“I know. And so does Howell, else he’d have put paid to all her grizzling proper sharpish.” Ceri draped the cloth over her shoulder and turned to lean back against the cupboard, arms crossed over her chest. She gave Milo an assessing look. “Anyway, it’ll free up your time for other things.”
Milo snorted. “What other things?” Besides the truncated trip to Wellech, he’d done little else besides tend the dragons and whatever needed doing around the place since he’d got back. He gave his mam a suspicious squint. “Have you got something in mind? Where are you going next week anyway?”
Ceri only smiled and pushed away from the cupboard. “Merfyn came by with some papers for you.”
“The stipend didn’t come already, did it?” Merfyn was the preserve’s solicitor, and Old Forge’s representative for parish council matters. “Wait, they’re not trying to reduce it again, are they?”
The last time they’d had to fight with the parish council over how much it cost to feed and take care of dragons, it had lasted three full years. Merfyn had eventually taken the case to the Kymbrygh MP, and the two of them had managed to turn it around and eke out enough of a bump to fund a few more annual head of cattle and half a herd of goats. But the boom in the deer population a few years before—and the reason the government had tried to reduce the stipend in the first place—had weakened their case, even if the dragons had already hunted them back down to their normal numbers by the time Old Forge had got its first notice that their stipend would be cut.
“Nothing like that.” Ceri chucked the cloth at Milo’s head and wafted toward the door, eyebrows high and a smile Milo didn’t trust for a second tipping up one side of her mouth as she left the kitchen. “He left a portfolio for you in the study” came from down the hall.
If Milo wasn’t very much mistaken, Ceri was laughing when she said it.
HE HADN’T been mistaken. She’d definitely been laughing.
“Contract offers,” Milo muttered, blinking down at the small stack of papers in his hands. “Contract offers? It’s only been three weeks!”
How had anyone got approvals from the Sisters already?
Courtship proposals, mostly, but some of them went right for the conjugal contract, which made Milo curl in defensively for some reason he couldn’t fathom. Except it again made him feel like a horse getting an offer to stud a corral full of mares. As though he were anywhere near ready to think about siring a child, let alone whether or not he’d want to negotiate a claim to it, and be involved in raising it, and have it throw up on him, and probably one day look him in the eye and tell him how terrible he was at being a tad, and every goddess in the pantheon, he was not ready for this!
Maybe courtship. Maybe. But it would have to be the right person, and.... Well. How many of those were there? And what were the chances the right one Milo had in mind would—
He shouldn’t even be entertaining that fantasy.
They lived too far apart. They both had very busy lives. A lot of responsibility. People depended on them. It would be impossible.
And—let’s be realistic here, Milo—someone like that could absolutely do better than Milo. He probably already had. Anyway, who knew if he even liked men? It hadn’t really come up. And Milo was probably remembering that night through a sentimental haze of too much plum wine and brandy.
It wasn’t as if Milo was smitten or—
Anyway, if that was really what Milo wanted, he could very well have filed to make an offer himself by now. And he hadn’t. Because....
Well, because he’d been busy.
And probably he was a coward afraid of rejection.
…He was definitely a coward afraid of rejection.
Milo huffed as he shoved the thought away and shuffled through the—every goddess save him—over a dozen offers, cursing his mam to every fiery pit in every mythology. And Lilibet while he was at it. They thought it was all funny.
“Bloody hi-lar-ious,” Milo gritted out between clenched teeth, fingers curled nearly into claws that were marring the thick vellum with the fancy script, and he just. Didn’t. Care.
Until he got down to the one at the very bottom—deliberately at the very bottom, because Milo knew his mam—and everything went abruptly still.
The crackling of the fire was like gunshots. The soft sea wind was a howling banshee.
This one had a note attached to it. Milo didn’t recognize the handwriting, but he nonetheless knew who’d written it. Knew.
…Hoped.
His heart kicked hard at his sternum.
