Page 2 of Dragon Fires Everywhere
Wilde House has always been a special place because it’s lovely and old and represents one of the founding families that madeSt. Cyprian what it is. It’s also had over a century of protections built into its very walls and floors. These days it standsas a monument to the much-prophesied Wilde sisters, who were deemed disappointments at eighteen but are now two of the mostpowerful witches alive.
Someoneshould be here until we take over actual ruling coven duties full-time.
But after the holiday season is over, I’m going to need to find my own way. Maybe by then I’ll be ready to move in with Sage,the way he’s been asking me to do for months now.
I wait for images of us together like that to sweep through me and charm me. I’vebeenwaiting. And like always, I find it impossible to picture. It’s just a blank, when I’ve always had an incredibly rich fantasylife.
Toorich, some might say. And often have.
“This is a sign of maturity,” I mutter to myself, because a rich fantasy life really only ever got me in trouble. I’m maturing,and just in time, as this ruling coven costume needs to fit me better. Not being able to daydream about my future with Sageprobably means that I’m growing into all thosegood adult habitsmy mother despaired of me ever finding.
Mind you, I can and happily have imagined all those scenarios for my friends—all now coupled up in our coven. Emerson andJacob ruling St. Cyprian and the world with Emerson’s might and fairness and Jacob’s calm and certainty. Rebekah and Frosttucked up in Frost’s glamoured Victorian on the hill (with Frost’s enviable library) being snarky and beautifully in lovein spite of it. I have thought more about Ellowyn and Zander’s baby and the parents they’ll be more than anyone has a rightto, probably.
But Sage and me? Nothing.
Facts, not fantasy, are what make good Historians, my mother always told me.You keep letting your head run away with you, Georgina, and you might lose it.
She’s never made it clear if she means that literally.
I drift toward the stairs and my attic garret rooms—my preferred description, though there’s nothinggarretyabout the third floor of Wilde House and the actual lovely turret I get to live in. I smile at the sometimes grinning, sometimesscowling newel post, depending on who you ask. I’ve always found the carved wooden dragon’s expression more interesting thanfearsome. The glittering onyx eyes seem to pay attention, and I like that. And occasionally, the effect of whatever enchantmentexists around the newel post means you can hear it say something in your head.
Hello, Azrael. I’ve returned home. Hope you’ve been well.
He says nothing in return this time—no surprise there. Dragons, even inanimate ones, do what and how they will. That’s onlyone reason that many of my favorite daydreams involve great fire-breathing creatures of legend.
Where good old Azrael might make others uneasy, likely because he’s been known to give off the occasional electric shock,I find his presence at the bottom of the stairs comforting. Like a sentry guarding anyone who resides upstairs.
Namely me.
My hand glides along the intricately carved head, warm and silken under my palm, and it offers a kind of deep purr in return.The only welcome home I need.
But the wordhomemakes me feel anxious again. I hurry up the stairs, feeling out with my magic for Octavius, but I don’t sense him. He’s eitherenjoying Thanksgiving with the rest of the coven over at Jacob’s farmhouse across the river, or he’s off doing whatever itis familiars—and cats—do when left to their own devices.
I drop my things off, putting them back into their specific places. Especially my travel crystals, which need a good recharge. To anyone else, my room and my library in the next room look like towering, haphazard mishmashes of everything I love—books, old things, all kinds of crystals—but my system is as ruthlessly organized as the best archives and libraries around the world.
I don’t like to let people see how my brain works.
I don’t think that’s weird.
Once satisfied, I’m even more excited to see my friends. I could transport myself over to what’s no doubt a delicious Thanksgivingfeast, but I decide to fly. To get a taste of the cold November night, the stars pulsing bright and beautiful. To enjoy thesight of St. Cyprian below me, twinkling in the late fall dark. And to take in the confluence of three rivers and all itsmagic that my friends and I once saved.
After I get across the river to where St. Cyprian’s cemetery resides and the North Farm sits in rolling fields dotted withpretty farm buildings, I touch down outside in the yard. I see Murphy, Jacob’s stag familiar, grazing in a field in the distancein the moonlight. I hear the ruffling of feathers—no doubt Zander’s and Ellowyn’s bird familiars settled into a branch somewhere.Maybe even Frost’s raven, Coronis.
And through a big picture window in the front of the house, I see everyone else gathered around a very full dining room table.
I should go right in. But I don’t. I stop. I watch.
My friends are eating, chatting, laughing. The dog and cat familiars are sprawled out around them, including my bored-lookingorange Octavius. I try to step forward—I’m almost certain I do—but it’s like something... stops me.
It’s like there’s a little bubble around the house. Not a real one. Not the sort of magic encasements I’ve seen and used before.It’s just a figment of my imagination and I know that.I know it.
Just like I know that if I walk in there, my friends will greet me with excitement. They’ll make space for me. They love me.
But the table is crowded. And from the outside looking in, it doesn’t seem like there’s space for me. Not just because they’veonly pulled up as many chairs as they need, but because... everyone is so happy, and it isn’t the wine. They’re smiling,laughing, and enjoying each other.
Three pairs of perfect couples.
They’re balanced. And if I go in there, I’ll upend that balance.
