“Look, just leave that up to me. I’ll figure it out,” Weysh told Harth.

The tower erupted into a tinkling of chimes, signaling the hour.

“Hells, I’m late,” Harth cursed. He jogged backward, making for the long, low row of lecture halls. “First class of the year is History of Dragon Diplomacy, so I need to make a good impression, en?” Harth was on track to become a diplomat, like his father. “But I’m glad you’ve found your Given, Weysh. I suppose you’ll be heading home to inform your family?”

Weysh winced. He had been putting off his next visit home for a while now, but it seemed he could put it off her no longer. His first class wasn’t until later that day. “I suppose I will,” said Weysh.

“Good luck,” said Harth, seeing the look on Weysh’s face. He turned with a wave and sprinted for the lecture buildings.

Weysh sighed heavily. Best to get the family visit over with. He reached deep inside himself for that natural trigger, the one that sent magic rushing through his veins. His skin went numb but smells got sharper, sounds louder, colors bolder, and then he was his dragon self, large and powerful. He stretched his wings, feeling pops along the joints like always when he first switched. A few flaps and he was up and flying, off to face his parents.

Sylvie came barreling out of the main door, holding up her dress as she skipped down the manor steps. She ran up the cobblestones and Weysh changed back in time to grab her in his arms. Laughing, he spun her around and plopped her down, breathing in her scent. Though she was a young woman now, she would always smell like a little sister to him—like cherries and flowers and pastries.

“Sylvie, my heart. How are you?”

She hugged him. “Weysh! I missed you.”

He ran a hand through her hair, a beautiful mass of brown-blond curls like their maman’s, but much shorter than he remembered.

“When did you do this?”

“Over a moonturn ago. It’s actually grown out a bit. You’d know if you came by more often.” She pouted at him.

He planted a kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry, lovely. It seems all I’m doing today is making women angry.”

“Just today?”

He frowned in jest. “Aren’t you funny,” he said as he flicked her forehead in the same place he’d just kissed.

“Hey!” She rubbed the spot. “What happened now?”

“The usual, but I have good news as well. Come, let’s find Maman.”

She was in the sitting room. Weysh smelled the coffee long before he saw the dainty little cup in her hand. He wrinkled his nose at the scent of his mother’s husband, Montpierre—it was so different, so other from his maman’s and Sylvie’s.