What a Dragon Should Know
“Set myself on fire. Drown myself. Or hang myself from the roof. These are all preferable to dancing.”
Gwenvael laughed until his niece grabbed his hand. “Come on, Gwenvael! We’re dancing!” Izzy pulled him out of his seat with that healthy strength of hers.
“You’ll be all right?” he asked Dagmar, letting his niece grip his hand and put all her weight into trying to drag him forward.
“I’ll be fine.” She motioned him away with her chalice. “Go. Dance. Find me later—if you can.”
Evil little tease! “I will.”
He let Izzy’s hand go abruptly, and his niece squealed and crashed to the floor. “Iseabail! What are you doing on the floor? Get up, girl! Have some pride!”
Dagmar was in love. Madly, adoringly in love.
She never dreamed she’d find a love as deep as this. But who knew? Who knew a sweet-faced, soft-spoken dragoness would have so much gossip and, even more importantly, be so willing to share it all with Dagmar!
Yes, it was love. Deep, never-ending love!
“And see the short red-haired male standing near Briec? The royal?”
Dagmar wanted to squint through her spectacles—those at a distance were fuzzier than usual due to her excesses of wine this evening—but she didn’t want to be obvious. Luckily, however, Morfyd’s brother Briec was quite easy to spot. Arrogance like that filled a room. “Yes.”
“I’ve been told,” she whispered, leaning close, “that he enjoys wearing his wife’s gowns. And when he does, his wife accidentally catches him in said gowns.”
“Is there scolding?”
“Aye!” Morfyd lowered her voice again. “Apparently she enjoys scolding him very, very, very firmly. In fact, she scolds him until they’re both quite exhausted and happy.”
Dagmar put her hand to her chest. “That is fabulous.”
“Isn’t it?” Morfyd patted her leg. “I have to say, Dagmar, I am so glad you’ve visited. There are very few who have a true appreciation of delicious gossip. Except, of course, Gwenvael.”
“I expected that,” she admitted. “But no one else?”
“Fearghus doesn’t like to be bothered with anybody or anything. Everything irritates my eldest brother. Everything. Except Annwyl, of course, but even she can get on his nerves. Briec could care less about anybody or anything except himself and whether he can find something to argue with Talaith about.”
Wanting more on that, Dagmar began to ask, but Morfyd held up a halting hand. “Don’t ask. The whole thing is between the two of them and is idiotic. Éibhear is of no use to me because he refuses to believe the worst of anyone so he constantly interrupts me to say, ‘That can’t be true. That can’t be true.’ Which takes the piss right out of it.”
“Annwyl?”
“All she does is read. The woman lives in that library and she absolutely hates when you distract her from her precious books. If she isn’t killing, she’s reading. If she isn’t reading, she’s killing. There’s no middle ground with her.”
“And Talaith?”
“My one saving grace, but I can’t go on too long with her or she starts getting paranoid.”
“Paranoid?”
She rolled her eyes. “ ‘What are they saying about me? And what are you saying about me?’ Again, takes the piss right out.”
Dagmar laughed. “Well, you’ll be glad to know, I keep my paranoia for the important things.” Her gaze swept the room. “All I care about is what everyone else is up to.”
Morfyd grabbed hold of Dagmar’s hand, holding it close to her chest. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but … I love you.”
Dagmar laid her free hand on top of Morfyd’s. “And I you.”
They began laughing again—something she’d done more in this one night than she’d done in her entire life.
Talaith swooped in, crash-landing on the chair on the other side of Dagmar. “I’m having a wonderful time!”
Morfyd whispered against Dagmar’s ear. “She’s drunk off her ass.”
“I am not drunk,” Talaith protested. “You witch. Bitch.” She giggled. “You bitchy witch.”
Talaith waved her hands. “All right. I may have had more wine than I should. But I still know the important question of the day.”
“And what is that?”
“Has little Dagmar here f**ked our Gwenvael?”
Dagmar rubbed her leg where Talaith had slapped her to emphasize her rude question, and Morfyd turned a lovely shade of red, gasping out, “That’s none of our business!”
“Come on. I want to hear it from someone who isn’t completely captivated by those big, dumb dragon eyes of his. I want the truth! Is he as good as he claims to be?”
“Quiet!” Morfyd hissed.
“I don’t know the truth.” When the women stared at her, Dagmar shrugged. “I don’t.”
“Then don’t do it,” Talaith said earnestly. “Trust me on this.”
“Why not?”
Putting one arm around Dagmar, she motioned to Morfyd with the other. “Close your ears, woman, you don’t want to hear this.”
“Gods help me.”
Talaith leaned in close. “As I said, Magdar—”
“It’s Dagmar.”
“Whatever. You don’t want to do this because if he’s anything like his brother, you’ll be trapped. Caught for eternity.”