Page 22 of The Infirmary for Dragon Burns and Midair Mishaps

A sour mixture of failure and nerves bubbled in my stomach as I watched the smoke curl into the sky.

Stars!

I wasn’t supposed to be drawing this kind of attention to myself. A gray plume of smoke, sure. That could be any number of cooking fires. But this? I picked up the bucket of water next to me and heaved the contents at the chestplate. The fire hissed as it was doused, but that didn’t stop the smoke. It only made it worse.

I wafted the sweet, purple cloud away from my face.

I couldn’t just stand around with a pile of armor made of dragon scales smoking in my garden. Even if there were no kingsguard in Ember Ridge, I couldn’t be sure some nosy neighbor wouldn’t report it. Perhaps not even maliciously, simply out of concern.

I grabbed a long branch from the edge of the treeline, slipped it through the armhole of the chestplate, and picked it up. I rushed back into the cottage and stuffed the armor into the wood stove.

Plumes of purply smoke surrounded me, and I coughed on that cloying smell. Panicking, I grabbed the charcoal sketches from the desk, balled up the papers, and stuffed them into the stove as well. The paper caught quickly, tainting that purple smoke, turning it a sooty black. I slammed the door on the stove and stumbled back, coughing into my arm.

Bile stuck to my tongue, and that was sweet, too. “Accck!”

I turned and wrenched the front door open, then the window, hoping the smell would dissipate. While I waited, I tidied my desk, hiding away the evidence of my work. Once that was done, I dragged the rocking chair out to the porch and threw myself down in it, sucking in lungfuls of fresh air.

With a clear head, the panic subsided, and a measure of defeat filled me.

I didn’t understand what had gone wrong. When a dragon was blasted with fire, their scales repelled the heat. They didn’t smoke the way the chestplate had. Was that the real problem? Once the scales were no longer attached to a dragon, did they lose their repellent abilities?

I suppose, on a dragon, the scales were alive in a way, imbued with a dragon’s own strength. Once they’d been shed, maybe that strength faded. And as beautiful as they still were when I’d collected them, and as strong as they’d felt in my hands, if I couldn’t figure out how to harness their protective qualities, I might as well be tying stones to the armor.

My head thumped back against the rocking chair. Some silly part of me had actually believed this would work. I figured the armor would need some tweaks—more scales, extra layers of protection, and added flexibility for movement. But I never considered that this first attempt would be such a disaster.

And the real problem? That was just regular fire.

Dragon fire burned even hotter. If the armor couldn’t handle a regular old flame, it would never hold up against a blast from a wild dragon.

I sighed, trying not to let my thoughts flicker back to last night. To the flames that had stood between me and that Black Spot. To the red light that had appeared at the back of its throat. To the smell of singed flesh. To the heat that had licked at my skin. To the way Vaela’s arms had tightened around me before her dragon had swept in to rescue us.

Maybe I was being a fool. What did I really know about dragon riding or dragon fires or any of it? I might be twenty-four now, but I’d only been a child when I lost my father. And this armor was still just a silly little dream.

Perhaps it was time to retire the dream and focus on what I knew best.

Burns.

A clap like thunder sounded, and I jerked upright. It was the sound of dragon wings, and they were close. I stood at the edge of the porch, staring into the sky. A moment later, a hulking shadow swept into view. It was Vaela and her dragon. They circled the cottage once, then touched down in the meadow.

The force of it sent a shock straight up the bones of my legs. I gripped the porch railing to steady myself, watching as those massive claws turned up the earth, crushing the violet asters into pulp.

“Morning,” Vaela called, sliding down the side of her dragon in one smooth motion.

I cleared my throat, still tasting smoke on my tongue. “Good morning.”

“You’re up early,” she noted.

“So are you,” I said as she drew closer. Her hair was slightly windswept, loose strands of dark hair pulled from the braid at the back of her head. Both her trousers and her tunic were black. They fit her well, forming to her body like a glove, and I couldn’t shake Seraphine’s comments from last night about nice backsides and leather trousers. I tore my eyes away as my cheeks flamed.

“Didn’t sleep much,” she admitted, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps. “Spent most of the night clearing out debris from the Wiggly Dragon Tooth.”

She glanced up at me, and I could see the dark circles. Her gray eyes were dull and exhausted. For a moment I longed to smooth the lines away, to stroke them until her eyes fluttered closed and I could count her eyelashes. The intensity of the desire spooked me.

“Was anyone else hurt?” I asked. After the fires had been doused, Vaela had helped ferry the injured to the infirmary. She’d stayed long enough for me to wrap her wounded hand with a new bandage, then she’d disappeared.

“Not that I know of,” Vaela said. “But it’s going to be a while before everyone’s favorite pub is back up and running.”

“That’s unfortunate.”