Breathing was suddenly something other people could do.
There, said the note. Now you can’t say I don’t write you. Do hurry with the legalities, won’t you? There’s a picture show in Brookings in a fortnight. I’ve already bought tickets.
And beneath it… a courtship contract.
Milo sucked in a thin breath.
So typical. So arrogant.
And yet Milo’s grin was hurting his face.
He couldn’t make it stop.
Also, his heart might have just gone a bit gooey.
It was… well, it was embarrassing.
He was an idiot.
He was an absurd, drippy git.
He was going to overdose on melodramatic mawkishness and die of twee right here in his mam’s study.
He was… still grinning.
And he was abso-bloody-lutely going to burn the rest of that pile.
Chapter 5—Polyphonic Texture
: when two or more independent melodic lines are sounding at the same time
The Whitpool railway station could be mistaken for a grand old house, if not for the three strips of track at its back door. Four chimneys, banks of leaded glass windows, and a wide front drive crowded with buggies and cars, with smart, polished porters attending to all of it.
Only two trains a day, since Whitpool wasn’t a port town, merely a rocky crag on the maps between the coastal ferries north to Werrdig or southwest to the Outer Isles. They got more traffic from the brass and trainees that came and went, seeing as Whitpool was where the Kymbrygh Home Guard’s command post resided, and all divisions reported to its Colonel-in-Chief. It meant that most of Whitpool’s population were transients who only stayed until they finished their training, or the families of those who served a permanent post. Still, one wouldn’t guess at Whitpool’s relatively unrefined character by how seriously it took its service to those on their way through. The gravel drive was raked neat and tidy, the wooden steps into the station were smooth and sturdy and appeared freshly painted, and the stone of the building was bright and white—no easy thing considering the fug of coal smoke and steam exhaust that hung in layers for good parts of the day.
Milo stepped from the hire car, already adjusting his scarf against the bite of the wind, and handed his mam out behind him while the driver started unloading the boot. The day was gray and overcast, the constant frigid sea breeze inadequate to moving the strata of damp cloud cover that had made the sun a fond memory for the past week. Winter was slotting in like a suddenly found puzzle piece.
“Here, I’ll take that,” Ceri said, impatient as she cut off a silent—though apparently quite rancorous—tussle between the driver and an opportunistic porter for her haversack. She snatched it up with a roll of her eyes and slid the strap over her shoulder. “My son will get the other.” She ignored the thwarted look of the porter, the way it looked like he was trying very hard not to salute her, and lifted her eyebrow at Milo.
Milo lifted his right back, but dutifully hefted the suitcase and followed Ceri up the station’s steps. He gave the porter an apologetic shrug. The driver still had hope of a tip when he took Milo back home; the porter was out of luck, and clearly knew it.
“Set it here and give us a hug.” Ceri had stopped out of the way of the entrance and was already holding her arms out.
Milo pulled up short with a frown. “I can take it in for you.”
“And I appreciate it, but it’s no
t necessary. You don’t want to keep the driver waiting.”
“It’s kind of his job to wait, Mam.” Milo tilted his head. “You really don’t want me to know where you’re going, do you?”
Ceri dropped her arms and gave Milo a pursed-lipped scowl. “No.”
She’d been putting him off all week, changing the subject when he asked, or just not answering. Milo’d reckoned she was entitled to keep her own counsel, and hadn’t really pushed her about it. Now it dawned on him that she was so determined he not know where she was going, she wasn’t even going to allow him to accompany her inside the station on the chance he might get a look at her ticket when she presented it.
She’d taken mysterious trips before. Infrequently over the years, but often enough and peculiar enough to make Milo suspect she wasn’t quite as retired as she said she was. And there was no getting around how everyone at the Home Guard’s base knew her, or the deference with which every military person in Whitpool treated her. Even the ones—like that porter—who Milo suspected he wasn’t supposed to know were military. He also suspected he wasn’t supposed to know Whitpool looked more and more like a training ground for spies, the older and more observant he got.
