Was it too late now to do it for either of them?
She glanced down at her hands. Tentatively, she allowed herself to ask the question, If I can do anything I set my mind to, what should I do?
Her mind was blank.
'So, what do you think of the way I'm wearing my scales?' asked Tosch, interrupting her reverie.
'What?'
'My scales… on my back,' said the dragon, turning to give her a better look. 'I've forced the edges up just a bit. Pretty stylish, huh?'
'It looks very modem. You might start a trend.'
'You think so?'
'If anyone can,' she laughed, 'it's you.'
'Well, the only way I can start a trend is if I am seen by everyone,' Tosch said thoughtfully. 'So I guess I'd better be on my way.'
He flapped his wings and slowly rose off the ground. 'I'll be back soon to pick up my new cape. Bye, now.'
She went back to the only trade she knew — serving ale. She worked long hours at a new tavern where the owner favored her and the customers appreciated her diligence. But the years of hard work and scraping by had taken a toll on her. Now, the younger barmaids had to fend off the pinches and the propositions, and only the regulars took notice of the pale, disheveled Kyra. She did not care — she did not care about much.
Six years passed before Tosch returned. Kyra understood that to a brass dragon, six years was hardly more than a week; she wasn't angry with him. Besides, in her great and enduring sadness, there was precious little happiness. Seeing her old friend was a welcome relief from her neverending sense of loss.
They sat on a sandy beach at the edge of the bay. She glanced up and smiled, slightly averting her eyes. It was self-preservation. Tosch was covered with every imaginable color of cloth; it nearly blinded her whenever she tried to gaze at him. He obviously was not interested in the three-color cape that she had painstakingly made.
'Look,' he said, insisting that she focus her eyes on him, 'I've had my teeth chiseled. What do you think? Good and straight now, right?'
She shielded her eyes and glanced at his mouth. 'Every time I see you, you're different,' she said. 'I
can hardly remember what you looked like six years ago.'
A tear suddenly ran down her cheek. Her chin trembled.
'Now what's wrong?' asked Tosch, perturbed. 'I'm sorry. It's just that I sometimes forget what Seron used to look like, too.'
The dragon lowered his plummaged head and sighed with exasperation. 'You still think of him?' 'I never stop.'
'Well, I still can't understand what you saw in him. I grant you, he was a passable painter, but after all, he had a wonderful subject. You know,' Tosch added, 'he was never very nice to me.'
'He liked you very much,' Kyra said defiantly. 'And I don't want you to say another bad word about Seron. Not ever.'
'Sorry,' apologized Tosch, shrinking just a bit under her wrath. He thought it wise, just then, to say somethingnice about her late husband. 'It's too bad he never did a self portrait,' offered the dragon. 'He would
have done a fine job. And then you would have had a picture of him always.'
Kyra nodded sorrowfully. 'Listen, let me take you for a ride,' suggested the dragon, trying to change the subject. 'It'll lift your spirits. Where would you like to go?'
'Home,' she said sadly. 'I'm not very good company when I'm feeling like this.'
She lay in bed for hours, unable to keep from crying. It's been six years, she thought to herself. Why am I still grieving? Why can't I stop?
The answer was as plain as the tears on her face:
Her love did not die in that fire. Yes, her memory was fading, but her feelings were as strong as ever.
Finally, late that afternoon, she climbed wearily out of bed and built a fire in order to make herself a light meal. Later, after sitting down at her rickety wooden table to eat, she noticed that her hands were smeared with charcoal. Without thinking, she absently cleaned her fingers by etching an image of her husband in charcoal on her faded white tablecloth.
When she realized what she had done, she stopped and stared at her work. The picture stared back at her. It wasn't a very good likeness of Seron, but it was still undeniably him. More than that, though, while she had been sketching, she had sensed — for the first time in more than six years — the peace and security she had felt in her husband's arms.
After all this time, Kyra finally knew what she could do with her life besides serving ale. Still staring at the sketch, she whispered, 'I'm going to paint you, Seron. I may not be the artist that you once were, but I'll do my best to be as good as I can be. I won't settle for less; I can't settle for less, because it's the only way I can have you close to me.'
With paints, brushes, and a canvas bought out of her meager savings, Kyra started the memory portrait of her husband that very night. Painting by firelight, she worked until dawn. Her body ached, her eyes were strained, and she was thoroughly exhausted. And when the sun came up, she was also thoroughly disgusted. She hurled the canvas to the floor, where it landed face down. 'Terrible,' she muttered. 'He didn't look anything like that.'
It was then that Tosch flew to her door, calling out, 'Come look at my new wings!'
Kyra stuck her head out the window and saw gold sparkles on Tosch's wings, dancing in the dawn light.
'You've outdone yourself,' she declared.
'And so have you,' Tosch cried happily, seeing the paint smears on her face. 'Are you coloring your body now, too?'
'No,' she sighed wearily. 'But I have decided to do some painting.'
'Ooh, let me see. I want to see.' Tosch bubbled with excitement.
'There's nothing for you to look at yet,' she explained. But she knew deep in her heart that even if there had been, she would not have shown it to anyone, not even Tosch. Her painting was too private, too personal. Later, when she 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.
