Ginkgo rambled on with no real purpose except to distract her from her troubles.
“Any chance you were brought in to strengthen bloodlines?”
That earned him another nipped ear.
“No offense. It’s just a guess since that happened to a friend of mine. Only he never mentioned it to anyone, and then all the sudden our Kith was having kittens under the kitchen table.” He smiled at the memory. It’d been a fiasco at the time. “Quite the feat, since Minx is considerably larger than the table. At least she spared my couch.”
A thought occurred.
“Anyone figured out how many pups you’re carrying?”
She made a low sound that was decidedly inconclusive.
“Want me to check?” He stroked her jaw. “I got pretty good at it. Guessed right for both of Minx’s litters.”
A small lick felt like permission.
“Okay. Mind the baby for me.” Ginkgo bundled Gregor in his shirt and nestled him between the Kith’s paws. “I need to push and prod a little, but it shouldn’t hurt. I’ll watch your ears. Flick them back sharp-like, and I’ll stop.”
She rolled an eye.
He knelt at her side, petting before adding any pressure. “I’m sure if you’re here, you’re under all kinds of watchful care, so let’s face it. I’m just being nosy.”
The scents were good. Much of the sadness had faded, leaving the deep, warm, waiting flavors he associated with pregnancy. With half an eye on the disposition of her ears, he kneaded into her side, searching for clues.
He found one.
A big one.
“Hey, you in there,” he called softly. “Are you making your pretty mama wait? Seems to me you’re about ready. Between you and me, she’s ready, too. So no dawdling.”
Under his hand, the lone pup wriggled, almost like they were trying to get closer.
“Clever pup. Are you a beauty like your mama? Or as handsome as your da?” Which really should have occurred to him earlier. “Say, lady. Is your mate going to take exception to my being here?”
She closed her eyes, threw back her head, and opened her mouth in a silent howl.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Ears to Hear
Mikoto woke to the skitter of tiny feet, only to realize that Kyrie had taken Noble out for him. His apology came out low and hoarse as he rolled from bed. “Thank you for sparing Zisa’s floors, but Noble is my responsibility.”
The boy glided over and boosted the puppy onto the bed. “I was already awake. I do not need as much sleep as you.”
“Because you are a crosser?”
“Because I am a crosser,” Kyrie solemnly confirmed.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Mikoto was nearly the same height as the boy, who was compelling at close range. His fingers twitched, but he recalled himself and lowered his gaze.
“Curiosity can be a compliment.” Kyrie carefully picked up Mikoto’s hand and brought it to his face. “Some people need to touch me to be sure I am real.”
“They do?”
The boy smiled. “Touch is part of familiarization. And I find it reassuring.”
Mikoto’s fingertips grazed freckled scales. “You do?”
“I do. Because you are neither afraid of nor disgusted by me.”
What a thing to suggest.
“Not everyone finds the marks of my heritage beautiful.”
That remark was even more telling than the last.
The boy could see right through him. Had weighed Mikoto in a balance and somehow found him worthy. But Kyrie was also baring something vulnerable. People feared this gentle child? Flinched away or thought him ugly? Mikoto felt a surge of indignation, of protectiveness.
Kyrie shuffled closer. “We are becoming friends …?”
“We are friends.” Mikoto pulled him into an embrace. “And not simply because you are beautiful.”
The boy practically melted into him, which was such an Amaranthine thing to do. It put Mikoto back on familiar footing. How many colts and bucks and pups had he carried and cuddled? And the whisperlings of the Dimityblest clans, who flocked to his side as if he were their flame. Children needed this.
He gradually became aware that they were alone in Zisa’s little house, even though sunlight still angled sharply through the eastern window. A breeze puffed past sheer fabric, stirring the tiny chime Timur had added. Mikoto had the sudden impression that the puff of wind had been looking for him, which was probably his imagination. Even though it riffled through his hair.
Kyrie was watching his face. “I am curious about you, too. You are the only other person I know who is loved by wind.”
“You are? Because you are a dragon?”
“I used to think so, but … no. I have come to believe that I am loved because I listen. I was born with ears to hear.” Kyrie tipped his head to one side, as if catching faint sounds. “In stories, only a few rare souls ever win the trust of the lost clans. Moonbeams are only ever caught by those who can cherish them, and stars only set their feet upon the earth when love compels them.”
Mikoto dared to ask, “What about wind?”
“The most elusive of all impressions.” Kyrie pulled himself up onto Mikoto’s lap. “Did you know that sigilcraft would not be possible without the wind’s cooperation?”
He shook his head. He’d only really paid attention to the stories of fabled weapons and epic partnerships between reavers and their Kith. Battler stuff.
Kyrie’s fingers traced through the air, pulling luminous strands into a pattern. He gave it wings and blew it a kiss, and it twirled into action, dancing around Noble’s ears like a butterfly.
“We write upon tame winds, or so the stories say.”
“I did not know.”
“Not all winds are tame, of course. Most are fickle, but I have always been able to make friends.”
“Because you listen.”
Kyrie nodded. “The ones that like me best will bring me things. Scents or sounds or secrets. Sometimes, I know how they feel.”
Mikoto couldn’t bring himself to ask. He didn’t need to.
“You make yours happy.”
“I did not know,” he mumbled again. “How could I know?”
The boy nodded. “That is why you need a dragon. Because a willing wind can be captured by their words. If that is your wish.”
Mikoto had been wishing along an entirely different line. But he wanted to know more. “Are there stories besides the one Sinder told?”
“Yes. Quite a few.” Kyrie said, “Woo an ethereal one to your side, and feel their kisses. Teach them your form, and you shall find pleasure in theirs. Twain lives, thus entwining, bring new light and life. For such are the ways of love.”
It was suggestive enough to make Mikoto blush. “Are you not a little young for this kind of thing?”
“Yes. But you are not.” Kyrie folded his hands together. “Your wind has been trying to catch your attention. Have you begun to notice, now that you know she is near?”
Mikoto glanced toward the windchime, which stirred enough to offer one dainty ping. “What am I supposed to do?”
Kyrie calmly studied his face. “You could release her.”