Dragon Rose(23)

“Eat,” Sar told me, and her tone was already more brisk, as if she had decided on a plan of action. “I’ll send up Melynne shortly to assist with your bath. It does no good for you to berate yourself further. Paint, and wait, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Her words reassured me a little, and I nodded. She took her leave of me then, but I did not immediately pick up the spoon and eat my breakfast. Instead, I drew out the little sketch I had made and stared down at the half-finished features of the strange man.

Who are you? I wondered. And why do you haunt my dreams?





The Dragon Lord agreed to see me at sunset, in the rose garden.

Ever since my painting supplies arrived, I hadn’t paid much attention to my appearance, save to take great care that none of my gowns became spattered with paint or stained with linseed oil. Of course Sar made sure my hair was tidy before I went down to dinner each night, but even she hadn’t seemed overly concerned with how I looked, as long as I was more or less presentable.

That afternoon, though, I put aside my paints early and took great care to brush my hair and choose a becoming gown of a smoky dark teal color, and to put on some jewels of gold and enormous black pearls. If I had been asked, I’m not sure I could have given a very coherent explanation as to why I felt my appearance was so important on this one occasion, when in the past I had not given it much thought. Perhaps it was something as childish and simple as thinking the Dragon would be less likely to devour a pretty-seeming young woman. Or perhaps I wanted to show him that I did care what he thought of me, that my previous carelessness had been no reflection on him.

Almost imperceptibly the days had begun to shorten, and the sun was slipping toward the horizon, the light growing warmer and somehow slanted. “The golden hour” was what Lindell called it, that magical time when the world seems to be limned in warm hues, and everything appears somehow both more real and yet insubstantial at the same time.

The roses seemed to be touched by that same magical paintbrush, and for a second I wished I had my own paints with me, that I might capture the beauty of the hour before it was gone. But no. I had more important things to occupy my time.

A shadow at the edge of my vision, and then he was there, standing only a few feet away. It was the first time I had ever seen him outside the castle walls…unless, of course, one counted my brief glimpse of that dark shape circling overhead.

He said nothing, no word of greeting, and although I had told myself to watch my tongue, I felt as if I should say something. So I moved toward one of the rosebushes and laid a hand against one of the blooms, fully open and a deep crimson. The gold at its heart seemed to echo the ochre-washed skies above us.

“They are so beautiful,” I commented, my tone deliberately casual. “Do you ever walk here, my lord? I confess I haven’t yet seen you in the gardens.”

“I can see them from my window.”

The words sounded almost too neutral. I turned and looked up at him then, but of course I could see nothing within the hood. The black-gloved hands hung at his sides.

“But can you smell them?” And I bent to breathe deeply of the rose blossom.

“Well enough.”

I could not be angry with him for being curt. Probably I should be glad that he agreed to see me at all. “I would like it if you would walk with me here sometimes.”

That seemed to take him aback; for the span of a few heartbeats he was silent, and it seemed as if the hood tilted slightly so he could regard me from a different angle. “You would wish that—to spend more time with me?”

“Yes,” I said simply, knowing as I gave him the answer that it was no more than the truth. I wanted to know more of him, this odd husband of mine. Our dinners together had taken on something of the air of a ritual, but surely there should be more contact than that.

“You are not frightened of me?”

“I was last night. I am not frightened now.”

“Because you face me in the daylight, and I appear to you as a man.”

“No.”

“No?”

It seemed the best gift I could give him was the truth. “Because last night you were not a man, and yet you did not hurt me. I angered you—unwittingly, that is true, but still I want to tell you how sorry I am for that. I should not have asked questions to which you did not want to give answers.”

It seemed he sucked in his breath then, and he turned away slightly, as if regarding the blue mountain peaks to the north of us. A breeze came from somewhere to tug at the edges of his cloak, but I noticed the heavy fabric around his face did not move at all. Perhaps it was weighted in some way to keep it from shifting.

At last he spoke. “You are a very unusual young woman, Rhianne Menyon.”

“Am I? I suppose one might think so, what with the painting—”

“That is not what I meant. You have every reason to fear me, and yet you stand there and do not shy away, even though you know I am not as other men.”

I laughed then. “Well, you just implied that I am not as other young women, so I think that means we are actually rather suited to one another.”

There seemed to be a ripple of laughter in his own voice as he replied, “Is that so?”

It seemed the most natural thing in the world for me to move closer to him, to reach out and take those gloved fingers in my own. Again, they seemed very warm to the touch, and I couldn’t help wondering what lay beneath them. But I wouldn’t think of that now. I had to let him know all was well between us.