A Midwinter's Tale Doesn't Usually Include Dragons

Getting up without waking Sarkan was the hard part. I’d curled against him as we’d slept – completely against the intended plan – and he’d wrapped a warm arm around me. He was a light sleeper, and usually startled awake the moment I moved, as if half expecting me to bring some terrible catastrophe down on him while he slept. This day, it wasn’t so far from the truth.

I briefly considered casting kalikual on him to keep him asleep, but then I imagined the mortified look of betrayal on his face once he realised I had spelled him unconscious and thought better of it. Instead I blew lightly into his face, disturbing a long strand of black hair which had fallen across his eyes. It tickled against the bridge of his nose and his eyes screwed tightly shut with a frown.

‘Insufferable pest,’ he muttered as he rolled over.

I waited until his breathing evened back out into the deep, slow breaths of sleep, and then I slipped between the drapes and out of the bed. I could feel the icy cold of the stone on my bare feet even through the rug, and a shudder raced right up through me, from the soles of my feet to the top of my skull. It was Midwinter’s Day, and the tower was at its coldest and least hospitable. I fully intended to rectify that.

I unapologetically stole the Dragon’s fine, full length dressing gown from his wardrobe. It was the softest, warmest item of clothing he owned, and this was not the first time I had stolen it. I could hardly spell myself something warm to wear – the barest hint of my magic would wake him. Wrapped up snugly in my plunder, I stole out into the dark landing and crept along to the doors of the guest rooms. It was pitch dark so early in the morning, so I stumbled along, tripping over my own feet and the long trailing ends of the coat. I must have been making some amount of noise, because Kasia had opened her door before I even reached it.

She crept out in a long white nightdress, her strange, smooth skin unaffected by the cold. Her golden hair hung in a plait around her shoulders, all loose and tousled from sleep. ‘Hush, Nieshka,’ she half laughed through her whispers. ‘Even the children will hear you.’

‘Good!’ I whispered back, too loudly, trying not to laugh. ‘They can help!’

She looped her arm through mine and drew me close to her side. ‘And if you think they will not immediately bring a Dragon down on your head, then you are gravely mistaken.’

So we left Stashek and Marisha sleeping. They had arrived with Kasia only a few days before, their entire retinue in tow – the soldiers and servants were mostly ensconced in Olshanka, but a few had stayed in the tower, much to Sarkan’s annoyance. I was glad they had: no amount of lirintalem would allow me to craft a Midwinter’s feast fit for what I had planned, and Kasia had less-than-delicately reminded me of what had happened the last time I had tried to cook dinner for her, Sarkan and the children.

Despite the early hour, I could already smell the beginnings of the servants’ work – the scent of hot pastry and spiced fruit drifted enticingly up the stairs. Kasia and I skipped along together, arms entwined, with all the gleeful excitement of children before a festival. My heart fluttered lightly in my chest, half thrilled with the thought of the day ahead and half with trepidation at the thought of what Sarkan would do when he woke. Needless to say, the Dragon had not been consulted with my plans.

It was hard work hauling the decorations up from where we’d hidden them, one of them being a not immoderately sized tree which I had somehow dragged into the tower without Sarkan noticing; he would be quite horrified when he realised what I’d achieved under his nose while it had been buried in his books. Of course, Kasia managed the work easily enough, while I skipped along ineffectually beside her, arms overflowing with the decorations and gifts I had been hiding for months.

We started in his great hall, with paper streamers, sprigs of holly and sparkling glass baubles. We hung decorations in the windows, decorated the long table, and covered the great fireplace in mistletoe and fresh-scented pine. Eventually, I grew impatient and used magic to hang the streamers from the ceiling; I called up the fire to a roaring blaze and was just skipping along the floor singing ‘vadiya rusha kalmoziya tuhi tuhi’ when the Dragon appeared, fuming, in the doorway.

‘What are you doing?’ he hissed furiously. ‘Is that— is that snow?! Is it snowing inside, you unbearable lunatic?’

My face was all flushed from exertion, his dressing gown slipping from my shoulders and my hair in a wild tangle about my face. I grinned at him, ready to deflect his wrath. ‘It’s only an illusion. Here, feel it.’ I held out my hand and the ‘snow’ passed harmlessly through it. ‘See?’

