Chapter 422 Roof. Immediate. Write That Down.

DRAKENFELL — EASTMOOR ORPHANAGE

The orphanage was worse than Bellatrix had anticipated, and Bellatrix had anticipated it would be dreadful.

The building was stone. The stone was grey. The grey was the specific shade of grey that communicated institutional despair, the shade that governments selected when the budget for morale had been reallocated to a different department and the different department was also grey. The windows were small, smeared, and carrying the accumulated grime of a facility that had been underfunded since its founding and had accepted the underfunding the way old buildings accept rain.

Bellatrix stood at the entrance. Onyx was on her hip, dressed in his midnight tuxedo with gold accents, his scales freshly oiled, his gold eyes surveying the building.

Avalon was walking beside Petra, his blue-silver scales catching the light, wearing a matching charcoal waistcoat that Matthis had produced in under three hours after Bellatrix had announced that bringing one dressed dragon and one undressed dragon to a public event was “optically unbalanced.” Avalon’s waistcoat had silver thread accents to complement his scales, because Bellatrix’s aesthetic standards applied to all dragons in her custody regardless of whether the custody was legal.

Petra was beside her, carrying the supply crate. The supply crate contained embroidered blankets, scented candles, a case of Nightspire reserve, monogrammed handkerchiefs, dried meats, and a porcelain dish for Onyx. Petra had also packed bread, basic linens, and practical clothing, because Petra understood orphans in the way Bellatrix understood orphans, which was to say: one of them had done research and the other had guessed.

“Petra.”

“Your Grace.”

“This building is an atrocity.”

“It has been in operation for twenty-two years, Your Grace.”

“It has been offensive for twenty-two years and nobody intervened. The walls are the color of despair. The door hinges are rusted. There is moss growing on the eastern face, Petra. Moss. As if the building has surrendered to nature and nature has accepted the surrender with a smirk.”

She entered.

The interior was worse. Wooden furniture that had been repaired so many times it was more patch than original. Floors that had been scrubbed to a shine that only emphasized the cracks between the boards. A fireplace that was working but barely.

A woman appeared from the back corridor. She had been running a facility for two decades on determination and a budget that would embarrass a street vendor.

“Your Majesty. We received word of your visit this morning. I am Matron Helda. We are honored—”

“Matron, when was this roof last inspected?”

Helda blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“The roof. I can see water damage on the ceiling in two locations from where I am standing, which means there are additional locations I cannot see, which means the structural integrity of your upper level is compromised and the children sleeping beneath it are sleeping beneath a problem. When was it last inspected?”

“Three years ago, Your Majesty. The funds for—”

“Petra, write that down. Roof. Immediate.” Bellatrix was already walking, her scan of the facility operating at top speed.

She had managed Drakenfell’s household accounts for thirty years and could identify a maintenance deficit from across a room the way other people identified faces. “The eastern wall has moisture penetration. The windows need resealing. The fireplace flue is partially blocked, which is why the room smells like smoke instead of warmth. And these curtains, Matron.”

She stopped. Looked at the curtains. The curtains looked back with the tired defiance of fabric that had been hanging for fifteen years and had stopped trying.

“These curtains are a crime against textile.”

“They were donated, Your Majesty.”

“By whom?”

“I do not recall.”

“By an enemy, Matron. These curtains were donated by a person who hates you. I will be sending replacements.”

Helda opened her mouth to respond, but the response was preempted by the arrival of fourteen children who had heard the words “dragon” and “queen” in the same sentence and had arrived at the entry hall at a speed that suggested the orphanage’s hallway rules had been suspended.

The children saw the dragons.

The dragons saw the children.

Onyx and Avalon processed the incoming wave of small humans with opposite strategies.

Onyx chirped once, bright and electric, and launched himself off Bellatrix’s hip before she could tighten her grip.

He hit the floor, skidded on the wood, and was immediately engulfed by a wave of small bodies that descended on him with the shrieking enthusiasm of children who had never touched a dragon and intended to make up for the deficit in volume and physical contact.

Avalon took a different approach.

He pressed himself against Petra’s legs and went very still, his silver eyes wide, his wings tucked tight, his body language communicating the specific overwhelm of an introvert arriving at a party where everyone was screaming.

Three children broke from the Onyx pile and ran at Avalon. He flinched. They stopped. One small girl, maybe five years old, knelt in front of him and held out her hand, palm up, the way you approach a nervous animal.

Avalon sniffed her hand. Considered her. Placed his chin in her palm. The girl’s face split into a smile so wide it consumed her entire head, and Avalon’s tail uncurled from Petra’s ankle and wrapped gently around the girl’s wrist.

“CAREFUL,” Bellatrix barked. “They are wearing SATIN and SILK respectively. Those are FITTED garments. If you stretch a single collar, I will know, and the tailor will know, and the tailor will be displeased, and you do not want to displease Matthis because Matthis holds grudges the way I hold grudges, which is permanently.”

The children did not hear her. The children were on the floor with Onyx, who was lying on his back, wings spread, tail wagging, purring at a volume that rattled a loose floorboard, being touched by fourteen pairs of hands simultaneously and finding every single pair acceptable.

Bellatrix watched both dragons betray her for strangers.

Three children climbed onto Onyx’s chest. Onyx purred louder. Across the room, Avalon had settled into a corner with four children who had identified him as the quieter option and had formed a small, peaceful cluster around him.

The girl who had offered her palm was sitting cross-legged with Avalon in her lap, stroking his scales. Avalon’s eyes were half-closed. His purring was softer than Onyx’s, a low hum that vibrated through the girl’s legs and produced a calm that radiated outward to the three children sitting beside her.

A boy wrapped his arms around Onyx’s neck and buried his face in his scales, and the sound he made was the sound of a child hugging something for the first time in a very long time, and the sound did something to the room that Bellatrix refused to acknowledge.

She turned her attention to the children instead. The assessment was automatic. A reflex. She had spent thirty years evaluating people for court potential and whose evaluation criteria did not adjust for age.

“That one has excellent bone structure,” she said, pointing at a boy of about ten. “Petra, note that. Court-viable with posture correction and a proper haircut.”

Petra nodded.

“That one does not.” Bellatrix pointed at a different child as if he were not there. “The jawline is weak. Correctable with age, potentially. We will revisit.”