Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I. Basalt is a reasonable dragon.

The geode happened in October, on a Wednesday, which was already a suspicious day because Basalt wasn't normally being dragged around by her little human on Wednesdays. Penelope was usually in class, dragons weren't required to be in class. Basalt wanted to protest as he was missing his much needed lounging at his favorite spot in the small pond at the forest. 

But then again, he could smell the delicious sweetness of the geode’s dust from his second favorite place as they left and remembered the few delicious boulders he had swallowed as Penelope traded with the dwarves. The Quarry, which to Basalt meant candies for him.

Penelope's Dragon Material Sciences module— she'd registered for it alongside her Dragon Care fundamentals, because she had registered for everything that seemed relevant and several things that seemed only tangentially relevant, which was a quality Basalt had categorized as endearing, also exhausting for a little human but he won't complain because he had his fair share of benefits— required quarterly visits to the island's stone quarry for sample collection. 

The quarry was called the mines by everyone, because mines was more interesting than quarry, Basalt believes only his tiny human was smart enough to know the right words, and he's a dragon so it says a lot, and it sat in the northern part of the island where the rock turned from grey to a deep reddish brown that Penelope had once held up to the sunlight and breathed.

“Basalt, look, it's almost your color,” she once said, which he had acknowledged with the self-possession of someone who already knew they were a good color, unlike that Mudraker.

She'd come back loaded. This was the other thing about Penelope in an environment with freely available rocks and resources— she lacked restraint. She lacked the ability to look at a rock and determine that it was sufficient, that it did not require also bringing back three of its geological neighbours for comparison purposes. Basalt was carrying six crates on his back, each one filled with carefully labeled samples, and Penelope was walking beside him through the main square with a geode the approximate size of her own head tucked under one arm. It was amethyst inside, deep purple crystaling into the hollow center of it, and she'd been murmuring to it intermittently since the quarry in the way she murmured to particularly significant rocks, which was— not something Basalt was going to judge, given that he was a boulder-class dragon who periodically felt a deep kinship with particularly good stones and had a sweet fang for geodes.

The square was busy with the end-of-afternoon movement of students — the tide between lectures and dinner, everyone going somewhere with purpose but without urgency. It smelled like coal smoke and sea salt and the particular warm yeast smell from the direction of the kitchens, and the early-October light was going gold over the stone archways when Penelope stopped.

She didn't stop for any reason visible to Basalt because she wasn't raising the geode for him to eat yet. She simply ceased forward motion, the way a creature will when something has reached their eyes before it's reached their thinking. Her grip on the geode tightened. 

Basalt looked up from his careful navigation between a group of second-years and a cart of hay bales, which required some antler adjustment, and tracked the line of her gaze to its endpoint.

Colin Bridgerton was crossing the square diagonally, Silt at his heel, and he'd looked up from whatever he'd been looking at and now he was looking at her. At the geode, specifically, his head had tilted in the particular way of someone seeing something that had interrupted the thread of their thoughts.

Basalt set his antlers fractionally lower. Not aggressive. Merely present. He was noting himself in the situation, for the record.

"Featherington." Colin changed his trajectory, his smile the same warmth that sent Penelope's intestines in a spiral. He did it naturally, the redirect of someone who has spotted something interesting and decided interest was worth the detour. He stopped a few feet away and looked at the geode with the kind of open, unembarrassed curiosity that did not seem to occur to him, unusual in a twenty-year-old. "What is that?"

"Amethyst geode," Penelope says shyly. Her voice was doing the thing Basalt recognized, the steadier thing she deployed when she was actually making an effort, which told Basalt something. "From the north quarry. The cavity formation is about six million years old. The silica deposits built up along the inner wall in these concentric layers during a period of—" she stopped, seemingly biting down her throat. Basalt stares at the male in front of her and raises his scales. It unfortunately went unnoticed by the male. "Sorry. That's more than you asked."

"No, keep going." He said it immediately, without the polite pause that would have preceded it if he hadn't meant it. He was looking at the geode the way Penelope looked at new dragon textbooks. Like there was more to see than the surface was immediately offering, it was something most of the students in the academy had something in common, Basalt won't applaud him for it.. "Six million years. So it started forming before this island existed."

"Before most of this archipelago existed," Penelope nods, and something happened in her voice when she spoke, there was a warmth that Basalt knows she makes when she's happy from the inside. She meant it, this information, she was delighted by it, and the delight was unguarded and genuine and she hadn't decided to show it, it had simply come out the way things come out when you're talking to someone who asked the right question. Basalt thinks he is also happy. Basalt breathed through his nose to show it but Penelope didn't notice.

Silt, meanwhile, had waddled over to investigate one of the sample crates on Basalt's back, stretching his wide, barbeled snout toward the rocks with the focused concentration of a Tidal class dragon encountering interesting mineral content. He sniffed. He sneezed. He sat down directly on Basalt's left foot with the confidence of someone who considered this a reasonable decision.

Basalt looked at the Mudraker. The Mudraker appeared unaware of having done anything notable. He turns to Penelope in hopes of seeking permission to fling the small dragon off.

Penelope still didn't notice him. Basalt was beginning to not like the day.

"Six million years," Colin said again, under his breath, turning it over in his head. Amusement in his eyes is apparent as he looks down at Penelope. "And you just carried it back from the quarry."

"There are six more crates on his back," Penelope chirps, inclining her head toward Basalt. "I may have slightly overestimated my carrying capacity at the quarry. But Basalt quite likes geodes and igneous rocks so I’m quite sure the allowance I spent is worth it."

Colin looked up at Basalt for the first time directly, his smile dropping a little at the piercing stare in the dragon's amber eyes. Basalt looked at him like he wasn't even there, he felt not happy at this male and his dragon. The full amber weight of his gaze, steady and unhurried. He had a particular expression that the Dragon Behaviour textbook would have described as neutral territorial assessment but that Penelope had simply described as if a judge was reading a case file for the first time. Basalt does not know what a case of files is.

To his credit, Colin Bridgerton did not look away. He met it, blinked once, and then looked back at Penelope with a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. "Does he always look at people like that?"

Penelope blinks and looks up above her to realize the look on Basalt's face, her own softens. “Oh Basalt, are you alright?”

She turns a moment to him and moves to one of the crates, politely excusing Silt from Basalt's foot and grabbing a different geode for him, which she wobbles at weight and nearly topples back for. Colin is quick to move and takes the geode from her. 

“Let me help,” he offers. And for a second their fingers touch and Penelope feels a sharp sudden sting at the tip of her nails and steps back, throat suddenly dry at their closeness.

“Oh uhm…thank you,” She nods, not meeting his eye. “Uhm… I think you should hold this and I will give that to Basalt.”

Colin looks down at the geode and nods, switching with the one that Penelope says is six million years old and takes the one from Colin before rounding with a soft tune on her lips that sounded almost like a whistle. Her gentle giant hears her and for a moment, Colin realizes he might've been in danger the whole time, Basalt's slightly open and tensed wings relaxed to a close against his body as he follows Penelope off the pathway and sits in the soft grass so as to not bother the other busy bodies.

Colin swallows down the realization that the giant beast had been agitated by him the whole time and watches a few steps away as Penelope kneels on the grass in front of Basalt's face and gives him a soft scratch on his chin.

“I did promise you a snack for being such a darling boy today, did I?” She cooes, rolling the geode on the grab between them. Colin notes that she talks to her dragon quite strangely, like Basalt wasn't a dragon at all. “I know you normally sleep in the woods today so I’m sorry I bothered you. Could you open your mouth please?” 

Basalt’s eyes had softened more, Colin didn't think a dragon could look so at peace as Penelope rolled the geode into his mouth delicately.

“I can only give you one today seeing as you've already eaten a lot in the quarry,” Penelope hums, rubbing Basalt's nose gently, lips pursed. When the goregutter inhaled deep she clicked her tongue, “Don't be thinking I didn't notice your huge arse swing while you gobbled up the three boulders in the corner. Now the dwarves may be thankful but Nurse Thornhittle specifically told us not to overfeed you else you’ll be vomiting with the gronckles at the cliff. I don't want to brush your teeth until next month, Basalt. I have exams.”

Colin had to purse his own lips as he watched the two seem to get into a silent staring argument and he took this as an opportunity to get close, sitting on the grass as well and rolling the geode he held to Penelope. “You seem very close to your dragon.”

Penelope, mesmerized by the roughness of Basalt's scales, only smiled softly. “It's not hard to, Basalt is a very sweet darling.”

