“You can send Jokester to check on me—” Catching herself, she gestured lovingly down to the gold

queen beside her. “—us, whenever you need.”

“It’s just that—”

“You must get back to the Hold, Father,” Fiona told him firmly. “I’ll be fine—” She paused, raising her

hand to stifle a yawn. “—here.”

“You look exhausted,” Bemin said, glancing to the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman for support.

“A late night and a stressful day,” Fiona assured him, again stifling a yawn. She smiled ruefully down at

Talenth. “We’ll be fine.”

Lord Bemin gave his daughter one final, worried look. “I’ll send Jokester to check on you.” The

bronze fire-lizard perched on his shoulder made a cheerful noise of agreement.

“T’mar will see you back to your Hold, my Lord,” Weyrwoman Cisca said, gesturing to a sturdy rider

and his bronze dragon waiting nearby. She glanced at Fiona, adding, “He’ll be able to guide your

fire-lizard back on his return.”

“Thank you,” Fiona said, much relieved. She couldn’t wait to see Fire’s reaction to the larger gold

queen.

“Wingleader,” Bemin nodded absently, gesturing for the rider to precede him.

With T’mar’s help, he mounted the great dragon easily enough and had time to look down once more

at Fiona and her dragon. Despite another yawn, she waved merrily as the bronze leapt into the air, rose

above the Weyr, and winked out between.

For Fiona, the next few sevendays passed in a frenzy of feeding, oiling, scratching, and tending the

baby gold dragon whose only activities were eating, sleeping, and complaining.

Her fire-lizard, Fire, after hours in a state of mixed surprise, delight, and jealousy, found herself helping

joyfully, often finding the itchiest spots and scratching them with her own claws.

You know, Fiona had admitted to the dragonet early on, I’m only doing this because it’s you.

And you love me, Talenth had agreed, turning over so that Fiona could reach another offending itch.

With a laugh, Fiona obliged, sweat running down her nose as she scratched the flaking skin and poured

more oil on it.

As Talenth grew, the job of scratching and oiling her grew as well, until Fiona began to wonder if

she’d ever done anything else. Occasionally she saw others in the Weyr. She knew she ate, but her

memories of both food and sleep were truncated and foggy at best.

In fact, “foggy” was a great description of her time so far at the Weyr. She had only a foggy map of

the Weyr: She had traveled only once from the Hatching Grounds into the Weyr Bowl and up the short

ramp into her Weyrwoman’s quarters, and had made only a few trips to the Kitchen Cavern before

before figuring out how to use the Weyr’s amazing conveyor system to order food for her quarters. Fiona

could never remember feeling so at odds and disjointed. She envied the weyrbred riders who already