“I’m not half as dim as you seem to think I am.” Milo set the suitcase down. He couldn’t help the smirk as he straightened. “I’ve seen that three times in my life.” He waved at the haversack hanging from his mam’s shoulder, in which, he knew, her Preidynīg Royal Forces uniform was folded with care, medals already pinned in their places. “And every time it was because you were called to Llundaintref to attend at Court.”
Ceri huffed at him. “Well, aren’t you a tidy dab.”
“I sort of am.” Milo grinned. “Or maybe you missed that I earned three firsts at commencement, and they even gave me the papers to prove it.”
“I never would.” Ceri’s tone was soft, expression losing the tight annoyance and sliding into something more indulgent. She reached out and fussed with Milo’s scarf, eyes on her hands. “I can’t tell you if you’re right or wrong.” She looked up, gaze locking onto Milo’s, hand now stilled and pressed to Milo’s lapel. “And I can’t tell you why.”
“I know that.” Milo shrugged and laid his hand over Ceri’s. “But I know it’s something you’re not pleased about. I think you might even be worried.” He tightened his hand around his mam’s when she tsked at him and made to pull away. “I’m not trying to get information. I’m only....”
Milo sighed. He took a step back.
“Something is brewing.” He paused, but when Ceri didn’t say anything, only gave him an unreadable stare, he said, “Isn’t it.” Not a question.
She’d been off ever since Wellech. Milo had at first assumed it was merely that she’d been narked with him, and she had been. But even once things had gone somewhat back to normal, there’d been a sort of preoccupation just under the surface—long thoughtful looks across the breakfast table; a weird sadness Milo had never seen before when she looked at him. It was only when the connection between that haversack and Court had clicked that he thought maybe Ceri’s oddness had more to do with the coven’s discussion before she and Milo had even quarreled in the first place.
Ceri sighed. “Darling boy, something is always brewing.” She pulled her hand away but not without a soft pat to Milo’s chest and a small but warm smile. “Now, hush and give your mam a proper cwtch.”
Milo did, pulling her in and squeezing her tight. He was tall enough now that he could almost tuck her head beneath his chin had she not had her hair up in a tight knot at her crown.
“Do put Glynn out of her misery, will you?” Ceri said into Milo’s shoulder. “Between school and the forge and that mountain of books, she hasn’t come up for air in days.”
Milo snorted. “I will, Mam. I’ve only been—”
“I know what you’ve been doing, you filthy tease. The way you two nibble at each other all the time, it’s a wonder you’re not actually siblings.” She set a firm kiss to Milo’s cheek then pulled back. “But she’ll be a good help to you if you let her. So let her.” There was a twitch at the corner of her mouth when she picked up her suitcase. “And you have a nice time in Brookings. The current contract has a rider in case you want to change the terms, but Merfyn said if you want to move on to a conj—”
“Bloody—” Milo waved his hands around, choking on air and checking to all points to see if anyone might have overheard. His cheeks felt like they were on fire. “Save me, are we talking about this? Here?”
It was bad enough that, as his representative, she’d had to look over all the offers. She’d even scribbled notes on some of them. About fertility.
Also, the anticipation had been proper killing him. He’d been trying to not even think about next week, even though it was almost all he could think about, and this was… well, this was just low.
Ceri chuckled. “In my day, courting meant spending a lot of chaperoned time on uncomfortable couches in someone’s best parlor, and proper swimming in buckets of tea. Now you young people with your ‘dates’ and your riders and your—”
“Will you—” Milo tried not to make his “keep it down” gesture too flaily and obvious. It was like she was trying to embarrass him. “I can’t believe you’re actually saying this out loud, and in public!”
