Page 94 of Wickedly Ever After
Hector sighed. “I knew about Alistair. Adair told me. But the dragons will never accept it. It may well tear their nation apart.”
“I’ll let you tell him that.” Ida rubbed her temples. “I got nowhere with him, and I used the same argument—he wasn’t thinking about his responsibility.”
He reached across the table and touched her hand. “You handle the princess. Letmehandle the dragons.”
“Good luck. Honestly, Hector, I don’t know if I will get anywhere with her until this earthquake in my head abates.”
“When Tinbit arrives, I’ll have him mix you a headache cure after he’s done with Adair. You should go lie down for a while.”
“Hector, you know I want to do as the dragons do for your sake, but I can’t sleep on a stone bench with no blankets, no sheets, and a lumpy old rock for a pillow.”
Hector laughed. “They keep a guestroom for humans here—quite comfortable. There’s even a bed with proper linens and not asbestos.”
“I suppose next you’ll say they’ll give us bear skins and wolf pelts to keep warm.”
“Five hundred years ago they would have, but no, I keep them well supplied with quilts. You and Hari can share the guest room. I’ll stay with Tinbit in the stable, so long as it suits you.”
“What would suit me is a bath,” Ida said. “And a fresh change of clothes afterward.”
“A bath can be arranged. And Morga probably has an extra robe you can borrow.”
“Can you do anything for the Flamelord?” she asked, rising.
“I think so. His wounds are not severe—at least for a dragon. He’ll recover. Now go lie down. I’ll clean up here.”
***
Ida found the guest bedroom by avoiding doors with scorch marks until she found one without any. It was much smaller than the others too. From this she concluded that at least in this part of the cave, the dragons kept their human shape. From a diplomatic perspective, it made sense. Most humans probably wouldn’t be comfortable sleeping where a dragon could enter at will.
A fire immediately ignited in the center of the floor when she walked in, a single jet of flame roaring skyward with a loud whoosh, then subsiding into a merry crackling blaze over a few chunks of reddish-black obsidian, carefully arranged and carved to resemble chunks of wood. Cear would love this. How were they doing, trapped in their firepot, tied on the back of a goblin pony, somewhere in the mountains? What would they say when they arrived? They’d have questions, and of course, she’d have to answer, because Cear would want to stay with her. Not that she blamed the elemental—a stable was no place for a firepot. She set her hands in the middle of her back and stretched, hearing every pop, feeling every tight place. The bed at the hostel had been bad, worse even than the one at the inn. But she’d been less sore after the inn.
She crossed the room to test the mattress, deliberately not thinking about the way Hector’s eyes had burned this morning,bright as dragon’s fire, when he leaned over her lying on the moss. For a moment, she’d been almost sure he was going to kiss her. And she was absolutely sure she’d have kissed him back if he had. She shuddered. When this was over, she didn’t care if she ever spelled a truelove’s kiss ever again. She’d swear off romance for her entire retirement; become a grumpy old witch with a little gingerbread cottage, a garden full of nettles, blackberry hedges, and rampion; and keep an evil white goose to bite the backside of any lovelorn fool who came calling.
The bed yielded springily under her hands. She lay down, kicking off her boots, and eyed the large tub in the corner of the room longingly, but until Tinbit and Hari arrived with the pack pony or Morga brought a robe, she only had her dirty sweater and pants. The idea of crawling back into the filthy things again repulsed her.
She stared up at the bright firelight flickering on the ceiling, thinking about Hector’s castle, the library, the funny little fern, and the deep, rich scent of the black rose drifting in through the windows, so like the scent of Hector. The vision came to her of that little cottage with the garden and the goose, the smell of flowers drifting through those open windows, over a cozy bed where she lay nestled next to Hector, one hand resting on his chest after making love to him—warm, happy, replete. She could practically hear his soft breathing and see his salt-and-pepper ocean of hair drifting over the pillow, waterfalling into his deep green eyes as he smiled, as happy as she was.
She blinked fiercely. She was too old to think about things like a lovesick princess, believing every problem could be solved by one kiss on some enchanted evening. But she couldn’t help but wonder if Hector had been a nice farm boy who’d comecalling when she was a girl, whether she’d have heeded her father’s advice, or if she, like the princess and the dragon, would have given up everything for one simple lifetime of love.
43
Hector
Don’t think I can’t see right through you, Tara. If Hector goes, I’d have to appoint a young witch to take his place, and they’d have less death magic in their whole body than Hector has in his little finger. I’m not about to let you and Ida take control of this Council. Either we agree to fire them both, or you can expect me to fire Ida the moment she shows her overlong nose in the Hall of Witches.
Letter from Wicked Witch Agatha East to Good Witch Tara South
Hector rose and carried Ida’s leftover cheese sandwich to the kitchen. She seemed so focused, so determined, no hint of distraction. Meanwhile he was a turmoil inside. It must be nice to be so unaffected by one’s own magic that one could simply walk off to take an early evening nap, completely unconcerned by one’s completely carnal preoccupations. When he saw the fear in her face, all he could think about was taking her in his arms and telling her he’d make it all right, and please, love him. Gods. Tinbit had been right about the balls. Getting rid of his heart hadn’t helped at all.
Ida had once written that wickedness could never competeagainst the power of a good heart, and while he’d appreciated both the insult and the challenge, there might be some truth in it. A good heart, a chivalrous sense of honor, a kind deed—those things went a long way in preventing a man from being overwhelmed by his baser feelings. His heart was gone, and it had never been good. Chivalry had gone the way of the unicorns long ago. But the kind deed he could manage.
He squared up to the dragon’s stove, stacked two boxes of everlasting onions together, climbed up, tied an overlarge apron over his robe, and set the skillet on the burner.
He carried two slightly burned sandwiches along with a small bowl of rock-loganberry preserves on a tray to Alistair’s room. The absence of them both at dinner suggested that Alistair, perhaps in an attempt to convince his father of Amber’s worthiness, had decided to do everything according to dragon tradition. Once mated, a dragon must feed his mate to show he can provide, not only for her, but for the dragon eggs she will surely be expecting after their nonstop mating. The gifts generally took the form of fresh meat, a different animal each day for a full two weeks. The princess was probably sick of barbecue by now.
He knocked gently on the door.
“Yes?” she answered.