“A Crimson Goregutter,” Colin hums, this earns a huff from Basalt as he continues to munch on his geode. If Colin could guess, the huff sounded like a challenge and by the look Basalt was giving him, it was most likely right. “A gentle giant.”

“He is,” Penelope chuckles, scratching a certain spot under Basalt's chin causing his axe-like tail to wiggle against the grass. Careful not to swing too excitedly lest they damage property, again. 

“But you're so tiny?” Colin laughs, utterly starstruck at the large difference between the two. He'd heard many times from professors that some students bond with their dragons, both choosing each other willingly but it seemed that the bond between Penelope and Basalt were far more natural than the said choosing. 

Basalt is a beast, a huge 30 foot long dragon, his head alone resting could crush Penelope’s leg if he chooses to rest on her. Colin was naturally even bigger than Penelope and Eloise combined and yet there is no fear nor hesitation between Penelope and Basalt, as if their vast difference in sizes is less of a matter than what Basalt would want for his dinner.

“Suppose I am,” Penelope laughs, finally looking up at him. “And you chose a Mudraker.”

“Oh,” Colin turns to Silt who had unknowingly slithered behind him. He hadn't even realized he was leaning on his own dragon. Maybe Penelope's bond with hers isn't so different from his. “Yeah, he's a troublemaker. Nothing like your buddy Basalt.”

Basalt agrees and huffs a light steam that makes Penelope coo more at him, Colin tilts his head when she does. But he also notices the way Basalt's eyes hardened on him. “Does he always look at people that way?”

Penelope hums, looking at him confused. “Who? Basalt?”

“His eyes have a hardness to it, territorial in a way,” Colin nods, “Silt has that tendency when it comes to his stash of fish.”

“Ah you mean Basalt's eyes,” She looks between Silt and her own dragon, realizing what Colin meant and frowns. “I’m sorry, Basalt seems to struggle not seeing me as a hatchling. My height… is not ideal for his comfort.”

Colin processes that, then laughs. It's not the same laugh that Basalt recognizes from Penelope's description, it's a strange laugh, a new one. Basalt thinks it's an insult to his master so he lets his scales flicker and Penelope shushes him just as Colin tries to explain, frightened by the obvious ire from the giant and the slight frown on the girl's face. He clears his throat.. “I apologize, I did not mean to laugh. It was rude of me. It's just that, I find it endearing that he sees you as a baby of some sort. It's like a fraternal instinct, I can understand him. I’m the same with my sisters, just not a dragon like him.”

Penelope blinks at that, her fingers continuing to rub Basalt's nose so he relaxes as well. “Oh, I suppose that also makes sense. I’ve known Basalt since my grandfather was his first friend, when he died Basalt's loyalty stayed with me. He stayed hidden in our estate and I kept him fed. He was only ten feet tall then, still very tall for me as a six year old. He's always had this look, he tends to judge people.”

“Really? How does he judge them?” Colin leans forward, allowing Basalt's direct visual assaulting appraisal of him.

“It's usually to figure out if you're a worthy person useful for him when I don't give him his candy geodes or if he should toss you over the cliff,” Penelope winces. “Snotlout is a frequent second judgement.”

Snotlout is not a surprise to Colin, the man was chill for the most part but he does have a bit of a Fife in him. Not that Fife is any better. "Which am I?"

She didn't answer that, which was its own kind of answer, and Colin seemed to receive it as such because the smile moved and became something slightly less readable. Penelope nods, standing up again to grab another geode rock from Basalt's side and returning with two more to Basalt's delight.

"Can I?" He nodded at the geode that the girl kept separated and Penelope, after a brief pause that only Basalt was close enough to notice, held it out. He took it with both hands, once again in his hands,— careful, she noted, which she definitely noted, he handled it with the same two-handed carefulness he used when he handled Silt's face, which was a quality that meant something specific to people who studied the way creatures treated things they found valuable — and turned it so the cavity caught the October light.

The amethyst lit up from inside, purple going almost pink at the edges, and Colin made a quiet sound that was not quite a word.

"It's beautiful," he said, not to anyone specifically.

Basalt heard Penelope's breath change. He resettled the crates on his back with a subtle shift of weight, and the moment had the quality of being slightly outside the normal flow of time, like a breath held in the middle of something. Like time stopped for her when Colin handed the geode back and their hands touched again. Penelope can't fathom being the only one to feel the same subtle sting twice between them. "You're going to write a paper on it?"

"A sample analysis. For Material Sciences. It's just a module assignment." A beat passes, Penelope blinking to see as much as Colin's expressive eyes had for show. "But yes, probably a paper eventually. The cavity formation sequence in the northern quarry is— there's a pattern in the silica layering that doesn't quite match the standard formation models and I want to—" she stopped again. She kept stopping herself. Basalt noticed this and filed it with complicated feelings he couldn't quite understand.

"You should write it," Colin said, again with that simple immediacy, slowly pushing himself up as Silt began to stretch. "The paper. Not just the assignment."

Penelope looked at the geode rather than at him and said, carefully, "Maybe."

Silt sneezed again, the sound making Basalt grunt.

"I'll let you get to dinner," Colin said, and something in the shift of his posture said he was slightly reluctant to end the detour, which Basalt filed, in his own mental archive, to think about it as much as a dragon can later. He lifted his hand in the loose wave that seemed to be his default farewell and turned back toward his original trajectory, Silt lumbering cheerfully behind him.

Penelope sat on the grass with her geode, standing up with a quiet hum and waited for Basalt to stand up to continue their walk, her humming continued until they'd rounded the far arch. Then she pressed the geode against her sternum and made a very small sound, not quite private enough, and Basalt stepped closer and dropped his jaw onto the top of her head, his version of a kiss, the gentle weight, the warm press, and she leaned back into him without looking up.

"I know," she said.

She was always saying I know to him. He found it both accurate and insufficient because Basalt didn't know what she knew, he simply tried to.

The crates of rocks shifted on his back, six million years of geology riding along, and Basalt walked his small red-haired person toward the dining hall and maintained his professional assessment of the situation, which was that he was too much of a dragon to understand the woes of a little person, even if he does have ancient knowledge.

But he would let his little master feel, he learned from other dragons that it's the drive of why the war between their kind ceased and gave them peace. He was a reasonable dragon.

⁠。⁠*⁠✧⁠🐉⁠✧⁠🐉⁠✧⁠*⁠  。

The thing about Crimson Goregutters, Penelope Featherington had learned in her very first Dragon Anatomy lecture, was that they were profoundly, catastrophically good listeners. Professor Gobber had said it like a warning and Penelope had not taken it seriously enough, thinking her darling gentle giant could truly do her no wrong.

The late afternoon sun draped itself lazily over the Eastern Training Grounds of Berk School of Dragons, gilding the pine-scented slopes in the kind of amber that made everything look like a painting and made seventeen-year-old girls feel extremely, dangerously poetic.

Basalt — her Crimson Goregutter, a boulder type made of thirty feet of magma-esque scales, and moose-antlered magnificence — was lying in a great warm heap near the cliffside, his enormous antlers casting branching shadows across the grass like a second forest where little dragon types rested beneath his shade. Penelope sat nestled between two of those antlers like a small, freckled bird in an absurdly oversized nest, her Dragon Care textbook open on her knee, completely unread as she stared up at the soft blue skies of Berk where a bunch of other dragon riders raced and hollered louder than the island’s seagulls— or whatever remnants of those birds even bothered to grace the dragon festive island.

She had a major exam coming up requiring her to study seriously on Dragon Anatomy and First Scale Aid and other Boulder Type Dragon Taxonomy but was, instead, talking.

See, this was the thing about Basalt, her darling beast, he invited talking, he had enormous, molten-amber eyes that blinked at you with such sincere, unflinching attention that you simply had to fill the silence. It was biologically impossible not to. A surprising feat for someone who knows Penelope Featherington to the bone, she was just like Basalt. Welcomingly silent, yet even she couldn't win against an all-knowing giant like him. Not really, she was seventeen for Celtic Gods’ sake, and she was just a girl. Girls like her age are meant to talk and despite the known wallflower label on her, Penelope is always first and foremost just a wee little Irish girl. The Irish are known to be great storytellers too, which is why she's one of the academy’s youngest student scribes.

Which brings to the point, Penelope is just a girl. An Irish girl. An Irish girl in love. And she will talk.

