Page 38 of Redeeming the Dragon

Why am I thinking this way?

Instantly, I felt contrite.

I don’t wish to harbor bitterness or hold a grudge against my family. That is wrong! I volunteered. And they had no choice!

I’d told my mother that I was weary and wanted to sleep. That was a lie. More than anything, I longed to be outside, alone, strolling the shoreline, breathing in the evening air which would be ripe with the taint of salt and brine. I needed to clear my head. However, I feared if I went out the window that a family member would check on me, find me missing, and raise the alarm. Rather than assume the risk, I lit the smallest light, picked up the bag containing my sewing, stationed myself in the corner, and set to work on the pile of family mending.

My eyes strained to see well enough to push the needles in and out, in and out. Sewing the blue gown had given me something to keep from going mad in the dragon’s cave. Now, mending offered relief from my treacherous, tortuous thoughts. If I could do nothing else, I could sit and sew, which I did, feeling myself calm beneath the power of the repetitive rhythm of needle, fabric, and thread.

I stitched and sewed long into the night. Long enough that I lost track of time and the noises outside my room. Long enough that my eyelids drifted closed, and my head nodded gently. Leaning my head against the wall, placing the shirt I mended in my lap, I went to sleep.

“Lorna.”

Something shook me.

“Dragon, is that you?”

“What? Dragon? Lorna, it’s me. Your mother.”

“Mama?” My eyes flew open.

I’d been lost in dreams of the quiet cave, the mirror against the wall reflecting the hushed sounds of the ocean. Everything had been so peaceful. I’d dreamed I awakened to the dragon-man climbing into my bed, saying my name.

Quickly, I saw my mistake. My mother stood over me, clad in a white nightdress, her auburn hair spilling about her shoulders. Deep concern creased her features. Shadows from the tiny stump of a candle, pressed into the brass candleholder in her hand, played over her face.

“Lorna, I wake you in the middle of the night, and you call for the dragon. What is going on, child?”

“N—nothing, Mama. Nothing, really,” I stammered. Shoving the shirt and the sewing instruments onto the shelf in front of me, I blew out what remained of my candle and stood. “I fell asleep sewing and dreamed. It means nothing. Good night, Mama.”

When I attempted to edge around her, making for my bed, she seized my arm. Her firm grasp told me this was it—she would not let me go.

“You called for a dragon before you knew your own mother’s voice,” she accused. “Lorna, tell me. Does this dragon—this man—does he visit your bed? Does he?”

“Mama, he—”

The lie was on my lips. The pain, the severity, in her eyes forced the truth from me instead.

“Yes, Mama, he does,” I whispered, dropping my gaze. “But not in the way you think!” Just as quickly, my gaze flashed back up.

I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. Neither has he.

“Not in the way I think?” Mama cried in smothered anguish. “Daughter, if he has touched you at all…”

“He hasn’t!” I would not wilt. “He comes to my room at night, just as I said,” I explained. “He does…he does come into my bed. But only to hold my hand. I swear to the Powers of Good, that is all. He has not assaulted me, Mama. In fact, truthfully, he’s been quite kind.”

“Quite kind? Daughter, do you hear yourself?” Mama insisted. “Have you seen him—seen his face or form? Or did you lie about that too?”

“I didn’t lie!” I insisted, wrenching back on my arm. “I didn’t. I simply didn’t tell you the whole, entire truth.”

“Then what is the truth?” Mama threw her free hand in the air. “What is the truth, Lorna?”

Don’t be alone with your mother.

Here it came. The inevitable turning point of which the dragon had warned me. Did I heed the advice of my mysterious captor? Or trust my own mother?

Resistance collapsed within me like a feather falling to the ground. I had no more strength with which to fight.

“Sit down,” I said, gesturing to the edge of the bed. “I’ll explain everything.”

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