers . . . morning calls . . . flowers . . . what type of flowers? Do I bring them in containers?”

  His dragon just hummed contentedly, so Mikhail plunged back into the mysteries of humanity.

  FIVE

  BIRD

  “It’s not a date,” Bird told herself as she tossed and turned in her bed that night.

  It was a lunch date. Not a date date.

  Still, she spent the morning alternating between determinedly attacking her usual chores and going back to her closet to paw through everything yet again, as if a new, pretty outfit had somehow snuck its way in.

  When she stood before the closet in her undies (she tried not to look at how old they were) she finally did what she’d known she was going to do all along: put the pink blouse back on, neatly hung up the evening before, and the floaty teal pants with the pink camellias embroidered on them. If Mikhail left in disgust after seeing the same outfit twice, well, that would be good, wouldn’t it? Best to find out now if he was a judgmental snob, or a…

  She halted that line of thought, and brushed her hair until it crackled. With shaky fingers (it’s just a lunch!) she applied the lipstick that was older than some of Doris’s students, and at last went out and got on her bike.

  At the restaurant, she stopped short when she saw Mikhail standing before the door, dressed in a beautifully tailored suit and wearing a tie of a muted silver that matched his eyes. He had left his cane behind, but held a fabulous bouquet of roses that nearly hid his face.

  “Bird,” he said, and his voice went right through her to pool down deep in parts of her she’d forgotten existed. “How very fine you look. Here are flowers. I hope you like them.”

  “I love flowers,” she said a little helplessly. What was she going to do with them in a restaurant?

  She settled them in her arms, wondering guiltily how much such a huge bouquet had cost, as he opened the door. The cuisine was Southwestern, the place simple in décor, designed around the fantastic view over the ocean. Since the weather had dawned clear and pleasant, the host led them outside. Bird placed the roses on the chair next to her.

  When at last they were alone, she made herself stop staring at the menu and the roses, and meet his gaze. Heat flowed through her.

  “Uh, you mentioned business,” she began at the same time he said, “Thank you for agreeing to—”

  They both stopped. A painful few seconds passed, then he said, “I beg your pardon. You were saying,” at the same time that she said, “You first.”

  Another pause.

  Then she said quickly, “You mentioned something about art?”

  “I would like to hire you to sketch a certain set of old drawings in the caverns. I believe I mentioned at our first meeting that I was sent to examine the cavern containing them.”

  Bird said doubtfully, “But isn’t it mainly a lot of graffiti down there?”

  “There is. Most of it is in the outer area. There are caverns further back that have gone unexplored. I believe this is the area recently revealed by the quake. Because of the tidal flow, the debris has been swept away. It is fairly easy to access.”

  “But that area is off-limits,” she said.

  “That beach, I believe you know, is owned by the city, but they have arranged through the university to look into possible archaeological finds. Only authorized persons are permitted there, and as I was recommended by a colleague at the university, I first examined the caves. Though I would not recommend them for hordes of visitors, I believe the rock, which is quite ancient, is stable enough for our purposes. I would of course be with you.”

  I would of course be with you. More butterflies ignited deep inside Bird, sparkly ones, at the thought of being alone with him.

  She shifted on the upholstered restaurant bench, trying to banish those butterflies. “I don’t want to sound like I’m refusing—it sounds fascinating—but couldn’t you just take pictures?”

  “I am afraid that light sufficient to illuminate the entirety and banish shadows might damage older images.”

  “Oh, right,” Bird exclaimed. “I’m no expert about ancient art, though I love looking at it. But I’ve read about light-damage. I’d be happy to try, though I have to say this would be the first time I’ve ever attempted a project like that. I hope my drawings would be suitable.”

  He said quickly, “Your artwork at the bakery demonstrates an excellent eye for detail. For my purposes, that is ideal. I only need sketches, to be shown to other experts. If it turns out there is enough there to require an archaeological expedition, of course the university would bring in teams, with proper equipment. All I need in this preliminary stage is sketches. Of course you will be paid for your time and expertise.”

  Bird’s worry that Mikhail was expecting some kind of technical expert faded.

  “I’d be glad to,” she said truthfully, secretly hoping that he would need hundreds of drawings—that he would stay for weeks. Months. And then? “Ah, when should we start?”

  “The tidal ebb will be low enough at seven tomorrow morning. Can you meet me at the same place we first met?”

  “I’ll be there,” she said happily. Their eyes met, once again sending warm, glowing pulses sparking from somewhere behind her bellybutton to the regions below.

  Hoo-ee, she thought. Here she was in her fifties, once-married with two kids, but it wasn’t until now she understood what panty-melting gazes meant. She had never felt that way about Bartholomew.

  The combined force of that realization and the memory of her ex-husband made her brain lock up. Luckily, their food arrived then, saving her from having to speak again. Smoked shrimp tacos and cornmeal crusted chile relleno were Bird’s favorites, and she adored the view right over the ocean, but she was so hyperaware of the man sitting across from her that she scarcely tasted her meal.

  Her toes crimped in her sandals, and she tried to relax as a stream of questions flitted through her mind, each more inane (or too nosy) than the last. The silence pressed in on her.

  “May I ask—”

  “Uh, what do you think—”

  Their voice clashed as she met his silver gaze straight on, and her fork clattered to her plate. It was like staring into the sun, except entirely, frighteningly exhilarating. It scared her because she thought she had become an expert in all the grades of emotional pain, from doubt to betrayal, humiliation to hurt. But the wild emotions this man raised in her made her immediately leap to the worst case scenario, which (she told herself firmly) was the adult way to look at such things: it was just attraction, here today
gone tomorrow—he didn’t feel a thing—he was here today, gone tomorrow.

  She swallowed in a dry throat, gulped some water, and, mindful of that last thought, “Uh, so where do you live?”

  “My work causes me to travel extensively,” he replied.

  “Is this your first time in California?”

  “Yes—my first in North America. I can’t say I really have a home. Though I was born in—”

  Her cellphone rang.

  They had just begun to talk! But that Mozart air was her daughter’s ringtone. Her hand dove toward her purse, then she yanked it back. “Uh, sorry. Go on.”

  He said with that warm smile, “If you need to answer, please do.”

  “No. That’s all right. It’s just my daughter. Not ‘just’—not just at all. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. In fact, it’s only been five months . . .” Bird, you’re babbling! She shut her teeth with a click. Then she said, “It’s okay.”

  “You have a daughter?”

  “And a son.” Don’t say too much, don’t say too much . . . “Ah, do you have any family?”

  “I’ve also a son.”

  “Oh! What’s his name?”

  “Fei Zhan. Your daughter’s name?”

  “Rebecca—that is, Bec.” Bird blushed as she corrected herself, her mind flung back to the courtroom when she’d lost everything, hugging little Rebecca to her, both of them sobbing as she was forced to say goodbye until her court-appointed visit. But why, Mama, why? Bird hadn’t been able to explain.

  Somehow in the intervening years, the child had become the beautiful, poised young woman Bec. “My son is Bartholomew, after his father and grandfather.” She refused to add “the third” as her ex had insisted. “But I recently learned he prefers to go by Skater, which he got in the Marines—” Babbling again. “So that’s my two.”

  Okay . . . names of kids, she had pretty much killed that subject dead. Don’t look at him, don’t look at him. Bird busied herself with food she didn’t taste, her mind sorting wildly through possible topics of conversation. How did people manage this? Questions that were not boring, but weren’t too personal. Especially since this was not a date, but her panties seemed to be packed with dynamite—