"It's the way he laughs," Penelope said, reaching her hands to her knees so now she was hugging her textbook to her chest and staring dreamily at the sky. She could see Snotlout and the twins racing above her. "Have you noticed how he laughs? He throws his whole head back. Like everything is the best joke he's ever heard. Like the whole world is funny and good and—"

Basalt huffed a slow, warm breath through his nostrils. Steam curled up past Penelope's ankles like a question mark, she could feel her skin tickle and she giggled.

"I know, I know." She waved a hand though Basalt wouldn't be able to see it. "I said I wasn't going to do this today. But he smiled at me this morning, Basalt. At me! Not in the general direction of me. At me, specifically, with eye contact and everything, he said—" she pressed a hand to her sternum dramatically— "he said good morning, Penelope, and he used my name."

Basalt's great head tilted approximately four degrees to the left and it rocked her lightly which made her smack whatever area of his horns her chubby hands could. She doubts he even felt it when he simply makes a soft purr.

"Yes, obviously everyone uses names, that's how names work, but it's different when he does it. When Colin Bridgerton says your name it sounds like—like—" she gestured vaguely and helplessly at the sky— "like a song that you've always known but can never quite remember the melody to, and then suddenly someone hums it and you think, oh, yes, that one, I've always loved that one—" Her finger points at nothing in the air for emphasis.

Basalt thinks she's gone mad again and wonders if he can convince her for another geode if this goes on. He's due for another snack.

She let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-groan, and flopped sideways and slid down a little against Basalt's neck. He was warm. He was always warm. Boulder class dragons ran hot, like living hearth stones, and in the cooling autumn air Penelope pressed her cheek against his scales the way she used to press her face against a sunwarmed window back in Galway when she would be home for the summer.

"I'm going to marry him," she announced, to the sky, to the cliffs, to the uncaring seagulls wheeling overhead. To Basalt who couldn't care enough because he knew his little Irish friend was far too young for a mate, especially too young to call for one.

Basalt made a low, resonant sound deep in his chest. It was not quite a rumble and not quite a purr. Penelope had come to interpret it as the dragon equivalent of do go on. But she failed to acknowledge the sarcastic tone of it.

"I'm serious." She sat up, gaining confidence from what she thinks is his absolute lack of judgment. Surely, if Basalt could speak he would have told her to focus on her book instead, he thinks. "I've thought about it very carefully. We're well-matched. I'm studious and he's charming and I could be the sensible one and he could be the—the sunshine, and we'd balance each other out perfectly, and—" 

She was giggling now, helpless against it, pressing her knuckles to her lips as if the words would vomit itself out willingly from her. Basalt remembers this was how his tiny master was when she ate too much of her little candies. Basalt wants to be happy because he too knows the bliss of too much sweet, Penelope had made the wrong choice of leaving some open her crate of geodes for him to munch on a year ago, but he also knows he doesn't want to take another cold scrubbing shower from her if she vomits on him.

“And we'd have a great big house, and I'd have my dragon care practice, and he'd—I don't know, explore things, he's always exploring things, and we'd have—"

She giggled harder. Basalt feels disturbed. She was too young for her to be making mating calls, dragons wouldn't be allowed even to show their best scales to another unless they've fully grown their proper height. Penelope was still far too tiny. Basalt won't have it.

"Children, Basalt. Probably. Someday. Is that mad? That's mad. I'm mad. He doesn't even know my middle name. He barely knows my first name, the good morning was basically a miracle, I should frame it—"

She was laughing properly now, shoulders shaking, one hand pressed to her sternum, the other gripping Basalt's antler for balance. The laughter had a slightly hysterical edge to it, the particular pitch of someone who knows they are absolutely, helplessly, wonderfully done for.

Basalt watched her with ancient, patient, luminously attentive eyes. Already digging his claws into the soil, ready to throw her down into the grass and knock her out of her mating ritual.

But then a safe distraction saved Penelope.

"Silt! No— Silt, the MUD, I said the MUD—"

The voice came from just around the cliffside boulder. Approximately forty feet away. Clear as a bell in the salt-sharp autumn air, Basalt would know. He's grown to dislike it by nature, it sent his little youngling master in an unnatural state.

Penelope went rigid. She knew that voice. That was Colin Bridgerton's voice. She had memorized Colin Bridgerton's voice. So did Basalt.

He appeared with no haste — twenty years old, dark-haired, permanently sun-touched despite Berk's best meteorological efforts, wearing a leather training vest with his School of Dragons sash half-undone, and he was covered in mud. Head to his boots. A spectacular quantity of mud, distributed with apparent artistic enthusiasm across every available surface of him. Basalt thinks of him uncivilized compared to the other female that looks like him, a close friend of his friend master.

Trailing proudly behind him was the source of the mud: a Mudraker.r, broad-headed and barrel-bodied, built low to the ground like a living skiff, its wide, flat snout whiskered with sensory barbels and its eyes gleaming the bright, self-congratulatory gold of a dragon who had absolutely done exactly what it meant to do. He was also very green, Basalt didn't much like his shade of green.

The Mudraker Silt, apparently, was a Tidal Class dragon, semi-aquatic and deeply opinionated about both bodies of water and their application to humans. He was the approximate size and shape of a very large, scaled, optimistic crocodile, and he waddled with the confident gait of someone who had never once in his life been wrong. Again, Basalt thinks his shade of green is very wrong.

Colin Bridgerton scrubbed mud from his forehead with the back of his hand, succeeding only in redistributing it.

"You did that on purpose," he says to Silt.

Silt looked at him with placid, wide-set golden eyes and said absolutely nothing, because he was a dragon and also because he clearly felt his actions had spoken eloquently for themselves.

"I specifically said the bank. The mud on the bank. You shoot at it. Not barrel into it. That was a targeting exercise, Silt, that was meant to be a targeting exercise—"

Silt sat down on his haunches in the grass, raised one broad forepaw, and began to clean between his digits with unhurried dignity. Uncivilized, Basalt thinks. His little master would give him a pedicure and never let him lick through his own claws ever again, clearly the male did no think highly of his own dragon.

Colin stared at him. He looked, Penelope thought, like a man who had made certain life choices and was just beginning to trace them backward to their origin point. Then he tipped his head back and laughed — helplessly, fully, his whole face crinkled and open, just the way she'd described, just the way she'd been describing, twelve seconds ago, with her mouth, on this cliff, within earshot—

Oh no.

Penelope looked at Basalt. Basalt looked at Penelope unimpressed.

He heard me, she mouthed.

Basalt thinks she wants him to look too. Maybe if he helped her see he didn't like the bigger human, she would stay away from him. So he turned his great head, very slowly, very deliberately, back toward Colin Bridgerton. And then — Penelope would never, as long as she lived, entirely forgive him for this — Basalt sneezed. Proudly.

A Crimson Goregutter’s sneeze is not a small event, however. It is a seismic percussion, a great HFFWHOMP of pressurized air and smoke that shook the scrub grass in a ten-foot radius and sent a family of startled puffins airborne from the cliffside.

Colin Bridgerton wobbled just as the ground shook and fell on his bum. Silt made a startled noise and his hackles raised as he circled around his trainer.

Colin saw the dragon first, because a thirty feet of boulder-class dragon with an antler span like a longship's beam is difficult to miss, and then his gaze tracked down, and found Penelope Featherington, sitting between the antlers, textbook clutched to her chest, face the color of a ripe winter apple.

A beat passed. His pretty smile glimmered with the sunlight and Penelope could die for the seventh time today. Had she swallowed a four leaf clover somewhere in her breakfast?

"Featherington," Colin said. He sounded pleasantly surprised and faintly quizzical in the specific way of someone who has no idea they are standing in the epicenter of another person's emotional catastrophe or in a more urgent case, a dragon’s quiet and personal ire.

"Bridgerton," Penelope said, with tremendous composure, given the circumstances. She was utterly wrecked like a falling bowling ball barreling into a tsunami— right, that doesn't make sense. But that's how she feels. She feels like pissing, actually.

"Nice dragon."

"Thank you." Her voice was perfectly level. Admirable, really, Basalt should fling her off to the trees for once, his eyes glancing over the visible cliff of trees on the other island. "He's a Crimson Goregutter, a boulder class. His name is Basalt."

Basalt, hearing his name, turned his enormous, antlered head toward Colin again and made the low resonant sound. The do go on sound, only he meant it literally. As in go away. He regarded Colin with those luminous amber eyes and Penelope felt, viscerally, that the dragon was evaluating him. Basalt, if he could just talk like a human, would correct her and say he was judging him.

Colin, to his credit, did not flinch. He extended a hand, knuckles down, the way they taught in First Year Dragon Handling. Basalt wants to crush him. He thinks he can. But would it grant him a tasty geode later? He huffs to check.