He eyed it with a black distrust, though he was curious despite himself. ‘Did I hear kalmoz? Isn’t that what you use to call lightening?’

‘Only sometimes. It’s a spell for clouds, mostly, and I changed it and twisted it up with – don’t scowl at me.’

‘If you’re going to freeze over the inside of my home, you could at least have the decency to do it in a way which halfway makes sense.’

I smiled at him, as I always did when he called the tower his home. ‘Come in and see for yourself.’

He hesitated at the threshold, and then stepped slowly into the room as if he half expected the rift from the Summoning to reopen at his feet. He held out his hands, palm-up, like a child in the first snows of winter – and for a moment he did look like a child, his face unguarded as my magic touched lightly against his skin, flinching just a little as if it really were cold.

‘What is all this perversity in aid of?’ he asked when he finally reached me.

‘Even you must realise that its Midwinter’s Day today,’ I said, gesturing to the fruits of all my hard labour.

‘I know what day it is.’ He sniffed with disapproval. ‘This is all peasant nonsense.’

‘Hardly.’ I pulled an unwilling hand into mine. ‘Stashek and Marisha are beside themselves with excitement. It appears only grumpy old wizards don’t celebrate Midwinter’s Day.’

‘I suppose you’ve invited half the Valley to your absurd little… oh no, you haven’t?’

‘So you do know what a Midwinter’s Day is supposed to be like! Only my family – and Kasia’s – and in the evening some of the townsfolk from Olshanka. The Headwoman and—’

He withered in front of me, a low, inevitable groan escaping him.

‘Trust me,’ I said, squeezing his hand. ‘You might even enjoy it.’

‘Somehow, I doubt—’ he started, but I caught his mouth on mine, surprising him with a kiss. I felt him relent underneath it, his fingers curling around my wrist.

Kasia cleared her throat from behind him a moment before Marisha collided bodily with my legs. Sarkan stiffened and jerked away from me, as he always did when anyone else might witness us together.

‘Highness,’ he said down to the small, grinning face at my waist. ‘Kasia,’ he nodded to Kasia, all stiff formality. ‘I suppose she made you a part of this?’

‘From the beginning,’ said Kasia, setting another box of decorations down by the door. She’d changed into a fine wool dress of soft grey and sky blue, her bright golden hair wound into neat, criss-crossing braids. Even the children were dressed and ready, so now only I stood in a state of indecent undress, Sarkan’s dressing gown still hanging half off my shoulders.

He lifted one side of it back onto my shoulder and gazed at the marks and tears in it with a quiet, resigned sort of defeat. ‘I suppose there is nothing I can do to dissuade you from this madness?’

Kasia placed a hand on Sarkan’s arm, making him start with surprise. ‘Believe me,’ she said in the tone of a long-suffering ally, ‘it will go easier for you if you just go along with this.’

The day passed in a glorious blur. My family arrived before noon, along with Wensa, laden with gifts for the children. We ate supper in the great hall, soft flakes of illusionary snow drifting slowly down around us. When I walked in with a bottle of wine in each hand, Sarkan casually lifted them out of my grip and stalked out of the room. He returned with a tray of mugs of hot spiced wine, smelling of cinnamon and cloves, which he set carefully before each of our guests.

He scowled at me as he thrust a mug into my hands. ‘Might as well do a thing properly.’

It was the most delicious, warming thing I have ever tasted.

In the evening, we gathered in the firelight, mugs of wine in our hands and the heat of the fire at our backs. A few nervous men and woman had joined us from Olshanka, eyeing the Dragon uneasily as they gulped down their wine. It didn’t help that he eyed them back just as uneasily.

I politely detached myself from the group, kissing my mother’s cheek and trying to ignore Kasia’s encouraging smile. I could feel my heart skipping in my chest again, fluttering as lightly as a sparrow’s wings. I collected the carefully stowed package from beneath our ridiculous tree and picked my way across to Sarkan’s side.

He held the package at arm’s length with a sour expression on his face. ‘What is this?’

‘It’s a gift,’ I said, delighted by his confusion.

‘I know what a gift is, you mutton-headed, daughter of a—’ he stopped abruptly, eyeing my parents where they stood talking to Wensa by the fire.

My grin was so wide I thought my face was going to split in half.

