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Authors: Juliette Cross
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night sky. “Our first date?”
What in the world would I tell my mother?
Chapter 6
I stood outside the door of the Flaming Hearts Art Gallerystaring at the Nightwing crest emboldened on the glass door—three black dragons encircling a red heart of flames. Deep breath in, I pushed open the door and entered.
At once, a sense of comfort and peace washed over me. This always happened when I entered into an environment filled with artwork. Something about such a space gave me a sense of belonging.
“Hi. You must be Ms. Barrow.”
A slender Morgon with wings of deep purple greeted me, extending a dainty, pale hand. Even her black hair had a purple sheen. “My name is Elsibeta Violetvale. Mr. Nightwing is expecting you.”
I shook her hand, mesmerized by her delicate wings. She fluttered them, something I’d noticed female Morgons do from time to time.
“I’m sorry.” I tried not to gape. “I’ve never seen a Morgon with wings like yours.”
Her expression softened. “The Violetvale clan is very small, mostly living in a remote village beyond Drakos near the Sabine Province.”
“How, if you don’t mind me asking, did you end up here?”
“I don’t mind.” She waved me into the gallery and led me through an office door behind the counter. “Our clan is a very passive one. We don’t function well in most cities, especially Drakos, which is—shall we say—an aggressive atmosphere to live in.”
“Oh. I see.”
She exuded serenity. Even her voice was soft and melodious.
“Gladium isn’t exactly happy-go-lucky,” I remarked.
She laughed, a smooth sound. “Not entirely, but Gladium is much more tolerant and accepting than many places. Have you ever been outside of Gladium?”
“No. Never.”
We passed through a back room with oil paintings, marble statues, and bronze sculptures, some boxed, some ready for display, and headed down another short hallway on the other side.
“You are fortunate. This is the most pleasant place I’ve ever lived, other than my home, of course.”
“Why did you leave?”
She turned her violet eyes on me.
“I apologize. That was a personal question.”
“It’s not so personal. I left because I love art. Although the people of my village have rudimentary talents, I wanted to see what other artists of the world could create. I realized that my heart felt incomplete, restless. I needed more than my home could offer.”
I sighed, a heaviness coming over me. “I know that feeling. Very well, I’m afraid.”
“Then we’re kindred spirits, you and I.”
I pondered her words—meek, unsure Ella a kindred spirit with this lovely creature before me, bound by a deep love of the arts and a desire for more out of life. It took me a second, but I realized that, indeed, we were. “Yes. I suppose we are.”
She smiled and gestured toward a doorway.
Hands clasped behind his back, Paxon gazed out an open window into a small courtyard where a fountain bubbled among a garden of wildflowers, the entire space encased in a greenhouse dome, creating an artificial summer. His wings were folded tight against his back. Dressed in black slacks and a starched blue shirt of a shimmery material, he looked every bit the dashing businessman—poised and controlled. I recalled how his steady eyes had lost their composure last night.
As if sensing my presence, he faced the door.
“Ella. Come in. Have a seat.”
So proper. So formal. I was glad I’d dressed in full interview attire—straight black skirt and white blouse.
I sat and passed him my resume from a leather portfolio, noticing his gaze wandering down my legs. Someone didn’t have his mind on business. I sat up straight and waited while he perused the two-page document. I cupped both hands on one knee, heart thumping hard, pretending to have patience.
He glanced up. “Your thesis for graduation was ‘The Emotional Impact and Abstract Beauty of Mixed Mediums’?”
I nodded, knowing my closed-lipped smile
What in the world would I tell my mother?
Chapter 6
I stood outside the door of the Flaming Hearts Art Gallerystaring at the Nightwing crest emboldened on the glass door—three black dragons encircling a red heart of flames. Deep breath in, I pushed open the door and entered.
At once, a sense of comfort and peace washed over me. This always happened when I entered into an environment filled with artwork. Something about such a space gave me a sense of belonging.
“Hi. You must be Ms. Barrow.”
A slender Morgon with wings of deep purple greeted me, extending a dainty, pale hand. Even her black hair had a purple sheen. “My name is Elsibeta Violetvale. Mr. Nightwing is expecting you.”
I shook her hand, mesmerized by her delicate wings. She fluttered them, something I’d noticed female Morgons do from time to time.
“I’m sorry.” I tried not to gape. “I’ve never seen a Morgon with wings like yours.”
Her expression softened. “The Violetvale clan is very small, mostly living in a remote village beyond Drakos near the Sabine Province.”
“How, if you don’t mind me asking, did you end up here?”
“I don’t mind.” She waved me into the gallery and led me through an office door behind the counter. “Our clan is a very passive one. We don’t function well in most cities, especially Drakos, which is—shall we say—an aggressive atmosphere to live in.”
“Oh. I see.”
She exuded serenity. Even her voice was soft and melodious.
“Gladium isn’t exactly happy-go-lucky,” I remarked.
She laughed, a smooth sound. “Not entirely, but Gladium is much more tolerant and accepting than many places. Have you ever been outside of Gladium?”
“No. Never.”
We passed through a back room with oil paintings, marble statues, and bronze sculptures, some boxed, some ready for display, and headed down another short hallway on the other side.
“You are fortunate. This is the most pleasant place I’ve ever lived, other than my home, of course.”
“Why did you leave?”
She turned her violet eyes on me.
“I apologize. That was a personal question.”
“It’s not so personal. I left because I love art. Although the people of my village have rudimentary talents, I wanted to see what other artists of the world could create. I realized that my heart felt incomplete, restless. I needed more than my home could offer.”
I sighed, a heaviness coming over me. “I know that feeling. Very well, I’m afraid.”
“Then we’re kindred spirits, you and I.”
I pondered her words—meek, unsure Ella a kindred spirit with this lovely creature before me, bound by a deep love of the arts and a desire for more out of life. It took me a second, but I realized that, indeed, we were. “Yes. I suppose we are.”
She smiled and gestured toward a doorway.
Hands clasped behind his back, Paxon gazed out an open window into a small courtyard where a fountain bubbled among a garden of wildflowers, the entire space encased in a greenhouse dome, creating an artificial summer. His wings were folded tight against his back. Dressed in black slacks and a starched blue shirt of a shimmery material, he looked every bit the dashing businessman—poised and controlled. I recalled how his steady eyes had lost their composure last night.
As if sensing my presence, he faced the door.
“Ella. Come in. Have a seat.”
So proper. So formal. I was glad I’d dressed in full interview attire—straight black skirt and white blouse.
I sat and passed him my resume from a leather portfolio, noticing his gaze wandering down my legs. Someone didn’t have his mind on business. I sat up straight and waited while he perused the two-page document. I cupped both hands on one knee, heart thumping hard, pretending to have patience.
He glanced up. “Your thesis for graduation was ‘The Emotional Impact and Abstract Beauty of Mixed Mediums’?”
I nodded, knowing my closed-lipped smile
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