Weysh shook his head. “Nothing I’m too eager to get into now, Genie. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

A lie.

Genie led him through the house, clucking and tsking her concern the whole way, but she didn’t press him. His maman was sitting on one of the white wicker chairs scattered among the paving stones. She turned, her face surprised and then warm at the sight of him.

“Weysh, lovely! Come sit,” she said, reaching for him. He took the seat across from her.

With her free hand she squeezed his. “I do love it out here in the mornings,” she said, and breathed deeply, as if she could inhale the low, musical cooing of doves, the green of the trees, the red of the roses, the cool, dewy grass of the lawn.

Weysh kissed her hand. “Good morning, Maman.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Genie, bowing. She left them in private.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” asked his mother, and Weysh was gratified to see she looked genuinely happy to see him.

“I just came back from Healer Veronique.”

“Oh!” She put her coffee cup down with a clink on her saucer. Her brows scrunched up in concern and she seemed, at last, to catch the gravity of his expression. “And?”

Weysh did his best to swallow the stubborn lump in his throat. “It seems I’ll never fully regain my sense of smell.”

The pity on her face nearly undid him all over again. She reached over and stroked his stubbly cheek. “My Weysh, I’m so sorry.”

“I hate this feeling,” he snarled. “It’s the most maddening thing, Maman, like . . . like . . .”

“Like someone has stolen something you did not even know could be stolen.”

“Yes.” Yes, that was it. Like life as he’d always known it had been suddenly and swiftly stolen from him for good. “Everything is different now. What about the future? My career? Now that I can’t smell, it’s as if I’m worth . . . less.” He stared at his hands, fingers hooked loosely together between his knees, as he struggled to articulate what he felt. “As if I’m not as important, or valuable, en? Do you know what I mean, Maman?”

“Yes I do, and I also know you’re wrong. You’re still you, my heart. What’s more, you’re still a flying, fire-breathing dragon. I’m positive the army will find something to do with you.” She slapped his arm playfully, and Weysh knew he should reward her attempts at humor, to cheer him with a laugh or smile, but he simply couldn’t muster it. The mirth left her face, replaced by something hard and serious.

“You listen to me, Weysh. No matter how others may look down on you, or try to tell you you’re somehow diminished, devalued, or incomplete, they are wrong.”