Page 62 of Dragon Fires Everywhere
And Iwantto handwave it all away, like it was a long, complicated dream. Iwantto tell myself everything that happened last night—and I mean everything—is confusing if not impossible, but...
Trouble is, it makes a little too much sense.
We’ve always been told that a witch’s soul is a one-time deal. Witch to death to ghost, if you can master the energy in theafterlife. But we’ve also been told magical creatures went extinct and the Joywood aren’t evil.
So.
I let that thought roll where it will, and I hit more questions.
Why has Wilde House always felt like home? Emerson like a sister, Lillian like my own grandmother? Why did moving over hereat eighteen and talking to a carved dragon head all night long seem sorighteven when I was constantly trying to convince myself—or my mother was doing it for me—that it was wrong? That I should shuffleback home and act more like a Pendell and less like my friends. Less like I might bespecial.
What I can’t really fathom is my dad’s role. NotDesmond Wilde—I still can’t face that head-on—but the man I’ve alwaysthoughtwas my father. If he knew, and what he said to me last night suggests he did, why did he go along with it? I need to talkwith him.
But I also know I need to talk with my coven.
And Azrael.
I have to deal witheverythingand that’s unfortunate, because what Iwantto do is get back in bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep for a year, getting up only for snacks and a good book.
Octavius makes a graceful leap up onto the seat. It’s an impressive feat for such a big, chunky cat. He crawls into my lap,and I scratch his throat until he purrs.
And the more he purrs, the less I feel the bed calling me.
In the light of day, this moment is not too big for me. I won’t let it be. Somethingspecialis blooming inside me.
Because no matter the thing about Pendells, or my mother, or anything else, the Riverwoodisspecial. And I am part of it.
I pick up Octavius and cradle him like a baby, just the way he likes, until his purring vibrates within me like my own contentment.It makes me smile, and more, fills me with a kind of determination. Or maybe it’s just that I understand myself and my placein all this better this morning, having finally learned my own history.
I can identify as a Pendell because I was raised by them. I can identify as a Wilde because apparently I have that bloodlinein me.
Or I can just beme. A soul that has been around the block a few times, apparently.
And has found Azrael in every one.
I sit with that for a moment, Octavius’s purr like a rumble in my own chest. I used to have dreams along those lines, pastlives and past adventures, and every single time, my mother told me I was delusional and it wasworrisome. She charmed my sleep to keep me from dreaming.
But all these years, I was right to believe, to hope, todream.
I put Octavius down, then set about getting ready. I have historic house tours to give today, as part of one of Emerson’sholiday initiatives. Nothing about yesterday changes that, except I have more connection to this particular historic housethan simply living in it.
I slide on a labradorite bracelet, a nod to my imagination and the dreams that brought me here. Some rings with honey calciteand iolite for when I can get to the archives later, one of which I bought in Sri Lanka when I got the key in Colombo.
I’m reminded of what Azrael said last night, and while I have no fear of Sage, I consider my collection of black jade. There’s one in the shape of a crow, but it has eyes made of amethyst, and that’s not what I want. So I grab the black jade carved in the shape of a little rodent I picked up in London because I thought it was cute. I slide it into my pocket for protection.
I leave my room, but I hear something in my library down the hall. Frowning, I magic myself inside because the door barelyopens thanks to all the books in there. And because anything that messy repels pretty much everyone, especially Emerson, givingme privacy without my having to ask for it.
I weave my way through books, trying to find the source of it. It’s faint, but I can hear it, and it tugs even harder. It’sthat melody again, and it wants to fill me up.
I want it to fill me up.
I make it to the window and toss it open, leaning out into the crisp morning air. I can see the river out there, dark anddotted with ice. Is it singing to me? Does it want me to—
Octavius is meowing at the door, and I look away from the window. He’s stuck one paw inside, but he’s pretending he can’tget the rest of the way in when he could magic himself inside if he pleased.
I sigh and go back to the door, move some books out of the way, and open the door wider. But he doesn’t enter. He just keepsmeowing at me, louder and more pointedly.
“I don’t know what your problem is, but I guess we should go down to breakfast,” I tell him placatingly.
