to ready himself for meeting Bird at her home. Important as this quest was, nothing would be permitted to get in the way of his going to Bird’s home!
He picked up her knapsack of art supplies, held them close to his heart, and partially shifted until he reached the shoreline. Then he shifted to his dragon and flew back to the motel to get ready.
They had agreed on half past five, as the reception was to begin at seven. He showered and changed to his suit. Then, wishing he could shift and fly, he got into the borrowed car and drove to the estate Bird lived on. The windows of her little cottage glowed golden and welcoming.
He was halfway to the door when he recollected reading in that advice about courtship that guests were expected to bring a food item or beverage. He hesitated, thinking to turn back and bring one. But Bird must have been watching, for she opened the door. Her bright smile banished the small frustration clouding his heart. He wanted so badly to do everything right, but he’d failed before he’d even stepped through her door.
“Here you are,” she welcomed him, the sincerity in her voice more beautiful than any other sound, and he knew she accepted him, clumsy as his courtship had been. “Right on time!”
He walked the rest of the way up the steps to her cottage. “My apologies, but I just remembered it is customary to bring wine? I’m afraid this bag just carries your sketch supplies, as I went back to check on the cave.”
“I’m much happier to have my sketchpad back,” she said, taking the sack from his hands and setting it aside. “Unless you can drink an entire bottle at a sitting, it would just sit until it turned to vinegar, which would be a sad waste. One glass is usually plenty for me.”
“I normally do not drink much either,” he admitted, and laughed inside, recollecting Joey Hu’s crack about monkish living. But it was clear again that Bird accepted him just as he was.
Except . . .
How and when to tell her? He’d rather fight an acid-spitting hydra-demon. At least he knew how to do that. But revealing himself to his mate without horrifying her seemed fraught with danger.
He sensed that she was nervous in how high her voice was, and the way her small, pretty hands smoothed down the front of the charming blue garment she wore. He looked around the little room, which was neat, scrupulously clean, but above all harmonious, with the roses he had given her centered in pride of place on a table. The colors in the room were those of the sea, of summer light, of warmth.
Two bookcases were packed with books. He remembered that she was a writer. A quick glance showed a variety of reading, but he didn’t see her name among them.
Seascapes vied with flowers in simply framed watercolors on the walls. Flowering plants added green and fresh scent. He looked more closely at the paintings, and recognized her style in the careful detail and blending of color.
“You made these,” he said, indicating the nearest seascape. “How beautiful in all its details!”
She was still standing by the door, but at this she came in, her face rosy with color. “I’m not nearly as good as Mr. Kleiner at the big house. He’s a true, trained artist. I only made these for myself.”
“I don’t think anything could be better than these,” he said with absolute sincerity.
She blushed charmingly again. “Thanks for that, even if we both know it isn’t true. Please, come into the kitchen. I hope you’ll overlook the fact that I don’t have a dining room.”
A small table sat against a wall. The cramped kitchen smelled invitingly of roast chicken and something with apples and cinnamon. She brought a covered dish out of the oven, set it on the table, then offered him a variety of things to drink—she had bought wine—and he said, “I’ll have whatever you customarily have. They’ll be offering cocktails at the reception.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’d rather not arrive with a buzz, so would sparkling water be all right?”
“Perfectly.”
She poured it out. “I guess I should apologize for not having matching dishes, but I’ve sort of put together my kitchenware over the years. You, as guest, get the crystal drinking glass.”
He bowed from his chair. “I am honored.”
She laughed at that, and indicated he help himself to the food as she asked, “What can you tell me about the reception? And your book?”
“This is a book tour, co-hosted by the Art, Asian Studies, and the Social Sciences departments,” he said. “I wrote the book mostly to entertain myself one long winter, and the university I was associated with decided to publish it. They like publicity tours, especially if they don’t have to pay for them. Since I was already coming here for the cave investigation, it was easy for them to arrange the reception. But unless you want to hear about jade toggles, please tell me more about your writing. Godiva mentioned awards?”
The smile vanished from Bird’s face. “I don’t write anymore,” she said, looking away, her shoulders tight. “The awards . . . they never meant much to me. I left all that behind when my ex divorced me.”
“I’m sorry I brought up a painful subject,” he apologized. “Let’s talk about your art. Have you always preferred watercolor?”
The bright smile was back. “I started with colored pencils, then gradually branched out. Watercolor can be so luminous, and I love the way it lies on paper. But that might be venturing into boring territory?”
“I was trained in calligraphy when young,” he said. “I know exactly what you mean about color lying on the paper, though for me it was ink . . .”
She had made lemon chicken, served over long rice, with asparagus. He would have eaten it if it had tasted like sawdust and motor oil because it came from her hands, but it was delicious, the flavors blended in the way colors blended in her art: harmonious.
Tell her, his dragon hissed. Show her our glory!