“As soon as possible.”

“Just splendid.”

Anger flushed the back of Weysh’s neck. “Look, Montpierre, I know you were itching to stick another dragon in your family tree, but consider yourself lucky to even have me.”

“Yes,” Montpierre drawled. “I cannot contain my glee at having to leave my estate to my wife’s bastard dragon son.”

“Stop it now! Both of you!” shouted Sylvie. She looked close to tears. His mother hung her head, silent, as always.

It was time to leave, before Weysh said something he would later regret, but it would be a record-breaking shortest visit home. He hadn’t even had a chance to say hello to their housekeeper, Genie. No doubt she was puttering in the cellar and hadn’t heard him arrive, or she’d surely have come to greet him. She’d be hurt he’d stopped by without seeking her out, but it was best that he go.

“I just wanted to share the good news,” said Weysh, voice clipped. “I’ll be going now.”

Sylvie rushed over from her place at her father’s side. “You won’t even stay for dinner?”

He softened at the disappointment on her face. “No. Sorry, lovely. But how about sometime next week I pick you up and we spend the day together?”

“I will not have Sylvie riding dragonback—”

“We’ll go by tram,” Weysh snapped at Montpierre.

Sylvie clapped. “I love riding the trams!”

Weysh chuckled. “I know.” He hugged her. “Until then, en?”

He turned and gave his parents an exaggerated, mocking bow before sweeping out of the room.

The soft tinkling of the fountain water and skritching of crickets didn’t do much to ease Weysh’s nerves. Shortly after leaving his parents, he’d left a note in Carmenna’s residence letter box to meet him that night at the eastern square. The first day of classes was done, the sun descended and the moon aglow, and now Weysh perched like a nervous bird on the edge of the fountain as he waited for Carmenna to arrive.

Her scent reached his nose well before he saw her coming. It had always reminded him of vanilla—well, not exactly vanilla, but something like it: simple, sweet, and comforting. She’d become a soothing presence in his life. He would often seek her out after visiting his parents. She would listen while he ranted about Montpierre, making soft noises of agreement. And when she felt stung by the cold distance of her own papa, he would reassure her that she was a wonderful daughter, that she’d make a world-class healer, and then her father would undoubtedly come around. Her father was all she had, after all—her mother had died giving birth to her.