“Basalt, be nice,” Penelope grits out to him, the back of her foot tapping in the area between his eyes and he thinks twice about actually throwing her off. Instead, he thinks of the geode and huffs, it was a sigh of disapproval and he hopes his master knows it.

He lowered his body, carefully and expertly balanced his head to touch his nose against Colin's knuckle. He didn't give his master the opportunity to get off him though, like Hell he would. He gracefully sat back again and this time higher. Silt the whole time was lazily laid on the grass, realizing minutes ago that Basalt was not a threat he could take down.

"You look good up there," Colin said, glancing up at her with that easy, sunlit smile, the one that had no right to be as devastating as it was. "Like a very small, very studious queen."

Penelope's heart did something structurally questionable. Basalt is done with her.

"You look terrible," she said, which was both true (the mud) and deeply, profoundly untrue (everything else).

He laughed again, running a hand through his mud-stiff hair. "Yeah, Silt had thoughts about today's lesson." He looked at his dragon with the exasperated fondness of someone who was already, completely, utterly defeated by love. "He's a Mudraker. They're supposed to be good at precision."

Silt makes a hissing grunt at that and Colin ignores it. He shares a look with Basalt as if to say, do you see this? But Basalt still hates his shade of green so ignores him.

"Tidal class," Penelope said automatically, because Dragon Taxonomy was the one subject where she had absolutely no social anxiety whatsoever. "Semi-aquatic. Sensory barbels on the snout for detecting mud density and water current. Technically the most precise targeting ability of any Tidal class dragon in low-viscosity conditions." She paused, suddenly bashful. "In t-theory."

Colin stared at her, wondering in his eyes. Then he turned to look at Silt, who had resumed his self-grooming, looking at Basalt again who did not give him anything in return and returned to his task with regal indifference. Then back to Penelope.

"You're going to be terrifying someday," he said, and it sounded entirely like a compliment. Basalt thinks it's the first funny thing he's said because there is nothing terrifying about his little human.

The male is inequivalent to his little human, not intelligent as Basalt himself.

He gathered Silt's lead rope and lifted a hand in a casual wave as he wandered back toward the main training grounds, still laughing at something private, mud-soaked and golden and completely unbothered.

Penelope watched him until he rounded the cliff.

Then she turned her head down to look at Basalt’s eyes.

"He didn't hear me," she said, with the conviction of someone very desperately hoping that was true.

Basalt looked at her with his vast, patient, all-knowing eyes. He said nothing. Because he couldn't fucking talk and his master was too young to be wanting a mate. He does not support this.

“You were mean to him,” Penelope crosses her arms, knocking the back of her foot twice between his eyes. A sign to be let down and Basalt did so, feeling a little bit of guilt as he recognized the pout in her tone. She turns to face him once she gets down and rubs his face when he keeps himself on the ground, his usual grump face visibly pouting too. “I don't understand you sometimes but I still love you.”

Basalt huffs softly at that and Penelope only smiles small. She loves her dragon, she just wishes he can speak human words sometimes.

⁠。⁠*⁠✧⁠🐉⁠✧⁠🐉⁠✧⁠*⁠  。

Basalt unfortunately realized that he, was in fact, not a reasonable dragon. He snarls lightly, because he doesn't want to hurt his little master’s sensitive ears, and stalks behind them as quiet as a giant dragon like him could be behind the sharp rocks. Penelope and Colin were collecting seashells along the shorelines despite the gloomy weather the day provided, mist settled low and therefore Basalt could be hidden in plain sight. 

He couldn't believe it, he had sworn to protect and watch over and had made sure to express to her that he did not approve of the male she keeps allowing near them. Basalt is appalled and realizes too late that he has stomped two strong front legs, shaking the rocks around him. He freezes as he assumes he is caught but he sees both his targets remain unaware so he relaxes, they are too preoccupied with each other to notice him. Basalt continues to follow them from a distance.

“Does he realize we know he's following us?” Colin asks, holding several shells in his palm as Penelope continues to poke a stick she picked up for Basalt, if he ever decides to finally interfere as she knows he's easily distracted with a game of fetch, into various shells beneath sand. Colin's amusement is evident as he hears the dragon's heavy breathing miles away from them.

Though, he did fear the chances of being rammed at by the giant. He won't always be gentle, he reminds himself.

“He does what he wants whether or not I tell him otherwise,” Penelope sighs, resigned but not upset. Her boots crunch the sand beneath her sole and despite the cold of the breeze, she feels the grand warmth from Colin's body heat beside her. They're at least a step apart but it doesn't really quell the giddy butterflies rioting inside her stomach, not even her dearest Goregutter behind them. 

Colin notices that. How Penelope does not hold him on a leash, nor does Basalt wear a saddle for her, and how often they are seen apart. It seems as if Basalt chooses when to grace Penelope with his presence and the girl simply allows it. “Is he not interested in your training?”

She giggles at that, glancing at Colin. Her cheeks brushed a tint of pink that could easily be blamed on the coldness of the temperature but really it was because she could not believe she was walking with the most handsome man she's ever laid eyes on. Her little heart vibrates within her chest and she fears her words might slur from it alone. “Basalt is not trained by me, he is too old for such. My grandfather did before he died and I am simply graced by his presence.”

“Is that why you do not have a saddle for him?” Colin glances behind them and sees the giant hide behind a skinny and very conspicuous rock.

“No,” She shakes her head, blinking up at him and admires the view of his slightly sharp jaw. He must really eat a lot of biscuits, very cute. She turns her head forward when Colin smiles back at her hiding dragon and looks back at her, her stomach queasy again. “He doesn't think it is necessary, I simply sit on top of his head or on his horns.”

“But what if you fall?” His brows furrowed, the idea of a rider falling off their dragons even with saddles on isn't new but Penelope specifically, especially without a saddle, is not a thought he wants to acknowledge.

“Basalt fears for my safety too much, if I do fall, he might as well fall with me,” She humors.

Colin thinks she's very funny and laughs at his friend's joke, he could hear Basalt make an appalled huff behind them. They've become friends since their very first encounter near the mines, Colin considers her a great conversationalist. They've shared lunches and library tables to study, and have gone on afternoon walks around the academy. Once, Colin had to fetch her from across the islands when Basalt had fallen asleep waiting for her. She'd been at the library tower and had gotten lost among the books, but Basalt was not pleased with Colin when the dragon found out. She is easy to talk to, Colin enjoys that she enjoys his thoughts when he talks too much of them and rather indulges herself in his presence. Not many people indulge his presence, he's often a bit too much. Penelope does not think so. It is refreshing for him.

He wonders though, how such a nice and quiet girl has fallen in the misfortune of becoming Eloise Bridgerton’s best friend. They could not be more unlikely. Though he figures he cannot judge, he and Penelope are not so much alike either. Penelope, unlike Colin, does not feel the need to reach expectations and is quite in control with her dragon, something Colin struggles with. Silt does not even listen to him the way Basalt does to Penelope, they seem to have a bond unbreakable and Colin slightly envies her for that.

“You and Basalt, your bond is admirable,” Colin looks forward to where Penelope has her eyes on. They can see the sunny side of Berk through the mist farther away from them. “Silt could learn a thing or two from him.”

Penelope notices the shift in his tone, the slight wistfulness that creeps into his voice. She glances at him from beneath her lashes, clutching the stick tighter. 

"You and Silt will find your rhythm," she says softly, then adds with a small smile, "He's quite spirited, from what I've seen. That's not a bad thing."

"Spirited is a generous word for it," Colin laughs, running a hand through his hair. The wind catches it immediately, and Penelope's breath hitches at the sight. She quickly looks down at a shell half-buried in the sand. "Last week he decided to take a swim in the middle of flight training. With me still on his back. I spent two hours wringing water from my boots."

Behind them, Basalt snorts—a sound like rocks grinding together. He cannot fathom why his little master finds this male's incompetence charming. The Mudraker. sounds like a poorly disciplined hatchling, and yet here Penelope is, her scent changing to that sweet, nervous smell she gets when she's pleased. Disturbing. He tries to crouch lower behind a cluster of driftwood that is, objectively, far too small for a dragon of his considerable size.

Penelope giggles, the sound bright against the gray morning. "At least he keeps things interesting."

"Interesting," Colin repeats, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Yes, I suppose drowning unexpectedly does break up the monotony of the day."

