The Book of Dragons. Группа авторов

seal were still readable: University Institute, Technical Branch.

      With trembling hands, she pulled it free, letting the rest of the mail flutter to the ground unread. The cat leaped out from its hiding place and batted the bills aside before burying its claws in the HOA flyer. Melee reached for the ancient armchair behind her and sank into it without bothering to move the piles of her father’s old shirts draped over the armrests. The words were ordinary and there was nothing magical about the paper or ink, but it might as well have been a senior lexomantic hex for all the good it did her. To her bleary eyes, the words burned like black fire against the Finance Department’s cheap office paper.

       Dear Ms. James,

       Due to recent events connected with the Independent Sphere’s rally last week, we regret to inform you that the Institute is unable to accept the contribution from the Young Magitechnician’s Guild and Scholarship Fund toward your tuition payment for this next term.

       Please find your final bill below. Payment must be remitted no later than the first day of classes.

       Kind regards,

       M. Nauda Nakvispirms, MtPhD, CPA

       University Bursar

       Institute Liaison, Technical Branch

      Melee read it again, then once more, giving particular attention to the number below the bursar’s note. It did not change.

      There was a snuffling sound and the cold touch of a nose against her ankle. She folded the letter. Her hands had stopped shaking. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?” she said quietly, and leaned down to scratch the cat’s chin. “So am I. You hungry, Dad?”

      She didn’t wait for an answer. Breakfast. Breakfast sounded good. It would be overhard eggs for her, sunny-side up for him, frozen hash browns zapped to a crispy death in their ancient microwave and smothered in cheese, bacon barely browned so she could pull off the extra fat, and as many pancakes as she could make before her appetite drove her to the table.

      The cat followed her into the kitchen. Melee left the letter on the armchair.

      They didn’t have any pancake mix, and the milk was starting to spoil, so she settled for toast with pepper-and-nightshade jam. The rigors of frying bacon and unsticking the eggs from the cast iron skillet proved a worthwhile distraction for a while. She could still feel the letter, hanging like a wraith in the crowded doorway between the kitchen and front hall, the silent presence presiding over their tiny table. Three skillets in she ran out of bacon. She scowled at the empty fridge as she set the table for the two of them and pulled her father’s wheelchair up to his customary spot.

      “Eat up, I made enough for twenty,” she said.

      The cat meowed at her feet. Melee picked off a few strips of bacon fat and tossed them to the floor. For a long while the sound of chewing filled the room.

      “They’re not taking the YMG scholarship,” she said at last.

      The cat nudged her leg.

      “Something to do with that stupid rally last week. I wasn’t even there.”

      She flicked a few more bacon bits to the waiting mouth beneath her.

      “The bursar says the tuition’s due Monday.”

      A bit of pepper jelly stuck in her teeth. She worked it free.

      “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have it, right? It was in their hands. It’s their fault if they give it back.”

      The fork scraped the last of her eggs from the paper plate, cleaned as ruthlessly as by any dishwasher.

      “This is ridiculous. I’m not the one who should have to figure this out!”

      She tipped back a mouthful of coffee so hot it brought tears to her eyes. The tears didn’t stop, streaming down her cheeks and dripping onto the greasy smears on the table in front of her.

      Her father said nothing.

      “I’m sorry, Dad,” she said after a minute. “I just—I don’t know what to do.”

      The cat nudged her again, but she’d run out of bacon.

      “I know I promised.” The words came slowly. “I know what you want for me. I want it too—I really do. If I could get the shop up and running again without that stupid certificate, I would. You know I would. But …”

      It hung out there, an invitation, pleading for conciliation, forgiveness, anything.

      Her father said nothing.

      Melee hung her head. “But I promised,” she whispered.

      No more tears came. She wished they would, wished she could curl up somewhere and cry for hours, could let herself wallow in self-pity for the sheer selfish pleasure of it. A sharp, double-edged pleasure that solved nothing, but it would feel better than this.

      She stood up and cleared the table in silence: one plate scoured clean, one untouched. Her dad’s dinner went into an empty cottage-cheese container in the fridge. It would be her breakfast tomorrow. The cat watched her as she paused for a moment behind her dad’s wheelchair. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes as she touched the armrest.

      “You know what I wish more than anything?” she said.

      Still he said nothing.

      “Yeah, actually. I bet you do.”

      She swept up her satchel and jacket and slipped through the labyrinth of memories occupying their living room. At the door, she paused. She could just make out the kitchen, the table, and the wheelchair that had been empty for nearly a month.

      “I miss you, Dad.”

      She didn’t bother parking the dragon somewhere away from the night crowds. Their gawping didn’t depreciate it, and most were too drunk to remember in the morning. The lights in Pawn Row were, of course, burning brightly as the proprietors turned to their true business. The dragon settled into an easy crouch by the curb outside Carl’s shop as she whistled it locked. The golden fire flowed out of its eyes, and in that moment Melee wondered if she should have considered the institute’s alternate tuition payment plan. After all, what more use had she of her soul? There were always those buy-back options after graduation. Risky, but maybe worth it …

      “Melee?”

      Carl appeared on the doorstep, his velvet dressing gown swishing dramatically even though there was no wind. His fangs protruded from beneath his upper lip and he had the tiniest smudge of blood on his chin, but he looked down at her with genuine concern.

      “Are you all right, darling? What are you doing out this late? After what you paid today, you should be resting!” His eyes flicked to the dragon, and Melee caught the glimmer of understanding in their red depths. She’d never parked it on the street before.

      “You said collectors would be interested in my dragon, right?” she asked.

      “Well, yes. Naturally. But you said—”

      “I know what I said.” She straightened. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Never let them see you cry. “This is what I’m saying now. Do you know any of these collectors personally?”

      “One or two, but, Melee …” Carl trailed off as he searched her face. After a long moment, his fangs retracted and he put a hand on her shoulder. Despite its inhuman chill and frightening strength, his touch was comforting. “What do you need from me?”

      The words weighed on her tongue, weighed on her heart. She felt the dragon’s eyes on her and somewhere, somehow, her father’s eyes too. I’m sorry, Dad.

      “How much?”