Chapter 424 That Seems Dishonest (Bellatrix Said DAMN RIGHT)
Tomas raised his hand again. “What are you going to do about your husband?”
“I have an eight-step plan.”
“What’s step one?”
“Fainting in public.”
“That seems dishonest,” Maren said.
“It is. Dishonesty in service of survival is a skill you will need, Maren. Write that down.”
“I don’t have parchment.”
“Petra, give the girl parchment. She is going to need it.”
By the end of the second hour, Bellatrix had funded the following: a full roof replacement, window resealing, structural reinforcement of the eastern wall, a new fireplace flue, quarterly clothing donations, a tailored formal outfit for every child, weekly food deliveries, a salary increase for Matron Helda and her two assistants, and new curtains.
The curtains were first on the priority list. They would arrive before the roof materials.
The orphanage was about to receive the most comprehensive renovation in its twenty-two-year history because a queen was following a divorce strategy from The Knotty Omega.
She stood. Adjusted her dress. Finished her wine.
“We are leaving. Both of you.”
Neither dragon moved. Onyx had three children asleep on him. Avalon had two children asleep against him and one small girl whose hand was still on his scales.
“Onyx. Avalon. We are going.”
Onyx chirped. Low. Reluctant. The chirp of a dragon who heard the command, understood the command, and was filing a formal objection to the command.
Avalon did not chirp. His tail tightened around a girl by a fraction, and the tightening was the dragon equivalent of a man crossing his arms and saying “make me,” except the saying was silent and the crossing was a tail and the defiance was wrapped around a sleeping orphan.
“Avalon, I am speaking to you.”
Silver eyes. Unblinking. The dragon who had been too shy to leave Petra’s side at the beginning of this trip was now refusing a direct order from the queen because a five-year-old had shown him her palm and the palm had rewritten his priorities.
“I will bring you both back,” Bellatrix said, and the sentence left her mouth before the strategy behind it had fully formed, which meant the sentence was partially genuine, which meant the orphanage visit that was supposed to be a one-time image opportunity had just become a recurring commitment negotiated by two baby dragons.
“Next week,” she added, because the commitment required a timeline and timelines were how Bellatrix maintained control over situations that were slipping from her grasp.
Onyx chirped. Acceptance.
Both dragons extracted themselves from the sleeping children with a gentleness that was remarkable for creatures their size.
Onyx walked to Bellatrix. She picked him up. Avalon walked to Petra. Petra picked him up. The dragon settled against Petra’s chest with his chin on her shoulder, his silver eyes fixed on the corner where an orphan girl was still sleeping, watching her until the angle of the doorway made watching impossible.
He settled against her chest, sticky fingerprints and wrinkled tuxedo and all, and his purring resumed at the frequency that said home.
Matron Helda stood at the door. Her eyes were red. Her hands were clasped. She was looking at Bellatrix with pure gratitude. She had been running a forgotten facility for two decades and had just been remembered by the last person she expected to remember.
“Your Majesty, I cannot express—”
“The curtains arrive first,” Bellatrix said, walking past her. “Then the roof. Then the windows. Petra will coordinate. If anyone from the treasury questions the expenditure, direct them to me. I will explain the expenditure in a way that discourages follow-up questions.”
She walked out the door. Down the path. Towards the carriage that was waiting with the patience of a driver who had been told ’one hour’ and was now approaching hour three.
Petra walked beside her.
“Your Grace.”
“What.”
“That was a good thing you did.”
Bellatrix adjusted Onyx on her hip. The dragon’s sticky fingerprints were transferring to her dress. She did not correct it. The failure to correct the fingerprints was, for Bellatrix Drakenfell, the closest thing to tenderness her body could produce without explicit authorization from her brain.
“It was a strategic thing, Petra. There is a difference.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
There was a difference. The difference was real. The difference also mattered less than either of them was willing to say, because the children were going to eat tonight, and the roof was going to be fixed this month, and fourteen orphans were going to receive tailored clothing from a queen’s personal tailor.
Bellatrix climbed into the carriage. Petra climbed in behind her. The door closed. The carriage began to move.
“Petra.”
“Your Grace.”
Bellatrix looked out the window. The orphanage grew smaller behind them, grey stone and mossy walls and a roof that was about to be replaced by a queen who came for optics and left with a recurring calendar commitment and the name of a thirteen-year-old girl who had told her she was going crazy and had been right.
“Also, cancel the afternoon crypt visit. I need the time.”
“For what, Your Grace?”
Bellatrix looked at Onyx, who was asleep in her lap, sticky and wrinkled and content. In the seat beside her, Avalon was asleep in Petra’s arms, his tail hanging limp, his silver scales rising and falling with breathing that was steady and deep, dreaming about a girl whose palm had smelled like bread and kindness.
“Research. Orphan logistics. If I am going to fund something, I am going to fund it correctly. I refuse to be associated with a half-renovation. My name goes on things that are finished, Petra. Finished and beautiful. The orphanage will be both.”
“Your Grace, that sounds like you care.”
“It sounds like quality control. Do not confuse the two.”
Petra did not confuse the two. Petra also did not believe her, and the disbelief was the most honest thing either of them had produced all day.
In Petra’s arms, Avalon chirped once in his sleep. A small, soft sound. The sound of a dragon who was dreaming about going back, and the dream was a promise, and the promise was his.