“My dad never missed it,” Jolie says.

I listen carefully, enraptured by the images she is painting as she tells Sverre of the human holiday. It sounds magical. A day dedicated to love.

“He would always come up with some grand gesture for my mom,” she continues. “It was so romantic. And sweets! There were always candies, and he’d get some for me, too.”

She says a word in her native language that doesn’t translate to Zmaj.

“What is that?” Sverre asks.

Glancing quickly around, I notice the other Zmaj are also listening to her. Though Ladon in particular is feigning he has no interest in her words.

“Hmm,” Jolie says, looking over at Amara and Calista.

“Candy with a sweet outer coating made from sugar and milk, mostly,” Amara says. “Cho-co-late.”

She sounds the word out for Sverre who nods thoughtfully.

It sounds like a sweet my mother used to make for me when I was a hatchling, before the world ended. Maybe I could make such a thing?

“He’d bring her flowers, a box of cho-co-lates, and take her out or make her a fancy dinner at home. Sometimes he’d buy her things but mostly it was about the two of them being together.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Sverre says.

“Mommy!” Rverre cries in pain from across the hall.

Jolie is on her feet in an instant and running across the room. She sweeps Rverre up and comforts her. Silence reigns across the hall until everyone is sure that nothing serious has happened. Almost as if a switch is flipped, the buzz of conversation resumes.

Jolie leaves and the rest of the females aren’t far behind, leaving the males alone at the table.

“I want to do this thing for her,” Sverre says.

“I agree, but sweets? We don’t have anything like that anymore,” Ladon says.

“Right,” Sverre says. “It is a problem. I want to make my treasure’s dreams come true, but how?”

“Fruit?” Astarot asks.

“That seems less than what she is describing,” Sverre says, shaking his head. “There is little effort in gathering fruit, it lacks the… magic of what she seems to want.”

“Yeah,” Astarot agrees. “I’m no cook.”

The males debate back and forth, presenting and discarding ideas. As they do, I keep remembering the treat my mother made. I think I could do it. More than once I start to say something, but they won’t want to hear what I have to say. I don’t belong among these hunters. My opinions aren’t worth sharing.

Silence falls and they stare at each other, obviously they’ve run out of ideas. Fear is a cold knot in the bottom of my stomach, but I push past it. I’m a male and I will not let fear rule me. If I can do this, maybe Inga will like it and accept me, at least as a friend, though I want so much more.

“I have an idea,” I say, forcing myself to speak.

“What is it?” Sverre asks, staring.

I swallow hard. He’s taller than I am and broader. All the males are.

“My mother,” I begin, having to force myself to swallow again. “She made a treat when I was a hatchling. It was sweet and coated with a hard shell. It was sweet and delicious.”

“Do you know how to make this?” Sverre asks, leaning in close. I barely suppress my urge to flinch away.

“I think so,” I say. “I’ve never done it but I watched her make it many times.”

The males look at each other then Ladon grins. “We will help you,” he says. “What do you need so we may do this for our treasures?”