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Knowledge mattered, and the photographs proved my ignorance.
My father’s magic could summon shadows, and while I enjoyed a little of his power, in my hands, it had never done anything more than block out unwanted light while I slept. Could he disappear without a trace, hidden in the deepest of shadows? If he could, that wouldn’t explain the photographs or my situation.
The times I had witnessed his magic, he had remained substantial. When I’d been a little girl, he’d abused his powers to play games with me, hiding in the darkness and forcing me to seek him out by feel. Over time, I’d gotten good at spotting him.
In retrospect, I admired my father’s cunning, teaching me how to see through his trickery. The skill hadn’t come in useful yet, but one day, it might.
After checking in on the forecasts for the next rain, which called for slugs or caterpillars with slim chance of green algae, I began with researching the basic powers of dragons in the hope of finding even a single clue. Purple dragons held the top spot for the healing arts, being able to identify toxins at a glance, revealing the source of injuries, and even manipulating flesh, bone, and blood to save lives. The color had limitations, including the inability to raise the dead, but they could work miracles in the operating room.
Within reason, or so the internet claimed.
All magic came at a price, and the purple dragons paid that price in many ways, including pain, taking on the toxin or illness into their own bodies, or having the energy and life drained out of them. I had no idea what prices I endured for my visions.
I’d never experienced any notable fatigue after catching a glimpse of how a wound came to be, and I would have remembered pain. I’d also dodged illness, as I’d missed no more than a day or two a year when I’d been gainfully employed as a police officer.
Several websites dedicated to purple dragons made a point of directing dragon-kin, petitioners, or pilgrims to a medical school in Dragon Heights for training prior to becoming a dragon.
Unwilling to test my luck and draw attention to my interest in the dragon colors, I abandoned the search and transitioned to places with interesting gemstones and rocks nearby so Garnet could add to her collection. A venture to Montana would likely be in our future, as they had a mine with sapphires and allowed the public to hunt for stones at the site.
Uncut sapphires would make an excellent start to her hoard.
I stopped my work long enough to make us lunch, and aware of how much Garnet loved mashed potatoes, I made them for her, topped with butter and some cream, and put some sour cream on the side so she could try it. Then, as she’d gotten a selection of hot sauces to try from the grocery store, I made little tester plates for her, adding a dollop of each sauce on a tiny pile of potatoes.
I made myself baked beans and hot dogs, a food my father had taught me to love when he’d held responsibility for feeding me as a child.
Garnet sniffed the hot sauce, her uncertainty rather amusing.
“It’s spicy, baby,” I told her. I got up, grabbed one of the bags of chips I’d gotten along with a jar of sauce, and brought it back along with a clean plate. I poured some of the salsa onto the plate, used my spoon to spread it into little piles, and added some hot sauce to each pile so I could get a taste of it without just dipping my chips in hot sauce. “This salsa is pretty mild, so it’s not going to be very hot in your mouth. Those hot sauces are going to make your mouth hot. If you don’t like it, you can drink your milk to make the sensation go away.”
To prove it was safe, I scooped a chip into some of the salsa, making certain to get a good helping of hot sauce on it. I popped it into my mouth and chewed.
Had I been in Miami with Erik, I would have begun planning his demise with the sauce; it packed a punch and lit my taste buds on fire. I huffed my pleasure over the heat. I pointed at the appropriate pile of her mashed potatoes with hot sauce. “That one is going to be like putting the fires of hell into your mouth.”
Rather than deter the kitten, she bounded around her dish, gave it a sniff, and chomped a large mouthful of it, the hot sauce entering her mouth first.
I prepared to grab her bottle of milk to lessen the heat in case the experiment went poorly.
Garnet squeaked her excitement before burping.
Then she attacked the rest of her hot sauce piles, pausing long enough to swallow and breathe.
All right, then. I had a kitten with a love of hot sauce on her mashed potatoes.
Reminding myself that it could be worse, I grabbed one of the bottles, gave it a good shake, and drizzled it on to her main serving of potatoes. She squeaked, holding herself back until I managed to get the hot sauce bottle out of her way before she dove at her plate. She slipped, fell into it, and went to work without a care in the world that she wore as much mashed potatoes and hot sauce as she ate.
Tourmaline, who sipped from his indoor nectar dish, stopped to stare at the carbunclo.
Giving my kitten a bath hadn’t been on my agenda, but I accepted there was no way she would ever get hot sauce and mashed potatoes out of her fur otherwise. As she didn’t object to water, I suspected the cunning little beast had figured out she could get her favorite food and a bath in a single swoop.
Clever, sneaky little beast.
I considered trying to teach her table manners, but I hesitated at hampering her ability to enjoy breakfast, even if it meant I’d have to put in some extra work.
I labeled myself as a pushover, finished my breakfast, and wondered how I would turn chaos into order once I finished gathering what information I could from the internet.
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Sunday, April 26, 2167