She laughs again, and oh, her heart is going to beat right out of her chest. She's walking on a beach with Colin Bridgerton. Alone. Well, not entirely alone, but Basalt doesn't count. This is the most wonderful torture she's ever experienced.

"I think—" she starts, then stops, biting her lip. Colin looks at her expectantly, and those eyes, those impossibly warm eyes, are focused entirely on her. Her mouth goes dry. "I think dragons choose their riders as much as riders choose them. Silt wouldn't stay with you if he didn't... want to."

Colin considers this, his expression softening. "Do you really think so?"

"I know so," Penelope says with more confidence than she feels about anything else in her life currently. "Basalt could leave whenever he wishes. He's not bound to me by anything other than… well, choice."

Behind them, Basalt's massive head tilts. Well. That is true. He does choose to stay. His little master understands him, even if she is catastrophically misguided in her selection of potential mates. He watches as the male steps closer to Penelope—too close—to examine a shell she's holding up.

"This one's quite beautiful," Colin murmurs, and his hand brushes hers as he takes it to look closer.

Penelope freezes, feeling the familiar sting on the tip of her nails from the first time they touched now burning in her palm. Every thought in her head scatters like startled birds. His hand. His hand touched hers. This is it. This is how she dies. Death by hand-touching on a misty beach while her dragon judges her from behind a piece of driftwood.

"Yes," she squeaks, then clears her throat. "Very... beautiful. The shell. Beautiful shell."

Colin grins at her, and she realizes with horror that he definitely noticed her panic. But he doesn't comment on it, just gently places the shell in her palm. "For your collection."

Basalt rumbles deep in his chest. This is unacceptable. He takes one heavy step forward, ready to intervene, but his front foot lands on a piece of driftwood that snaps with a sound like thunder.

Both humans freeze.

Colin turns slightly, just enough to see the massive dragon now crouched behind what appears to be a single stick, his enormous bulk completely visible, one eye peeking out as if that makes him invisible.

"Should we..." Colin starts quietly.

"Acknowledge him? Absolutely not," Penelope whispers back, her face now red for entirely different reasons. "He's trying so hard."

Colin presses his lips together to keep from laughing. He finds both dragon and dragon rider quite adorable. "Right. Yes. We see nothing."

They turn back to their shell collecting, and Basalt, satisfied that his cover remains intact, settles back into his stalking position, vigilant as ever against this male who keeps making his master's heartbeat go erratic. He's never seen anything more alarming in his long life.

"You know," Colin says, his voice lilting with barely contained amusement, "I do find it rather hilarious."

Penelope glances up at him, suspicious. "What?"

"That you—" He gestures vaguely at her, grinning wide. "All of you, really, chose to bond with possibly the largest dragon on Berk. The irony is quite poetic."

Her mouth drops open. "I didn't choose him, he chose me!"

"Yes, but still." Colin's laugh breaks free, warm and genuine, and it does something terrible to Penelope's composure. "It's like watching a sparrow ride an elephant. A very grumpy elephant."

Behind them, Basalt's eye twitches.

"I am perfectly capable of riding Basalt," Penelope protests, but her voice comes out far less indignant than intended because Colin is still laughing, and the sound is doing things to her heart that should be illegal. "Size is—it's not—I don't see why that matters."

"Oh, I'm sure you're very capable," Colin says, and there's something in his tone that makes her stomach flip. "I've seen you up there, fearless as anything. It's quite impressive, actually."

Penelope's brain short-circuits. Impressive. He thinks she's impressive. 

"I... well..." She struggles to form words, cheeks burning. It's the breeze. Definitely the breeze. And the cold. And the fact that they're alone on this isolated stretch of beach with nothing but mist and the sound of waves and Colin's stupidly charming smile. "Anyone could do it."

"I don't think so," Colin says softly, and when did he get closer? "I think it takes someone rather special."

Above them, Basalt lets out a long-suffering huff that echoes off the cliffs. This is unbearable. His little master is practically glowing with that pleased scent again, and the male keeps saying things in that tone, and none of this is acceptable. With a frustrated rumble, he begins to climb, his massive claws finding purchase in the cliff face above them. If he must watch this torture, he'll do it from higher ground where he can sulk properly.

Penelope barely notices, too busy trying to remember how breathing works.

"Special is... that's a very generous assessment," she manages.

"I don't think it is," Colin replies easily, turning back to the shoreline. He crouches down to examine something between the rocks. "You're far too modest, Penelope. It's one of your more frustrating qualities."

"Frustrating?" The word comes out higher than intended.

He glances up at her with a grin that should be registered as a weapon. "In the most endearing way possible."

She's going to combust. Right here on this beach. They'll find her remains and wonder what happened, and the answer will be Colin Bridgerton smiled at her while calling her endearing.

"The Winter Solstice banquet is coming up soon," Colin says casually, still examining rocks. "Are you planning to attend?"

Penelope's heart stops. Then starts again at triple speed. "I—yes. Yes, I think so."

"Good. It wouldn't be nearly as interesting without you there." He stands, brushing sand from his hands. "Do you have anyone you're hoping to go with?"

The world narrows to just this moment. This question. This chance.

"I..." Penelope swallows hard, gripping her stick so tightly her knuckles go white. "Yes. Actually. There is someone."

Colin's expression brightens with curiosity. "Oh? Do tell."

"He's—" She can do this. She can absolutely do this. "He's very kind. And funny. He talks a lot but I don't mind because I find everything he says interesting, even when he's going on about things that probably shouldn't be interesting but somehow are when he says them." The words tumble out faster. "And he has this way of making people feel seen, like they matter, and he's quite possibly the handsomest person I've ever met, and he's standing right—"

"He sounds wonderful," Colin interrupts, completely oblivious, his smile genuine. "I hope he realizes how lucky he'd be. You should definitely ask him."

Penelope's hope deflates like a punctured bellows.

"What about you?" she asks, voice smaller now. "Anyone you're hoping to go with?"

Colin shrugs, kicking at a shell. "Not particularly. I'd rather just enjoy the evening, you know? Dance with everyone, sample all the food, not be tied down to one person. Dates seem so... formal. Restrictive." He grins at her. "Much more fun to be free to flit about."

Of course. Of course he doesn't want a date. Stupid Penelope, why would she even think that? Even if he did want a date, it sure as hell wouldn't be me!

Penelope nods, forcing a smile. "That sounds... very you."

She takes a few steps forward, needing to move, to do something other than stand there with her crushed hopes, when something glints between the rocks ahead. A crystal, partially buried. She moves toward it.

Above them, Basalt's massive head peers over the cliff edge, tracking her movement. A small stone, dislodged by his weight, tumbles down toward where she stands.

His wing snaps out instantly, catching the rock mid-fall. The motion creates a powerful downdraft that sweeps across the beach, whipping Penelope's hair around her face and nearly knocking Colin back a step.

Colin freezes, eyes wide, looking up. Basalt's amber eyes glow in the mist menacingly down at him, as if challenging him to call out. Colin won't risk being crushed today.

Penelope doesn't even flinch, calmly bending to retrieve the crystal as if hurricane-force winds from invisible dragon wings are perfectly normal. "Oh, this is lovely," she says, examining the crystal in her palm.

Colin stares at her, then up at where Basalt is very obviously perched on the cliff, then back at Penelope. She meets his eyes with such innocent determination to pretend nothing happened that he can't help but smile.

"Very lovely, you could ask Gobber to make it into some kind of jewelry for you. A hair pin maybe?" he suggests, stepping closer to look. Mostly to protect himself if ever the mighty beast tries to jump on him, he would not dare hurt Penelope. “You know, you'll look beautiful at the banquet. Whoever you're hoping to go with would be mad not to say yes."

Her heart does that painful flutter again. "You think so?"

"I know so," Colin says with such casual certainty that it hurts. "You should wear green. It suits you."

He's going to kill her. Death by unintentional flirtation, death by many of what Colin Bridgerton is.

"I'll keep that in mind," she whispers.

"And save me a dance?" Colin adds, grinning. "Even if we're not going together, I do enjoy dancing with you. You're one of the few people who don't mind when I talk through the whole thing."

Hope sparks again, dangerous and foolish. "Of course."

"Excellent." He offers her his arm, a gesture so natural and gentleman-like that she takes it before thinking. "Shall we continue? I want to see if we can find any sea glass before the tide comes in."

Penelope nods, not trusting her voice, and lets him lead her down the beach. Above them, Basalt watches with one great eye, his wing still extended, and releases a long, suffering sigh that sounds like wind through a canyon.

This male is going to be the death of him.