“That school was worth every penny, but Llundaintref’s prudish approach to the realities of contracts did you no favors when it comes to talking about sex like a grownup.” Ceri ignored Milo’s sputtering and said, sly, “Don’t worry. I won’t want to hear all about your trip.”
“Well, thank every goddess for that!”
“I suppose I’ll just find out when I get the paperwork for renegotiations.” Her grin was evil as she tapped at Milo’s chin, hanging low with the rest of his jaw, then turned and walked away. “Cheers, love! Wish me luck!”
“Shan’t,” Milo managed to croak, then, louder, “I hope your buttons all pop off, and your hair falls out!”
Ceri didn’t look back, only laughed as she pushed through the station’s doors and disappeared.
Everyone else looked, though, a host of strangers pausing in their bustle to stare, scandalized and indignant on his mam’s behalf. Milo ignored them, only shoved his way down the steps and back to the hire car, not even annoyed when the driver gave him the hairy eyeball and didn’t open the door for him.
THE WARDS on the channel rail were… odd. Thinned, maybe, or… no, more like loose. A weave once tight, but now the threads had been stretched and pulled just slightly out of true.
Milo frowned, slid his fingers around the end post, and shut his eyes. Concentrated. He pulled back, bemused, and moved over to the next section.
Same thing.
“Hmph.”
He shook his head. Either Mam was getting sloppy with the wards, or....
Well. Milo supposed it wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to get into a preserve without leave. The fences, after all, were not to keep the dragons in—which would be foolish effort wasted anyway—but to keep people who didn’t belong there out. Dragons didn’t generally go after people, but it wasn’t unheard of. And if someone who didn’t know what they were doing happened to blunder into a nesting area, even if there were no eggs incubating, it could be deadly.
As it happened, there were no roosting cows this season, so at least there was one less worry.
Poachers were rare, since so few dared to trade in anything that could even be construed as having originated from dragons, at least on the continent. But there were countries—far off and isolated, sure—that viewed dragons as good hunting and coveted trophies. None in the various migration paths, but Milo often wondered if that was purposeful avoidance on the parts of the dragons, or if perhaps there had been clans long ago that had been hunted out of existence. He couldn’t imagine what it would take to actually kill a dragon, but they weren’t invulnerable. And there was a proven black market for scales and claws and teeth.
A curi
ous goat wandered over from the far side of the pasture where the rest of its flock gruffed and grumbled at each other as they nosed the mud for stray clumps of grass. This one was a stout little nanny, fat and cheeky, and making no bones about eyeing Milo with a look both bold and expectant. Milo blamed Glynn. Treating the goats to crusts of bread and bits of whatever fruit was in season, she insisted, was only fair, considering they existed to idle away their lives, well fed and healthy, until the day they inevitably ended up in a hungry dragon’s sights and proved just that much too slow.
“Go on, then,” Milo told the goat, feeling around the edges of the ward, trying to find where the weakness was centered. “I haven’t anything for you.”
It didn’t appear to believe him. It bellowed at him, thick and glottal, and somehow chiding.
Milo paused in his assessment of the wards and, careful not to knock the bell on the gate that signaled mealtimes, climbed over the fence to the other side. The side with the dragons. Because it was safer. That goat looked like she was thinking about trying to mug him and investigate his pockets for herself.
“Keep being a rude little barmcake,” he told the goat over the pickets. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got friends on this side who think you’re rather tasty and won’t—”
Movement flickered out the corner of his eye, a quick shift and furtive flit. Milo looked over, and jerked so hard he almost brained himself on a fence post. His stomach bottomed out.
Wide hazel eyes peered back at him—caught and well aware of it—before, as though to try to brazen it out, they crinkled at the corners above a quick, surprisingly real-looking grin.
“Haia, Milo!”
“…Cennydd.”
It came out dazed and breathless, but might as well have had you idiot tacked on the end of it.
Because only an idiot would be traipsing across the pasture like the gormless calf Cennydd apparently was. Everyone knew better than this. Everyone.
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