Tea With a Dragon: Episode 5
The Kettle & The Blade
Previously…
“Let’s say you do find where she came from,” Adair said. “You think a dragon’s just going to thank you for babysitting and let you walk away?”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
And now, the continuation!
Adair didn’t say anything for a long while.
She just stood there, arms folded, watching Tarragon curl her tail tightly around my boot as if she understood we were talking about her.
“You still take in strays,” Adair said finally, voice softer this time.
I turned back to the fish, slicing carefully down the spine. “Only the green, scaly, mind-speaking kind.”
A breath of amusement escaped her. “You always did have a type.”
I didn’t rise to the bait. My hands worked in rhythm, skinning the fish with practiced ease. The sound of steel on wood, the wet thump of flesh—comforting routines, the kind that grounded you when everything else felt uncertain.
Tarragon let out a soft trill. I felt her question curl against my thoughts like mist:
‘Safe?’
“Yes,” I murmured. “Adair won’t hurt you.”
Adair quirked a brow at that, but said nothing. We’d both hurt people, once. But not without reason.
Finally, I wiped my hands and faced her squarely. “I need your help.”
Her gaze sharpened. “You’re serious.”
“She says her dam is near the Big Water. I can’t get there alone—not with this knee.”
“You want to hike across half the province into untamed dragon territory, based on the word of a hatchling you met two days ago.”
“Pretty much…yeah.”
She stared at me for a long time, then laughed—a low, warm sound. I saw it then—faint lines at the corner of her eyes that hadn’t been there the last time we parted ways. We were both older, stiffer, but still standing. Somehow.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose it wouldn’t be the strangest thing we’ve done together.”
Tarragon looked between us, then curled up again, her thoughts drowsy with warmth and fish.
“Tea?” I offered, already stepping toward the hearth.
Adair raised a brow. “You still drink that purple plant tea?”
“It’s Vanasoom,” I said primly, “and yes. It helps with the knee.”
“You used to drink Blackleaf steeped in rum.”
I snorted. “And you used to flirt with bounty hunters.”
“That was once.”
“Twice.”
She smirked. “Fair.”
I pulled two mismatched mugs from the shelf and filled them as the kettle began to steam. The scent of Vanasoom filled the room—bitter, grounding. It smelled like old healing. Like better days. Or at least, days survived.
Adair leaned in the doorway, watching me. The quiet between us was worn smooth by years and mistakes and the kind of camaraderie that only forms when you’ve bled beside someone. Or buried dead friends.
“So,” she said at last, sitting at the table across from me and wrapping her fingers around the mug I handed her, “tell me everything. From the beginning.”
Outside, the wind rustled the Vanasoom patch.
To be continued next week!
Awe! A true adventure!