⁠。⁠*⁠✧⁠🐉⁠✧⁠🐉⁠✧⁠*⁠  。

"Hold still," Francesca murmured, her fingers impossibly deft as they worked through another section of Penelope's hair. The gentle tug and pin of each curl being set into place was almost meditative. "Just one more section. I promise this will be the last one."

Penelope sat rigidly at her small vanity, barely daring to breathe lest she disturb the intricate work being woven into her usually unmanageable ginger locks. The mirror before her reflected a version of herself she hardly recognized, with cheeks flushed with anticipation, eyes bright with nerves, and her hair already transforming into something that belonged in a ballroom rather than tumbling wild from beneath a riding helmet.

Behind them, spread across Penelope's narrow bed like a pool of liquid starlight, lay the dress her mother had sent all the way from Ireland. Deep emerald green, not the muddy olive that usually made redheads look sallow, but a rich, jewel-toned green that seemed to shift and shimmer in the candlelight. It was as if someone had captured the essence of dragon scales at twilight and woven it into silk. Delicate silver embroidery traced patterns across the bodice and down the skirt like frost creeping across a winter window, each thread catching the light with every slight movement of air in the room.

The fabric itself was finer than anything Penelope had ever owned, certainly finer than anything practical for life on Berk. But tonight wasn't about practicality. Tonight was about magic, about possibility, about the kind of evening where a girl could pretend that maybe, just maybe, the boy she'd loved for a while now might finally see her as something more than a friend.

"I still don't understand why you're going through all this trouble without a date," Eloise declared from her sprawled position on the bed, careful despite her casual posture not to wrinkle the precious dress beside her. She was already dressed in her own gown—a deep, rebellious purple that she'd argued vehemently against with her mother, much preferring her usual trousers and tunic. The compromise had been reached only after Violet Bridgerton had promised Eloise could burn the dress after tonight if she truly hated it that much. "You could have just come with Francesca and me. We could have made a proper pact to ignore all the peacocking males together. Watch them flutter about trying to impress us while we steal all the good pastries and mock them from the sidelines."

"Some of us," Francesca said quietly, though there was a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she carefully wound another curl around her finger, "actually enjoy watching the peacocking. And perhaps participating in a bit of it ourselves."

The cottage shuddered. 

It wasn't a gentle tremor, it was a deep, bone-rattling vibration that made the glass bottles on Penelope's shelf clink together in alarm and caused the flames of her carefully placed candles to dance and flicker wildly. The small painting on her wall tilted askew. Then another tremor came, rhythmic and insistent, like the heartbeat of some great beast pacing just outside.

Which, Penelope supposed, was exactly what it was.

Basalt was pacing again. She could picture him perfectly even without seeing him. Her massive Goregutter moving in tight, agitated circles around her small cottage, his boulder-like body creating small earthquakes with each anxious step. Restless. He'd been like this for the past hour, ever since the girls had shut themselves inside and refused to let him peek through the windows. To his credit, they've not seen each other the whole day.

"Oh for the love of—" Eloise pushed herself off the bed in one fluid, exasperated movement and strode to the window they'd deliberately shut and latched. She yanked it open with more force than necessary, letting in a gust of cool evening air that smelled of salt and pine and the particular mineral scent that always clung to Basalt. "Basalt! We talked about this! No hopping! You're going to bring the whole cottage down around our ears and then no one gets to go to the banquet because we'll all be buried in rubble!"

A low, mournful croon answered her, the kind of sound that suggested profound suffering and a complete lack of understanding as to why he was being so cruelly excluded from whatever important event was clearly happening inside. Penelope pouted where she was, feeling like she was neglecting her baby.

"I don't care if you're curious!" Eloise continued, undaunted by the pathetic noises. "You'll see her in twenty minutes! Now settle down before Tragedy starts getting ideas and decide to help you break in here!"

Another plaintive sound drifted through the window, this one with a distinct questioning warble at the end. Penelope could hear Tragedy's distinctive four-winged flutter outside, the Stormcutter's wings creating a rhythmic whisper in the air. And beneath that, what sounded suspiciously like Chippy's chattering giggle, the Deadly Nadder clearly finding the whole situation deeply amusing.

"He's absolutely beside himself out there," Eloise reported, pulling the window shut again and relatching it firmly. "Wearing his ceremonial garland like it personally offended his ancestors. Like we've draped him in the most humiliating thing imaginable. Tragedy thinks the whole thing is hilarious, she keeps flying circles around him. I swear she's laughing at him."

"They do look quite handsome all decorated, though," Francesca offered diplomatically, her fingers never pausing in their work despite the conversation. "Chippy's been preening for the past half hour. She knows she looks beautiful and she wants everyone else to know it too."

"Chippy always preens," Eloise muttered, returning to her position on the bed with considerably less grace than Francesca would have managed. "She's worse than Gregory before a formal dinner. At least Gregory can be bribed with dessert to stop primping."

Penelope bit her lip to keep from smiling at the image. The thought of Basalt, her enormous, dignified, perpetually grumpy Goregutter, decorated with delicate flowers and ribbons that would look absurdly, comically small against his massive boulder-gray frame was almost too much. She could picture him now, suffering through the indignity with the kind of long-suffering patience usually reserved for dragons dealing with particularly troublesome hatchlings. If he could talk he'd say something about his ancestors not going through such a ritual.

“I think they're just excited,” Penelope smiles. “This is both Basalt and I’s big party, he's just a baby after all.”

“That,” Eloise points out the window, “Is a two hundred year old beast, Penelope. That is not a baby.”

“But he's my baby,” The redhead clicks her tongue. “Don't be mean to him.”

“You spoil him, that's why he's a clingy dragon,” Eloise scoffs, crossing her arms. “You have to stop coddling him, look at Daphne's dragon? Virgil stomps about the village like he's a king.”

Daphne had a Light Fury that was just as much a diva as she was, Eloise had a vendetta against the two perfect princesses. Or so she calls them.

Outside, another small tremor shook the cottage, followed by what sounded like Tragedy making soothing chirping sounds. Basalt's answering rumble was pure sulking.

"There," Francesca announced softly, finally stepping back from her work. Her hands moved to Penelope's shoulders, gentle and warm. "All done. You can look now."

Penelope's heart hammered as she turned to face the mirror fully, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

The girl looking back at her was someone she'd never seen before. Her red hair, usually so impossible to tame—springing up in wild curls no matter what she did, frizzing in the coastal humidity, refusing to hold any style for more than an hour—had been transformed into something from a dream. Soft, romantic curls that Francesca had somehow coaxed into perfect spirals fell past her shoulders, catching the candlelight with hints of copper and gold. The top half had been pinned up with small crystal clips that sparkled like stars, while the rest tumbled down her back in waves that looked effortless but Penelope knew had taken Francesca's considerable skill to achieve.

She looked... pretty. Actually, genuinely pretty. She might even go on a stretch and say she looks beautiful tonight. She's never felt beautiful before. Being a chubby girl with red hair that had untamable locks and constant acne break outs on her skin, it was a struggle growing up. She's never felt confident in herself most of her life and tonight, Francesca had just given her one night to be so. 

"Oh, Pen," Francesca breathed, and there was something wonder in her voice, something that made Penelope's eyes start to sting with unexpected emotion.

"Don't start crying," Eloise warned, though her voice had gone softer than usual, lacking its typical sharp edges. "If you start crying, you'll make her cry, then everything will be ruined and I'll have to fix it, and I'm absolutely terrible at hair. Last time I tried to braid Hyacinth's hair, she ended up looking like she'd been attacked by a very determined bird building a nest."

"I'm not crying," Francesca protested, though her eyes were definitely taking on a suspicious shine. "I'm just... you look beautiful, Penelope. Truly beautiful."

"Now for the dress," Eloise said, standing with purpose, clearly trying to move past the emotional moment before they all dissolved into tears. "Come on, let's get you properly devastating. If you're going to pine hopelessly for my oblivious brother all evening, you might as well look absolutely stunning while doing it."

"Eloise!" Penelope's face flamed red.

"What? I'm being helpful. Supportive, even."

“How do you even know?!” Penelope says appalled, following as the two helped her get dressed.

“You don't even hide it,” Eloise snorts.

Between the three of them, they managed to get Penelope into the gown. It was a delicate operation—Francesca supporting the fabric, Eloise managing the tiny buttons that ran up the back, Penelope trying not to step on the hem or accidentally tear the delicate silver embroidery. The dress fit perfectly, and Penelope sent a silent thank you to her mother, who must have remembered her measurements exactly despite the distance between them. She'll ruminate on whether it's actually good news or not in the morning.

