Heck, I used to.
I’m too busy wallowing in happiness with Tovian to bother wondering what my old friend is up to.
My extended stay with the Ansi has had the intended effect. Brenica and I have come to a place of mutual respect. She’s not overly demonstrative, but I choose to believe she likes me, even if I’m not the woman she would have chosen for her son. She accepts his choice, and that’s enough for now.
One morning, we’re called to the central fire pit where Brenica holds court. I bow, feeling my stomach press into the waistband of my red dragon-leather skirt. I’m not showing yet, but it won’t be long before the truth is obvious to the entire world. Hopefully, I can convince my father to bless our union before that momentous day.
It’s strange, carrying this secret in my belly. Right now, it’s mine to hold close. Brenica knows. Lorcan does not, and I haven’t decided when to tell him the news. I’m just savoring this interlude of peace and hope for the future. There will be plenty of hardship to face, and soon. I see no reason to rush it.
“Raina Myseci, princess and heir apparent to the crown, you are welcomed into the Ansi tribe as one of our own.”
I remain bowed, wondering why there’s so much formality.
“What’s this about?” I whisper to Tovian, kneeling beside me.
“We’re being formally recognized as a couple. It’s like a wedding, basically.”
“What?!”
“Shh!”
I did not think I was getting married today. I don’t actually mind, to be honest. Call me old-fashioned, but I’d rather have been consulted first.
I suppose this is a hazard of trying to join a new tribe. Even with a shared language, there are things that get lost in translation, or never explained at all.
I duck my chin and wait. Brenica speaks to the crowd about how change is difficult, and letting go of old habits is even harder.
“We have hidden away for too long,” she declared. “It is time the Ansi take a more active role in Auralian society.”
A rumble of voices from the crowd gathered behind us. I briefly twist to check behind me. There are a mix of reactions on people’s faces. Stunned surprise. Curiosity. Anger. Astonishment.
Swallowing hard, I return my attention to where they belong: staring at Brenica’s feet. She wears soft blue slippers stitched with gold leather thread. Dragonskin is so tough that you can slice it into fine strips and it won’t break. It’s still much thicker than real thread, though. It takes a lot of strength to sew with leather.
The fashionista in me notices these details while my brain follows Brenica’s speech.
I know this is a huge moment for Tovian. He’s worked hard to bring his mother around to his point of view. I reach over and squeeze his hand.
“As of today, Raina, heir apparent to the throne, you are welcomed as my own daughter. Rise.”
I summon every ounce of my regal splendor to get up from my knees gracefully. It almost works. I’m so short I basically pop up. Times like this, I wish I were taller. Brenica looms over me.
“An Ansi takes great pride in our dragons. Tovian, fetch your gift.”
He does, rising in a fluid motion and striding to a lidded basket. I try to mimic his smoothness, but being so short, I pop up like a fishing bobber. Times like this, I wish I were taller.
Tovian stands before me, both of us angled so the assembled citizens can witness this…whatever is about to happen. A scuffling noise tells me it’s not a basket of paint pots. Presumably, that will come later. My current paint job is fading and smeared. I was due for a new painting session with Tovian anyway.
It’s kind of like getting your nails done. Except if you don’t wear the paint, the Ansi will kill you. Apparently, there have been occasional attempts to infiltrate the tribe by outsiders over the centuries of their isolation.
“An Ansi princess must have her own dragon.” Tovian’s voice carries clearly. He’d make a terrific film actor, what with his movie-star looks, muscular athleticism, and easygoing charm. I’m so busy being deliriously in love with my boyfriend—husband? Our wedding today holds no importance to my people, and what did he mean bylike a wedding,anyway?—that I almost miss him undoing the leather-and-bead latches on the basket to reveal a tiny red dragon. I gasp.
“This is yours,” he says, smiling. “I chose this little one for you. He’s the most brilliant hued of all the red dragons this year. In honor of your people.”
I cup my hands carefully. He deposits the lizard into my palms. Its tiny nails scratch. Its ridges are high and spiky, a sign of distress. It cocks its head this way and that, examining me.
Gently, I stroke its spiky head with the tip of my finger.
“How old is it?”
