Page 6 of A Matter of Dragons

But it’s not like I’d done absolutely nothing. I’d sent a message to the Office of the Historian of the Iron Mountains asking very politely for any information he may be willing to share about Mad Scarlett, and I’d also sent along enough gold to ensure he’d actually be interested in answering my request. Once I knew more about the dragon who’d settled in the Knife’s Edge mountains, I reasoned, I’d come up with a strategy to approach her.

Plus, I had to admit, those shelves looked worlds better now that they were re-organized. If I had any questions about what had happened during the latest peasant revolt in North Fallows, I’d know exactly where to find my records.

My stomach rumbled, interrupting my admiration of my own organizational prowess. Yes. Dinner. The problems with Mad Scarlett and finding some sort of a mole in Donovan’s court that I could offer up for my mother’s exploitation would have to wait until another day.

If I were being honest, that didn’t exactly break my heart.

I settled a hurricane glass over the candle, just in case, and stepped carefully through the front room of our store. I could weave my way through these bookcases, shelves, and piles of boxes blindfolded, but I still took my time, admiring the scent of old leather and dusty parchment as I watched dusk fall outside the windows. My father had built this particular shop on the second-tallest of Cairncliff’s nine hills, just down the road from Noble’s Hill, which of course was not home to anything so lowbrow as a common store.

From the shop’s broad front windows, the city of Cairncliff slipped away toward the harbor and the dark sea. I paused before the largest window, inhaling deeply. The streetlight sparkled on the corner opposite the shop, echoing the tiny pricks of light that had begun to wink into life above the city. Far across the sea, the horizon glowed dull scarlet with the last flickers of the dying sun.

By all the Mothers who had come before, I would never tire of this view. It was well worth the dozens of bribes and threats it had taken over the years to ensure that no one ever dared to erect a taller building between our shop’s front window and the ocean.

A spark of light caught my eye in the narrow alleyway across the street. As I watched, a squat figure brought a flaming match to a pipe. The pipe winked with golden embers, illuminating the thick, curly beard of a dwarf. The dwarf’s dark eyes met mine in the weak light. He winked.

Oh, good. Graystone was back. I always enjoyed the dwarven smuggler’s visits. I pivoted toward the door and pushed it open, setting the silver bell above the lintel dancing.

And I almost walked directly into the arms of the woman standing on the front steps.

“Oh!” she cried, stepping backward.

I grabbed her elbow without thinking before she could go crashing off the stone steps. A sudden jolt of magic as hot and fierce as summer lightning raced through my body, searing my skin from my fingertips to the base of my spine. It retreated as quickly as it had appeared, leaving me gasping stupidly at the stranger.

She was a stranger, I was sure of it. Like all dragons, I never forgot a face. Not that I would have wanted to forget this one. The woman standing before me had striking blue eyes and the kind of delicate, perfectly harmonized features usually only found in paintings. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in dusky ember-colored waves, and her sapphire blue dress was cut just low enough to be enticing.

Ah. And I should not be staring at the neckline of that dress.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, pulling her arm delicately out of my grasp.

“Oh,” I stammered.

I hadn’t realized I was still holding her elbow. The strange magical fire that had burned through me when I’d touched her had dissipated, leaving me wondering what in the name of the Mothers had just happened.

“This is Geredan’s Antiquities, is it not?” she asked, tilting her head critically at the enormous wooden sign hanging directly overhead. She had an odd, delicate accent I could not immediately place.

“Yes, please,” I replied. “I mean, yes, this is Geredan’s Antiquities. Geredan’s my father. I’m Doshir.”

The woman frowned at me, then glanced down at the arm I’d grabbed. In the misty halo of light from the streetlamp, I could see that the exposed skin on the back of her left hand was puckered and rippled. She followed my gaze, then pushed her sleeve down until the sapphire fabric engulfed her entire hand.

“And you are a healer?” she asked.

She glanced up at the sign again, where over the years my father and I had added a dozen shingles specifying what exactly an antiquities shop did. Translator and Cartographer had been my only additions. My father had written Healer ages ago, but I suspected it was only in order to have young women undress for him. No one in Cairncliff would be foolish enough to seek me out as a healer.

This woman clearly wasn’t from Cairncliff.

“Uh, yes?” I answered. My voice rose as I spoke, making my affirmation sound like a question.

She glanced at her hand, which was now nearly hidden beneath the soft velvet of her sleeve.

“But, I’m afraid I can’t do much for curses,” I finished. “That’s very complicated, specific magic. Usually, a curse can only be undone by the caster—”

“What?” Her eyes widened and a horrified expression fluttered across her delicate features.

“Oh. Uh. Oh,” I stammered, like an idiot. I’d just assumed the wrinkled skin on the back of her left hand was evidence of a curse; it looked like a curse, and curse magic would explain the jolt of fire I’d gotten when I’d touched her.

“I mean, what exactly are you looking for?” I asked.

She cleared her throat and dipped her head. Her chest rose as she took a deep breath. It suddenly occurred to me that it had been a long time since I’d been intimate with a woman. A very long time.