The Witch's Daughter

Part Seven

 Emmanuel trudged through the village. The sky was now the color of a fresh bruise and swirled with pale glittering stars. In the distance, he heard a thin, rippling shriek and saw a flash of dark-blue wings. A cool breeze prickled his skin. Dragons!  He turned and saw a plump, dark woman carrying a large egg. She stopped and kept adjusting her flowing crimson robes. The egg wiggled. She squealed, shuddering with such a force that he froze.

"I-Is that a dragon egg?" he asked.

She nodded, running a finger along the silver shell.

"Yes. It was abandoned by its mother on Mount Giveidor."

"B-But why?"

"She probably thought it was a dud. Female dragons ovulate but once a year, and when they do, nothing hatches. There's a strong division between eggs- gold and solid, if fertilized; soft and silver, if not. So you understand my shock at seeing the silver egg shiver. "

"I-I see. Good evening, miss."

He walked away. She reminded him of Helen-- Helen Fancy from Jug Fork, Mississippi. He wondered what in the world a small-town Southern dame was doing in his tiny French town-- but it figured that she was drawn to small towns, despite her disdain for her own. She spoke French clearly, despite her Mississippi drawl, and even Papa was impressed.

"Ah, Emmanuel," he chuckled, downing another wine, "Fancy Helen's the one!"

"Oh, Papa, it'll never work," Emmanuel sighed, "She lives in America, and...well, we don't know each other, and there's the issue of skin color...."

"She's shy, but sweet. I made her a sandwich earlier."

"A sandwich?! Was she hungry, or did you just force her to eat?"

Papa had a reputation for shoving sandwiches in his customers' faces, although his shop only sold knick-knacks.

 "Ahhhh, I don't remember. But love might be in the air, son. After all, me and your Maman married back in 1914. The poor thing was only seventeen!" He leaned forward, chewing something between his foul caramel-brown teeth. "You know how you were born? Conceived, I mean?"

"Papa, I don't...."

"You have to be rough with 'em ladies. They like bein' flattered and loved on, but put a pillow over their face if need be." He shot Emmanuel a smirk. "Thank God she was willing for the other two kids!"

Emmanuel bristled at this. He was too shocked to react-- how this drunkard could be so unapologetically disgusting was beyond him-- or any warm-blooded line of thinking.

"Let me talk to her."

He walked outside the shop and found Helen sitting alone at a black wiry garden-table, eating the rest of Papa's famous ham-and-egg sandwich. She was short and plump, with light-brown skin and a sleek black wig that curved under her chin. She wore a pastel-blue skirt and suit, with a thin gold necklace. When she saw Emmanuel, she smiled.

"H-Hello," she said softly, "You're Emmanuel Beraude, right?"

"Yes. Papa told me about you."

She extended a red-nailed hand.

"Helen Fancy, of Jug Fork, Mississippi. Been wanting to see the world all my life."