improved her craft, when she had captured Seron the way
she remembered him, only then would she let the world see
her work. Not before.
Tosch was disappointed that he couldn’t see her
pictures, but the color on her face buoyed him up
nonetheless. “I’ll fly you over to the tavern,” he offered
cheerfully. “Lets go.”
“Not today,” she said. “I want to keep working.”
Her old friend shrugged and said, “Okay. I’ll see you
later.”
Tosch did, indeed, see her later . . . fourteen years later.
By then, Kyra was an aging barmaid, working only to earn
enough money to keep her in paints, brushes, and canvas.
She had never stopped painting her beloved Seron.
“Notice anything different?” the dragon said easily, as if
he were just picking up yesterday’s conversation.
Kyra was used to it, though, and happily beamed with
joy at his appearance in front of her crumbling shack. “It’s
your nose,” she said, after looking him over. “It’s changed . .
. it’s smaller!”
“That’s right!” he exclaimed. “I knew you’d notice.”
“But what happened to it? It looks, well, sort of pinched
and turned-up.”
“Isn’t it cute?”
“Well . . .”
“I asked a bunch of gnomes to do it for me. I just had to
have a smaller nose. I don’t know exactly what they did.
They built a strange contraption, but I think it worked. Look
at me. Isn’t it darling?”
“Can you breathe all right?”
“Not too bad. You do like it, don’t you?” he asked,
suddenly concerned that he had made a mistake.
“I’ll show you what I think of it,” she said. “Lean down
close to me.”
The great brass dragon lowered its head close to Kyra,
and she gave him a loving kiss on the nose. “You’ll always
be the handsomest, cutest, most adorable dragon to me,” she
said.
Tosch blushed, though it was hard to tell against the
multi-colored cape he wore. To hide his embarrassment, he
cleared his throat and asked, “How is your painting coming
along? Can I see your pictures now?”
“I’m sorry,” she replied evasively. “They’re really not
good enough yet. Someday,” she promised.
“Soon?”
A smile creased her worn, but still lovely face. “By
your standards, yes. Soon.”
* * * * *
Highlords came and went. Great cities rose and fell.
Wars were fought, lost, and won. But Tosch, in his
fashion, was ever constant. Throughout the years, he
visited his aging friend, coming to see her eleven years
later, then nine years, then finally twelve years after that.
But during none of those visits, did she ever show him her
paintings.
It was beginning to annoy him. While the dragon was
as young and vibrant as the day he had met Kyra and Seron,
she had reached an age where it seemed she was always
cranky. Especially on his latest visit. He had seen her earlier
in the day and found her to be strangely unimpressed with
his new purple hat. All she wanted to do was get back to her
painting. She said she was finally getting close to achieving
what she’d been after all these years. That was just fine with
him, but why couldn’t she pay more attention to his hat?
After all, everyone else thought it was boldly original.
There was no doubt in his mind; he had to talk with her about her
moods. He resolved to go see her that very night.
Kyra always felt a sweet melancholy after Tosch’s
visits ended; it was only then that she was truly aware of her
loneliness. This time it was no different, but after a hectic
evening of waiting tables she was anxious to pick up her
brushes and paint while she still had some strength.
She had no idea how many pictures she had painted of
Seron; she had long ago forgotten the count. In fact, she had
forgotten many things – but not the face of her husband.
Her husband’s image, with all of its sweetness, hung
above her bed.
Seron’s likeness, with all of its ambition and drive, hung
in the alcove that she called her studio.
Even where she cooked and ate, his face looked down