‘I meant what is this?’ he brandished the carefully wrapped package at my face, as if I really were dull-witted enough not to have known what he meant.

The brown paper was smooth and unrumpled, the silk ribbon tied oh-so-neatly on top. I hadn’t touched it for three months for fear of ruining it, and even then I’d had to use one of Jaga’s cleaning charms that morning to remove my greasy fingerprints; Kasia had deftly retied the ribbon with a patient smile.

‘Just open it!’ I said, breathless with impatience. I huddled closer to his side.

‘Alright, alright,’ he said, exasperated, ‘just cease your incessant fidgeting.’

I was bouncing on the balls of my feet and refused to stop, even as he gave me the most withering of his looks. He took the very edge of the ribbon with the tip of his thumb and forefinger and pulled it slowly through its loops, and when it fell loose, he turned to set it carefully on the table next to him. When he started to untuck the paper from one edge with agonising precision, I realised he was doing it to torment me.

‘You’re supposed to tear it,’ I said sulkily.

He met that with a thin smile and an arched eyebrow. ‘Maybe a little patience?’

He finally pulled away the paper and set it down, revealing the item underneath. He must have had some notion of what it was – it’s not exactly easy to disguise the shape of a book beneath paper – but he looked surprised all the same. The cover was a rich green, soft leather the colour of thick summer leaves. It was tooled in gold in clean, straight lines, simple and beautiful; I hadn’t given it a title – I hadn’t the faintest notion what to call it, and I was sure that anything I could come up with would only annoy him. He frowned at me before he opened it.

Inside, written in a neat, looping hand and laid out like one of his ordered tomes, was Jaga’s mad, grubby little spellbook. I’d included all of his achingly precise and useless workings – and even included some of my own. None of mine made any sense and would likely not work from one day to the next, but I had tried to make them look like something you’d find in The Conjurations of Metrodora. It was all utterly useless, of course, but something about it had sung warmly in my heart as I’d worked on it – it was as if I had brought together the two halves of our magic and wound them together on a page: it’s what I imagined our working of Luthe’s Summoning might look like, all written out together.

It was hopelessly sentimental. Of course he would hate it.

He gazed at it in silence, his expression completely blank.

‘You hate it,’ I said lightly, trying to ignore the burning ache of disappointment.

I reached out towards it and he lifted it deftly out of my reach.

‘Don’t put your grubby fingers on it,’ he snapped, and his voice cracked a little when he spoke. ‘I don’t know how you managed to keep it in this condition, but I shan’t let you touch it again.’

He closed it and swallowed hard, holding it carefully between the palms of his hands. For a moment, he looked so lost that I wanted badly to put my arms around him, but I wasn’t sure he’d let me.

‘Stay there,’ he said sharply, and he turned and stalked out of the room, his thick crimson coat flapping out behind him. I stared stupidly after him.

I felt Kasia come to stand beside me. ‘So?’ she asked with childish excitement.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I think he liked it?’

Kasia smiled with all the beauty and wisdom that I would never possess. ‘I think he loved it.’

When he returned, Sarkan thrust out a hand towards me with no ceremony whatsoever – he wouldn’t even look at me. I had none of his patience or restraint, so I grabbed eagerly at the thing in his hand. It was heavy, no wrapping in sight, and it gleamed in the firelight.

I held it cupped in both my hands, surprised by the weight of it. It was made entirely of coloured glass – shining, transparent beauty – carefully and precisely shaped into a single blossom. Not just any blossom, of course, but a perfect replica of our blossom, the one we had first crafted together, upstairs in his library. It was equally hopelessly sentimental.

Before I knew what was happening, a hot tear had slid down my cheek and splattered on my hand. ‘Oh,’ I said.

‘I had meant to give it to— well, it doesn’t matter, I—’ He was still half turned away from me, but his gaze slid back towards mine. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, horrified.

I made a great undignified sniff and beamed at him through my tears. ‘I’ll only break it.’

‘Well, I had thought of that,’ he said, finally coming towards me. ‘It’s very resilient, but I suppose you’ll still find a way to destroy it.’ He lifted it carefully out of my hands and set it on the table, next to the book and the neatly coiled ribbon. Then he reached up and wiped the tears from under my eyes, his mouth twisted in fond disapproval. ‘Stop this, you’re making a ridiculous spectacle of yourself.’

