Page 63 of The Infirmary for Dragon Burns and Midair Mishaps

“I suppose that’s something only you can decide,” Nisse agreed. “But I think love is risky in all its forms.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone loses the person they love one day, don’t they?” she mused. “You don’t get that person forever, despite how much we want to believe in fairy tales. One day old age comes or illness or, yes, dragons. The only real question any of us can ask is how long we get with the people we care about. And since we can’t know that, I think we just have to love them while we can.”

I blinked away tears. “I want a lifetime,” I said. I didn’t want to be short-changed by the flames. I didn’t want to live the same fate as my mother.

“You could choose a baker and not end up with a lifetime,” Nisse pointed out. “What I’m saying is, nothing is guaranteed.”

“I think my odds are better with a baker,” I murmured. “Plus, think of all that bread.”

Nisse gave me a wan smile. “Do you really want bread?”

No. I wanted Vaela Frixsar.

I wanted her so badly it was starting to eat me up on the inside. But I couldn’t have her.

Not in this lifetime.

21

VAELA

After a hasty round of renovations—which consisted of repairing the courtyard, painting a brand new migration-themed mural on the side of the building, and securing enough ale for the reopening celebration—the Wiggly Dragon Tooth welcomed back townsfolk and tourists alike.

Dalton and I crowded through the doors along with what felt like half the town. “Did you see that they added Min to the mural?” he asked.

“I did. Min’s thrilled. But now she’s got an ego the size of the Wretch.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Secure us a table. I’ll handle the bar.”

“Divide and conquer,” he said. “Right.” There was a slightly melancholy note to his voice. He’d been like that for nearly a week now. I frowned after him as he made his way across the pub, looking for an unoccupied nook or cranny. I might not be able to do anything about my current predicament with Eden, but I could at least try to lift Dalton’s spirits.

One of us deserved to be happy.

I cut between people, finding a space at the bar. “Two tankards of your finest ale, please.”

Ilona looked me up and down, her lips pursed in amusement. “Big spender tonight?”

Translation: You usually only drink the cheap stuff.

I flipped a coin onto the counter. “It’s a celebration, isn’t it?”

Ilona tucked the coin into her apron. “Aye, that it is.”

“Then let’s celebrate.”

She poured me two tankards, and I carried them across the rammed pub, doing my best not to slosh any of the dark, amber liquid over my hands as rowdy patrons jostled each other back and forth. It was probably the hardest thing I’d done since wrangler training.

“Stars,” I swore as I reached the tiny patch of windowsill Dalton had claimed. “I should get an award just for making it over here.” I passed him his drink. “Get some of that into you.”

He sniffed the contents of the tankard, eyebrows lifting. “You sprung for the good stuff?”

I reached for his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Tonight you’re only drinking the Drakon Stout. You’re worth every pence.”

“Gahhhh,” he said, waving me off. “I know what you’re trying to do. And you don’t have to.”

I sipped my drink. “What am I trying to do?”

“Cheer me up. Convince me that this isn’t the end of my journey. Try to tell me that all I have to do is spend another year shoveling hay out of the nesting shed and suddenly I’ll be ready.”