Apple Pie 

Chapter 37: Dragon Advice 

The visit stretched into a week, and Mirabel found herself settling into a rhythm with Fiora. Mornings were spent baking or tending to Elara, whose tiny giggles and grasping hands brought a bittersweet ache to Mirabel’s heart. Afternoons, she’d wander out to the smithy, where Svend and Leoric hammered away at their latest project—a wind-powered toy dragon for Leif that flapped its wings when spun. Svend’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Mirabel couldn’t help but laugh as he demonstrated it, the little wooden creature whirring wildly in his hands.

But beneath the surface calm, a restlessness stirred. Mirabel couldn’t shake the feeling that their struggle to conceive was more than just bad luck. The wise women’s advice—cinnamon tea, stuffed foods, positive thoughts—felt like grasping at straws. She needed answers, something concrete. One evening, as the sun dipped below the mountains, she slipped away from the house and shifted into her dragon form, flying high above the village to clear her mind. The cool air soothed her, and she let her thoughts drift, circling the peaks where the dragon caves loomed in the distance.

It was then she heard it—a low, resonant hum, like a song carried on the wind. Curious, she followed the sound, her wings cutting through the twilight. It led her to a secluded ledge where an ancient dragon perched, her scales a faded gold, her eyes milky with age. The humming stopped as Mirabel landed, bowing her head respectfully. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said in the dragon tongue, her voice tentative.

The old dragon tilted her head, studying Mirabel with a gaze that seemed to pierce through her. “You’re the new one,” she rumbled, her voice deep and slow. “Sapphire and amethyst. Not born of us, yet one of us. I’ve heard whispers of you.”

Mirabel’s heart quickened. “Whispers? From who?”

“The wind carries stories,” the dragon replied cryptically. “I am Euphemia, keeper of old tales. You seek something, don’t you? Something beyond the human life you once knew.”

Mirabel hesitated, then nodded. “I want a child. With my husband, Svend. But my body… it’s not working right. I lay eggs, but they’re too small, lifeless. I don’t know if it’s because I was human first, or—”

Euphemia interrupted with a soft huff of smoke. “Your blood is a bridge, child. Human and dragon, entwined in a way we’ve not seen since Kenric’s time. The body remembers what it was, even as it learns what it is. You must teach it patience, not force it to choose one form over the other.”

“How?” Mirabel asked, desperation creeping in. “I’ve tried everything.”

“Not everything,” Euphemia said, her tone firm but kind. “Stay as a dragon, fully, for a season. Let the egg grow within your dragon self, undisturbed by shifts. Then, when it’s time, return to human form to lay it. The bridge must hold both worlds, not sway between them.” She paused, then added, “And bring me something sweet next time. These old bones miss the taste of human craft.”

Mirabel flew back to the village, her mind buzzing with possibility. Could it be that simple? That hard? She landed near the house and shifted back, finding Svend waiting by the door, worry etched on his face. She told him everything, and his eyes widened with hope. “A season as a dragon,” he mused. “We could do that. Together. I’ll stay with you—hunt, keep you company. What do you say?”

Mirabel smiled, a real one this time. “Let’s try it. But first, I owe Euphemia something sweet.” That night, she baked a classic apple pie, imagining the old dragon’s delight. This is the pie that she made.