Then – despite the presence of my family, our friends and the other villagers – he put his arms around me and placed a very small kiss on my forehead. I leaned into his shoulder, wiping my eyes on his fine coat and feeling him stiffen in irritated resignation.

‘Happy Midwinter’s Day,’ I mumbled into his shoulder.

‘I suppose it is,’ he conceded.

The rest of the evening passed in the merry glow of good company and warm intoxication. It only took another bottle of the Dragon’s fine wine to get my brothers singing, and soon we were all joining in. I was laughing and swaying, my arm around Kasia’s waist, my hair falling in front of my eyes. We ate even though we were full, drank even though we were drunk, and laughed even though we were exhausted. Even the tower’s severe stone walls were warm and golden in the flickering firelight, and I thought the great hall must be the most festive it had ever been in all its long years.

The Dragon stood off slightly to one side, always on the edge of things, quieter and more brooding than usual. He watched our antics with patient amusement but never quite crossed into the fray of it. I left him alone for the most part – I had subjected him to quite enough for one day.

Eventually the evening drew itself to a lazy conclusion. The villagers from Olshanka filed away from the tower, stumbling and singing, their voices echoing noisily up the valley. My family retired, bleary-eyed, to rooms in the tower, too full of wine and weariness to be afraid of the splendour.

I found Sarkan alone in the library.

‘You’re supposed to be a bit relieved when everyone leaves,’ I said, collapsing with an untidy thump in front of the fire.

‘Am I?’ he asked irritably, eyeing me with his usual narrow-eyed disapproval.

He didn’t lower himself to sit next to me, his narrow shoulders all stiff and closed off. He watched the fire instead, the flickering yellow flames reflected in the black of his eyes, the shadows throwing his features into even sharper relief. He looked annoyed, but I could tell by now that this was a grudging kind of acceptance. There was a very slight crease in his forehead and his thin mouth was pulled very slightly to one side.

‘Change isn’t always a bad thing,’ I said.

He shot me a dark look. ‘I am not some nervous pet which needs coaxing into society.’

‘Aren’t you?’ I leaned back on my hands and grinned up at him. ‘Animals do so enjoy routine.’

He snorted and uncoiled just a little. ‘Hmph. If change worried me, I’d have expired from nervous exhaustion within five minutes of meeting you.’

‘You nearly did.’ I extended a hand up towards him, beckoning him to come sit with me.

‘There was nothing so mundane about the ways you almost killed me.’ He didn’t take my hand but sat very carefully and precisely next to me, folding his long legs under himself and spreading his fine red coat out behind him.

I immediately shuffled myself along until I could lean my head against his shoulder. He pretended just to tolerate it, but when I slipped a hand onto his, he twined his long fingers into mine.

‘Did you hate it so very much?’

A protracted silence, his eyes sliding up to where the book sat on his table. ‘No.’

He let me draw him down into a kiss, my cool lips brushing lightly against the heat of his, but when I went to pull away from him, he held me against him, kissing me again, longer, deeper. I found myself pushed back against the soft fur of the rug, Sarkan over me, all his pretence of neatness and restraint abandoned. His knee was between my legs, his hand pressed against the floor by my ear. There was just the barest hint of colour in his pale cheeks and his eyes gleamed in the dark. Something between a gasp and laugh huffed out of me.

‘Lord Dragon,’ I said with all the disapproval I could muster, even as my heart hammered lightly against my chest. ‘We have guests. My parents are sleeping next—’

‘Zarotol,’ he said, idly flicking a long finger towards the door. I felt the shiver of his magic on my skin and the library door locked with a heavy thunk. ‘Better, Lady Agnieszka?’

I smiled and reached up, tracing his mouth lightly with my fingers, letting them linger against his lips. He closed his eyes, his expression caught between longing and exasperation.

‘If you insisted on completely filling my day with nonsense,’ he breathed, ‘could we not have wasted it doing this instead?’

I drew my fingers tortuously down his jaw, his neck, his chest; I hummed a song of opening and the buttons of his shirt undid themselves. Always so many buttons, I thought with annoyance.

‘No, of course not. This is part of the tradition. You had to suffer all that company so that you’d end up wanting mine.’

‘Wretched creature,’ the scowl was almost a smile, ‘as if I needed any such motivation.’