The bodice hugged her waist in a way that actually gave her a figure, the kind of silhouette she'd seen on other girls but never quite managed herself. The skirt flowed out in layers of shimmering fabric that moved like water, like silk, like dragon wings catching the wind. The neckline was modest but elegant—high enough to be proper but low enough to show the gentle curve of her collarbones and cleavage. The sleeves were made of delicate lace that made her feel like something out of the fairy stories her father used to read to her, back when she was small enough to sit on his lap and believe in magic.

Looking at herself now, standing in her small cottage with her two dearest friends fussing over the drape of her skirt, Penelope thought maybe magic was real after all.

"The jewelry," Francesca reminded gently, gesturing to the velvet box sitting on Penelope's vanity.

The ruby set was last, and Penelope's hands trembled slightly as she opened the box. Deep red stones that caught the light like dragon's blood, set in delicate gold that had probably cost more than everything else in her cottage combined. The necklace sat perfectly at her collarbone, the center stone resting just above her heart. The matching earrings caught the candlelight with every movement of her head. The delicate bracelet clasped around her wrist with a satisfying click.

Her mother's note had been tucked beneath the jewelry, written in Portia Featherington's decisive hand: *For my darling girl. Show them what the Featheringtons are made of. Make them remember your name.*

"Well," Eloise said after a long moment, hands planted on her hips as she surveyed Penelope with the critical eye of a dragon trainer evaluating a student's flying form. "I absolutely hate to admit this as it goes against every principle I have about not feeding into society's obsession with appearances—but you look absolutely stunning. Genuinely stunning. The kind of stunning that makes people walk into walls because they're not watching where they're going. Fife or Snotlout might even try their shot at you. Maybe that vegan dude you talked to."

"You could dance with anyone you wanted looking like that," Francesca added, and there was something knowing in her smile, something that suggested she saw far more than Penelope was comfortable with. "Anyone at all in the entire banquet hall."

Penelope felt her cheeks heat, a blush that probably clashed terribly with her hair but she couldn't bring herself to care. "I'm not trying to dance with just anyone. Especially not Fife or Snotlout, and the vegan's name is Alfred, he's a nice guy."

"Oh sure, I believe that," Eloise said dryly, flopping back onto the bed with dramatic flair. "You just want my idiot brother. My completely oblivious, well-meaning, absolute disaster of a brother who probably still thinks you see him as nothing more than your best friend's annoying sibling."

"Eloise!"

"What? It's not exactly a secret, Pen. You've been mooning over Colin for months, since the first semester even so that's like a year at most. I know you tell Basalt everything but I’m your best friend so I know even if you don't say anything. Like that time he helped you carry books from the library and you couldn't form complete sentences for the rest of the way? Or when he complimented your dragon-handling technique and you walked into a door frame thinking about it? Remember that?" Eloise smirks. “I do.”

Francesca gasped a small, delicate sound, and then tried to hide it behind her hand, but her eyes were absolutely sparkling with the kind of delight that twinkled only when she was purely delighted. "Colin? Really? You and Colin?"

"Really," Eloise confirmed with the satisfaction of someone sharing devastating gossip. "It's honestly painful to watch sometimes. He'll say something completely mundane like about the sky being the color of her eyes and she'll act like he's just recited the most beautiful poetry ever composed. Her face does this thing—this absolutely transparent thing where you can see every emotion flash across it like storm clouds."

"That's not—I don't—" Penelope sputtered, her face now completely, utterly red. She could feel the heat spreading down her neck, probably turning her chest blotchy. "You're exaggerating! You always exaggerate!"

"I'm not, but that's beside the point." Eloise softened slightly, her expression shifting into something that might have been sympathy if Eloise ever admitted to such tender emotions. "He'd be lucky to have you, you know. Colin would be incredibly lucky, even if he is currently too oblivious to realize that you were literally describing him to his face at the beach. To his actual face, Pen. While standing right next to him."

"Wait." Francesca sat up straighter, suddenly very interested, her usual quiet reserve momentarily forgotten. "What happened at the beach? You have to tell me everything. Every detail."

Penelope covered her face with her hands, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. "It was nothing. It was—we were just collecting shells and talking and—"

"She tried to tell him she wanted to go to the banquet with him," Eloise explained with the kind of glee usually reserved for watching dragons successfully complete a difficult trick. "Described him perfectly. Said he was kind and funny and made people feel seen and was the handsomest person she'd ever met. All while standing close enough to touch him. And he completely, utterly, catastrophically missed it. Told her that the person she was describing sounded wonderful and she should definitely ask him."

Francesca made a small, wounded sound of distress, pressing her hand to her chest. "Oh no. Oh, Penelope."

"Oh yes," Eloise confirmed. "Colin is many things, but observant about women being interested in him is absolutely not one of them. I swear he could have someone literally spell it out in dragon fire across the sky and he'd think they were just being friendly."

But then Penelope remembered something else, something that made her heart squeeze with a different kind of hope, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out: "But he did ask me to dance. At the beach, before we left. He asked if I'd save him a dance tonight."

The cottage went very, very quiet.

Francesca's eyes went wide. Eloise sat up slowly, her expression shifting into something Penelope couldn't quite read.

"He asked you to dance?" Francesca repeated softly, and now her smile was radiant. "Penelope, that's wonderful! That's—oh, you and Colin would be so adorable together! You balance each other perfectly. He talks and you listen. And you're both so kind, and you both love adventure but in different ways, and—"

"Francesca," Eloise interrupted, though there was no real heat in it. "You're getting carried away."

"I'm not! They would be perfect together. And he asked her to dance, Eloise. That means something."

"It might mean something," Eloise conceded grudgingly. "Or it might mean that Colin asks everyone to dance because he's pathologically friendly and thinks dancing with wallflowers is his heroic duty.

"He didn't say it like that," Penelope said quietly, the memory playing in her mind like a treasured scene. "He said he enjoyed dancing with me specifically. We only ever danced once and that was during Pathfit so it barely counts but he said I was one of the few people who didn't mind when he talked through the whole thing."

Francesca squealed—actually squealed, which was notable for someone as typically reserved as Francesca Bridgerton. "That's so sweet! He notices that about you! You have to dance with him tonight, you have to."

"Oh Thor help me," Eloise groaned, falling dramatically backward onto the bed. "If I have to watch you two make eyes at each other all night while he remains completely clueless about your feelings, I'm going to throw myself off the dragon perch. I'll do it. Don't test me."

"You're being dramatic," Penelope said, though she couldn't quite hide her smile, couldn't quite suppress the flutter of hope that had taken wing in her chest like a baby dragon on its first flight. “He doesn't see me that way.”

"Not now but like— ugh it's so weird talking about him like this," Eloise's face scrunched up in disgust and opted to wave them off. "But fine. Dance with my brother. Stare longingly into his oblivious eyes while he probably goes on about some merchant ship he saw at the docks. Just... try not to let Basalt eat him if Colin steps on your toes. Which he will. Colin is not graceful at all."

Outside, as if summoned by the sound of his name carried through the window, Basalt let out another questioning croon. This one had a distinctly plaintive edge, the kind of sound that suggested he was very close to simply breaking through the wall to see what was taking so long.

Tragedy chirped something that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Chippy's answering trill was definitely mocking.

"Ready?" Francesca asked, offering Penelope her hand with the kind of gentle formality that made the moment feel important, ceremonial.

Penelope took a deep breath, smoothing down her skirt one last time. The fabric whispered beneath her palms, cool and smooth and perfect. "Ready."

They opened the door, and the cool evening air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of winter flowers and pine smoke and the salt of the sea.

The three dragons turned as one, and the world seemed to slow.

Tragedy, with her magnificent four wings spread in display, looked absolutely regal in her garland of winter flowers—white roses and evergreen branches woven together with silver ribbon. She preened slightly under the attention, clearly pleased with her appearance.

Chippy, smaller and more agile, had ribbons woven through her spikes in shades of blue and silver that matched her scales. She was indeed preening, doing a little spin to show off the way the ribbons caught the fading sunlight, her head held high with unmistakable pride.

But it was Basalt who made Penelope's breath catch in her throat, who made the entire world narrow down to just this moment.

The massive Goregutter stood completely, utterly still. His enormous body, usually in constant motion with his tail swishing, head turning, wings adjusting, had frozen mid-step like someone had cast a spell on him. The garland around his thick neck looked absurd, impossibly delicate—winter roses and silver bells that chimed softly with each breath he took, each tiny movement. The flowers were crushed against his boulder-rough scales, probably already wilting from his body heat, but they framed his great head in a way that was unexpectedly beautiful.

