Page 62 of Don't Fae With Dragons

Again, I nod, and Chrysthinia nods back, expressionless. Then they turn around and hustle into the small kitchen. I close my jaw, which has fallen open in disbelief, and turn to Port and Cory.

“Read you like a book,” Cory shrugs.

I snarl halfheartedly at him and storm off into the kitchen, hearing Port laugh brightly behind me. I’m not used to being noticed in this way, so I’m thrown completely off-kilter. Who is this wizard to tell me who I am, anyway? A spark of defiancelights up in my chest, and I frown as I follow them.I’ll help with the poultice, but they don’t get to order me around.

When I enter the kitchen, I have to stoop to avoid the low ceiling. Chrysthinia slides a tiny stool over to me, and I sit gingerly on it, praying it won’t splinter beneath me.

“It’s a good stool, don’t be so gentle,” Chrysthinia barks out.

I nod, despite my previous decision not to let them boss me around, and settle myself more comfortably on the seat. Chrysthinia nods, unsmiling, and turns to a massive armoire. When they open it, I see it’s been repurposed as a magick cupboard; there are shelves upon shelves of boxes, jars, and sachets filled with herbs, strange brews, and stones.

My eyes land on a decanter of dark amber glass, and my head falls to the side as a strange sensation comes over me – like being called to. I glance over at Chrysthinia as they size me up, smirking approvingly at me.

“Grab it, then,” they order.

I roll my eyes, but walk to the shelf and take the decanter off. Chrysthinia hums, apparently satisfied with my selection, and turns again to me with an unreadable expression on their face. It unsettles me – I’m a perceptive person, it’s how I survive. Meeting someone who turns that on its head is disarming, to say the least.

“What are you thinking?” I blurt out, annoyance coloring my words.

Chrysthinia smiles knowingly. “You’ve got a little magick. Strange you committed to combat – forgive me if I’m mistaken – when you’ve got a knack for this sort of thing.”

“I don’t have aknackfor anything magickal, I just got lucky.”

They humph and wave my words away. “What else do we need, hm?”

They’re apparently content to ignore what I’ve said, so I have no choice but to see if I can figure out what else we need for the poultice. My lips purse as I take in the massive armoire of materials, and I wait for something to call out to me.

Nothing does, and I grunt in frustration. “I don’t know what else we need,” I sigh.

“Oh, yes. We only need this,” Chrysthinia winks, motioning to the decanter.

A trick question.Godsdamnit, are they trying to drive me crazy?I restrain myself from rolling my eyes and force out a small laugh, which makes Chrysthinia roll their eyes with a grin. They hold a hand out and I give them the amber bottle.

“You’re very tense, you know,” they announce to nobody in particular. “You must not spend much time with strangers.”

“Most of my interactions with ‘strangers’ are kill-or-be-killed,” I grumble. The words slip out before I can stop myself, and I silently curse myself for it. What am I doing telling this random person my life story? I’m truly an idiot.

Chrysthinia doesn’t look at me, though; they don’t seem particularly bothered by my admission. They uncork the decanter and pull a large mortar and pestle to their small counter, presumably their magick workstation. Then they motion me over, and I take the decanter from their hands as they hold it out to me.

“Pour this into the mortar. You’ll crush it with the pestle, and I’ll add oil. It will make a paste. You see?” I nod and sigh, setting to work. No getting out of this now, I suppose. Chrysthinia continues after a moment, quietly, “Where are you from?”

My shoulders tense. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Chrysthinia scoffs loudly. “Fine, stay haunted if you wish. I know that path –but I rejected it.”

“Right, I’m sure youragonizingupbringing in Ethelinda showed you real hardship,” I bark out. I know Mili won’t appreciate me antagonizing her friend, but godsdamnit, they’re infuriating.

“Slower,” Chrysthinia orders. I realize I’m nearly shaking the counter, I’m stirring so aggressively. I slow down, embarrassed like a dismissed child, and frown angrily. “Now, where do you really think I’m from?”

The question catches me off guard. I suppose Chrysthinia can’t really be from Ethelinda, if I really think about it. They’re too gruff, and perhaps too removed. They didn’t come out to see Mili –they waited to be met here.

It’s all a little ... familiar.

After I don’t respond, my mind whirling with questions, Chrysthinia says, “I’m from the East. Land of sand, serpents, magick –much evil is there. I fled.”

The East.Images of what I once called ‘home’ flood my mind. I see myself throwing daggers at dolls made of brush and twigs, propped up to make targets across a sandy field. I recall walking on hot ground, the parched earth heating my feet eventhrough my leather boots, chewing on desert chia as I tried to escape my raging parents.

“You’re from there, too,” Chrysthinia says before I can form any sort of response. It’s an observation, not a question, and one I can’t deny.

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