“The dragon was deeply perplexed. No one had ever offered it tea before. Usually, people ran away.”
“What did it do?”
Lorraine drew breath—but another voice answered first, low and unexpectedly dry.
“It sat down,” Dominic said.
Both she and Thomas turned toward him. He was looking into the fire, but there was the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth.
“It was a very large dragon,” he continued, “so it crushed the chair. Sir Reginald, being excessively polite, pretended not to notice.”
“Your Grace—” Lorraine began.
“The dragon’s name,” he went on, “was Gertrude.”
Thomas collapsed into laughter—real laughter, bright and unrestrained. He clutched his middle, rocking back, tears streaming down his face as he struggled to breathe.
“Gertrude!” he gasped. “Like the aunt!”
Lorraine pressed her hand to her mouth, laughing despite herself. When she looked at Dominic, she found him watching the boy with an expression she had never seen before—wondering, unguarded, as though he had forgotten such a thing was possible.
“I think,” she managed at last, “that Sir Reginald and Gertrude the dragon became excellent friends. And whenever Aunt Gertrude came to visit, Sir Reginald hid in the dragon’s cave, and the dragon informed the aunt he was away slaying monsters.”
“And she believed it?”
“Dragons are very persuasive. All those teeth.”
Thomas dissolved again into giggles.
Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, the fire burned warm and steady, and for a little while they were not what circumstance had made them. They were simply three people sharing a room, a story, and the shelter of one another’s company.
Inevitably, the laughter faded into yawns. The hour was late—far later than a six-year-old should be awake—and the warmth of the fire, coupled with the evening’s exertions, took its toll. Thomas curled upon his cushion, and within minutes his breathing had deepened into sleep.
Lorraine and Dominic sat in quiet, watching him.
“I did not know he could laugh so,” Dominic said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I did not know he had that in him.”
“He has everything in him. He just needed permission to let it out.”
“And you gave him that.”
“We both did.”
Silence settled again. The fire burned lower, shadows lengthening across the floor. Thomas stirred, murmuring faintly, and Lorraine rose to adjust the cushion beneath his head.
As she straightened, she reached for the candle—just as Dominic did.
Their hands met.
The contact was slight, no more than a brush of fingers, yet it sent a sudden, unwelcome warmth through her. She looked up—and found him watching her, his expression stripped bare of its usual reserve.
Neither moved.
She could hear his breathing. See the pulse at his throat. Feel the faint tremor in his hand where it touched hers.
“Lorraine.”
Her name in his mouth, low and unguarded, like a confession dragged out against his will.
