I stab the pot with a stick. Not a spoon. A stick. It was the only thing clean enough. Well. “Clean” is relative. It only had one beetle on it.
“Now stir,” the Dragon says, voice like soone’s condescending aunt.
“I am stirring,” I lie. I jab it once more and swirl the contents in what I feel is a deeply symbolic motion of rebellion.
“You're poking, not stirring. Clockwise, Saya. You do rember how clocks work?”
“Nope. We stole the only one I ever saw, rember?” I hiss, blowing a strand of hair out of my eye and flicking a glob of potato-ish paste from my knuckles. “Besides, who decided clockwise is the correct way? Maybe the stew wants to explore its options.”
The Dragon groans. “Last ti you explored options, you nearly invented a new form of diarrhea.”
I ignore him. Not because he’s wrong, but because I’m deep in thought. Not deep like philosophy. Deep like a puddle that pretends it’s a lake.
“Hey,” I mutter. “Do you actually believe in marriage?”
The Dragon blinks. “You an the institution?”
“No, I an the dessert topping,” I snort. “Yes, the institution. Like, monogamy. One person. Forever.” I let that word hang in the air like a fart in a tent.
He eyes . “Why?”
I shrug. “I’ve been in harems. I’ve run harems. Concubine pits, bathhouse cults, sex caravans, the usual. I get all that. Rotation. Variety. Schedules. But one person, for the rest of your life? Like a single bed. Forever. Doesn’t it rot your brain?”
“People crave stability,” he says, frowning at the pot. “Also, tradition, social contracts, and children.”
I bark a laugh. “You’re describing slavery with extra paperwork.” I stir the pot again. It makes a noise. A worrying one. “Like… no one I ever knew did it. Not really. My mom—probably a laundress, possibly a sailor’s regret—was never married. The other temple girls? Sa story. Lovers ca and went. So brought wine. So brought bruises.”
“Add the dried mushrooms,” he says.
I toss in a handful. Most are probably mushrooms. One might be a toad.
“And you?” he asks.
“I once married a guy who claid to be ‘Lord of the Hayloft.’” I grin. “We shared a stall for three nights. He gave half a turnip and chlamydia.”
The Dragon hisses through his nose. “Romantic.”
“Right? Still more stable than most unions I’ve seen.” I lean back on my elbows, watching the firelight catch his scales. “Don’t get wrong. I like connection. I like love. Lust. Long naps with soone who doesn’t snore or try to kill . But forever?” I glance at him. “Have you t ?”
He snorts. “Sadly, yes.”
“Forever sounds like a punishnt. One person to fight with over stew seasoning until your tits sag and your hopes shrivel.”
“You’d still cheat,” he says, “out of sheer boredom.”
I smile sweetly. “I’d cheat just to make things interesting.”
Silence for a beat. The stew burbles like it’s planning a coup.
“Is it supposed to be that color?” he asks.
“I added mint. For freshness.”
He stares. “You tried to poison with mint last ti.”
“I also added onions.”
“You’re banned from cooking,” he mutters.
I grin and hand him a bowl. He takes it like it’s made of live rats.
“So,” I say, sipping my own. It’s… edible. Barely. “What about you? You ever loved just one person?”
He looks at .
Long pause.
“I love my hoard,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “And?”
He sips the stew, winces. “And maybe I love the idiot who keeps trying to cook for .”
I blink.
Then toss a sprig of burnt mint at him.
“Ugh. Sentintal bastard.”
“You started it,” he growls, but his wing casually wraps around as we both stare into the fire, listening to the stew audibly give up on being food.
I’m still stirring. Sort of. The Dragon is too polite to call it violent sloshing. The stew’s turned the color of betrayal.
“I an,” I say, licking sothing off my thumb that might be onion paste or might be regret, “I get the strategic marriage thing. Kings, dukes, power-mongers slapping bloodlines together like at on a cutting board. That I understand. You marry to keep your borders safe. You marry to get more goats. Or cannons. Or because your dad made a stupid bet.”
I tap the rim of the pot thoughtfully. “But common folk? Farrs marrying milkmaids? Fishern dragging so poor sod down into a life of salted cod and crying children? Why? What do they gain? Tax deductions?”
The Dragon says sothing about “stability.”
“Yeah, and ulcers,” I shoot back. “Co on. What’s the point of marrying so toothless turnip farr unless you really want to die milking goats in your thirties?”
I pause.
Then grin.
“Now that said—if a rich rchant with thick purses and thin morals wanted a third wife, maybe I’d consider it.”
He gives that look. The one where the inner eyebrow lifts like a drawbridge.
“Why not?” I say, counting on my fingers. “Big house. Nice linens. Silk robes. Stewed prunes every morning. I’d lounge around, bat my lashes, and spend his coin faster than he could earn it. Two months. Three at most. Half a year if the foot rubs are decent.”
“Until you burned the house down out of boredom,” he mutters.
“Obviously.” I smile wide and wicked. “But now that I think of it… maybe I could contract myself out that way. You know. Like being indenta—indnut—indon—ugh, like what they did to at the temple. Except this ti, I pick the guy. One man. One contract. Half the coin up front.”
I stop stirring, eyes going a bit distant.
“Huh. Never thought of it that way. Like freelance wifery. Temporary monogamy. Rent-a-bride. First wife’s away visiting her sister? Boom. Saya slides in. Keep the bed warm. Spice up the pantry. Stir the stew—taphorically and literally.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Then ride off with a full purse and minimal emotional damage.”
He sips his tea. “You're reinventing prostitution with a marriage license.”
I shrug. “Call it boutique commitnt.”
“Call it sociopathy.”
“Call it survival, darling.” I dip my finger into the stew and suck it clean. “Hmm. Could use more salt.”
“Could use less Saya,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t stop when I lean against his side like I belong there.
Because maybe I do.
For now.
No contract needed.
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