But those ancient, knowing eyes that had seen generations of Featheringtons, that had bonded with her grandfather and chosen her as his new master caught Penelope and held her frozen. He stared at her like he'd never seen her before. Like she was a stranger wearing his little master's face.

The late afternoon sun caught on her dress, making the silver embroidery shimmer and dance. The rubies at her throat and ears glowed like captured fire. Her carefully curled hair moved slightly in the breeze, and Basalt's massive head tilted slowly, processing this new version of the small, disheveled girl he was used to carrying around. Slowly, so slowly it seemed to take an eternity, Basalt took one step forward.

Then stopped.

His massive head lowered toward her, the movement careful and uncertain in a way Penelope had never seen from him. Basalt was many things—overprotective, grumpy, possessive—but he was never uncertain. He'd faced down wild dragons twice his size without hesitation. He'd carried her through storms and battles with absolute confidence. But now he stopped several feet away, and he didn't come closer. Didn't push his enormous snout against her chest like he usually did, nearly knocking her over with affection. Didn't rumble possessively and drape a wing over her to claim her from any nearby threats. He just looked. Stared.

The expression in his eyes was something Penelope had never seen before, a softness that made her chest ache, something that wasn't quite fear but close to it. Not fear of danger or threats or other dragons. Fear of breaking something precious. Fear that if he got too close, if he touched her with his usual casual affection, he might somehow damage this delicate, glittering creature who couldn't possibly be his rough-and-tumble little master.

"Basalt?" Penelope whispered, and her voice came out smaller than intended.

He made a sound, barely a rumble, more like a question, and pulled his head back slightly. Away from her. Creating more distance when usually he worked so hard to eliminate any space between them.

One of his massive front feet shifted backward. Then the other. Like he was retreating from something dangerous, something he didn't know how to handle.

Understanding crashed over Penelope like a wave of ice water, stealing her breath. Her big, clingy, overprotective dragon, who had no qualms about knocking her over with enthusiastic greetings, who carried her around in his mouth when he thought she was walking too slowly, who would drape himself across her lap despite being the size of a small house, who followed her everywhere and sulked when she left his sight, was afraid to get close to her. She looked too much like a lady. Too much like a grown woman instead of the hatchling he was used to protecting. Too delicate, too precious, too breakable.

It was like watching a big brother see his baby sister in her first grown-up dress and suddenly realize she wasn't a child anymore, that she was becoming someone who existed in the dangerous world of adults and courting and all the things that meant he couldn't protect her the way he used to.

"Oh, Basalt," Penelope breathed, and felt tears prick at her eyes, threatening to spill over and ruin Francesca's careful work on her face. "Come here, you silly, sweet dragon."

She gathered her skirts in both hands, the beautiful, expensive, far-too-fancy-for-Berk fabric, and walked toward him across the grass, heedless of the evening dew soaking into the hem. Behind her, she could hear Eloise make a sound of protest about the dress, but Penelope didn't care.

Basalt's eyes widened as she approached, and he made another uncertain sound, his head pulling back even further like he was trying to make himself smaller. Which was impossible—he was a boulder-class dragon the size of a small ship—but he was trying.

"I'm still me, sweet boy," Penelope told him firmly, reaching up to press both hands against his enormous snout. His scales were warm and rough beneath her palms, familiar and real and exactly what she needed. She tried to smile but even her refused to not wobble. "I swear I haven't been switched in the head."

Basalt's eyes closed, and he made a sound deep in his chest, half rumble, half whimper, but he still didn't push forward into her touch the way he normally would. Instead, he very, very carefully, moving slower than she'd ever seen him move, pushed his head forward the tiniest amount. Just enough to rest against her hands, but with so much restraint she could feel him trembling with the effort of holding back. The gesture was so gentle, so careful, so utterly unlike his usual boisterous affection that Penelope felt something crack in her chest.

"Oh, you sweet boy," she cooed, her voice going soft and tender in a way she usually reserved for when it was just the two of them, when no one else could hear her baby-talk to a dragon the size of a house. "Look at you, being so gentle. You don't have to be afraid of me, Basalt. I'm not made of glass. I could tackle and play fight with you right now if you want."

He made a questioning sound, his eyes opening to look at her with such obvious worry that Penelope felt her heart melt completely.

"You think I'm too pretty to touch now?" she asked, and despite the tears threatening to fall, she couldn't help but smile. She loathed the look on her gentle giant's eyes, she hated the way he looked so guarded. "You think I've turned into some delicate flower you might accidentally crush?"

A low, uncertain rumble. A soft nod.

"Well, you're wrong," she told him, scratching under his jaw where she knew he liked it, where his scales were slightly softer. "I'm still the same girl who will still ride on your head without a saddle. Still the same girl who lets you carry her around in your mouth when you're feeling particularly clingy. Still the same girl who fell in that mud pit last week and you had to fish me out. I'm still gonna bribe you with your favorite geodes no matter how expensive they are."

Basalt's rumble changed quality slightly, becoming less uncertain and more contemplative. One of his large eyes focused on her face, searching.

"You look very handsome too, you know," Penelope added, reaching up to touch the garland around his neck. The flowers were indeed already wilting against his warm scales, the ribbons slightly singed in places. "Even if you hate wearing flowers. Tragedy is making fun of you because he's jealous. You're the most magnificent dragon at this entire banquet, and everyone's going to know it."

He snorted at that, a puff of warm air that stirred her carefully arranged curls, but there was affection in it now, and something that might have been pride.

Slowly, with infinite care, Basalt lowered his head further and very gently, so much more gently than Penelope had ever felt him move, nudged against her shoulder. Not hard enough to move her, barely hard enough to feel. Just enough to make contact, to reassure himself that she was still real, still his.

"There you are," Penelope whispered, wrapping her arms as far around his massive head as she could, which wasn't far at all. "There's my sweet gentle giant. I missed you so much today."

His rumble vibrated through her entire body, and this time it was pure contentment. His eyes closed again, and he leaned into her embrace with marginally less restraint, though still holding back most of his weight. Behind her, Penelope heard a suspicious sniffling sound. When she glanced back, Francesca was openly wiping her eyes, not even trying to hide it anymore. Even Eloise had turned away, suddenly very interested in adjusting Tragedy's garland, though Penelope could see her friend's shoulders shaking slightly.

"Don't," Eloise said without turning around, her voice rougher than usual. "Don't either of you start talking about it or we'll all start crying, and then we'll be late, and Mother will have Opinions with a capital O, and the whole evening will be ruined before it even begins."

Penelope stepped back from Basalt, smoothing her dress with trembling hands. Her dragon watched her with that same soft reverence, but now there was understanding in his eyes too. She was still his little master, even in silk and rubies. Still the hatchling he'd chosen to protect. But seeing her step into the world looking like a lady, like someone who might be courted and danced with and possibly swept away by some unworthy male, had clearly triggered every protective instinct Basalt possessed. Something in Penelope's chest swelled with confidence she hadn't felt in years. If Basalt, her impossibly critical, fiercely overprotective, seen-it-all dragon who trusted no one and approved of even fewer, thought she looked precious enough to handle with such exquisite care, thought she looked beautiful enough to be worried about…

Then maybe Colin would see it too.

Maybe tonight, Colin Bridgerton would look at her and see not just his sister's friend, not just the quiet girl who listened to his stories, but someone worth dancing with. Worth noticing. Worth more.

"All right," Penelope said, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. Her voice came out stronger than she felt. "Let's go to this banquet."

Tragedy chirped excitedly, doing a little aerial loop that made her garland stream behind her like a banner. Chippy joined in with a trill of agreement, spinning in place to show off her ribbons one more time. And Basalt, moving with exaggerated, careful precision that would have been comical if it weren't so touching, positioned himself for Penelope to climb up to his head. He lowered himself as far as he could go, making the climb easier, and held perfectly still as she gathered her skirts and made her way up. When she settled into her usual spot between his horns, he stood with such care that she barely felt the movement. Like she was made of spun sugar and might dissolve at any sudden motion.

"Basalt," she said gently, patting his head. "You can fly normally. I'm not going to break."

A skeptical rumble answered her, but his wings unfurled carefully, and he lifted into the evening sky with the kind of smooth, controlled flight he usually reserved for carrying eggs.

Yes, Basalt knows he is reasonable because it is a reasonable thing to allow his little master a night of fun. The male won't be too occupied with her if there are other males around anyway.