Page 26 of Dragon’s Ending

Behind me, Berstow’s pen tapped once, twice, then stilled.

I ran a finger along the spine of one of the books, leaving a clean line through the dust, and pulled it free. Instead of opening it, I turned back, and caught him watching me.

His gaze dropped back to the page almost immediately, but too late. I leaned back against the shelf, book still in my hand, and let my gaze rest on him properly this time.

He held out for a few seconds. Then his shoulders tightened, just slightly, and he shifted in his chair, adjusting his position like he couldn’t quite get comfortable. Well, this was getting more interesting.

“You reorganised the estate records,” I said eventually.

“Yes.” He didn’t look at me, concentrating hard on whatever he was writing.

“I’d already sorted those.”

His pen paused. “You’d made piles.”

“Which were organised.”

“In a way known only to yourself.”

I pushed away from the shelf a little. “You noticed that.”

He glanced up at me, and he grinned. It was the first time I’d seen him smile properly, and it changed his face. Made him look like a real person. Also, the way his smile briefly lit his eyes—he looked fucking hot.

“What’s that?” I gestured to the notes he was making, which were far more copious than yesterday’s. “Found something exciting?”

The last traces of that smile were still playing around his lips as he looked down at the papers in front of him. “Maybe. You know the Talbots found that family tree, the one that says each dragon family is descended from a Knight of the Round Table?”

Of course I didn’t know that, but it turned out not to be a real question. He kept going without waiting for an answer.

“Your family name is the Welsh for Bedivere, who was one of Arthur’s knights, but it could have been just a… thing. Coincidence, or a tribute without any deeper meaning. But do you know how many Arthurs are on your family tree at the beginning of these records? The first son in each generation for…” he glanced down at his notes. “Well, so far, I’ve got five generations, all with an Arthur, dating slightly after the time King Arthur was supposed to have existed. Of course it’s not proof Arthur was real. We’ll never have that. But you have to admit it’s a coincidence.”

Yeah, yeah, history, coincidence, legend, whatever. I hardly knew what he’d said because it was as if the Ben Berstow I’d spent rather too much of the last two days with had disappeared and been replaced by someone whose eyes were glowing with enthusiasm and excitement. I half expected him to break into interpretive dance to put his point across.

I finally realised he was expecting me to say something.

“Bedivere,” I said slowly, picking my way through what he’d said. “Which one was he? I’ve heard of Gawain and Lancelot, and that’s about it.”

“He was one of Arthur’s most trusted advisors. The one he gave Excalibur to when he was dying, and the one who put him in the boat that took him to Avalon.”

I had only the haziest notion of King Arthur, but I didn’t hate that our family was associated with one of the heroes in his legend.

“I mean, the stories are all different, like some say Mordred was the rightful king, not Arthur, but they’re pretty consistent that Arthur made Bedivere his cupbearer.” A grin lit Ben’s face again, and it was hard to look away. “I always wondered how that worked, seeing as he only had one hand.”

I huffed a laugh, more at the delight in Ben’s face than what he’d said.

“I kind of love that none of the sources made a thing of his one-handedness and simply called him a great knight,” Ben added.

Which was more of an insight into Ben than the sources he was quoting, I thought. Pulling an armful of books from a shelf, I dumped them down on one of the only clear spots on the table, sending dust flying into the air.

“So,” I said, “estate records separate from personal ones?”

Ben’s eyes were still bright and alive as he looked at me, visibly restraining himself from commenting on how I’d deposited the books. For all of a second.

“Preferably without causing furniture to collapse.”

“No promises.”

And then we worked quietly together, and still that warm, welcoming scent underlay the mustiness of the books.