My smile faltered as I turned it again, and found Rindargeth painted in dragon form, an impressive red-brown shape against blue sky.
“It is beautiful, Genevieve,” I said, setting it aside with Rindargeth’s portrait facing away. “A great deal of work, I’m certain, and a lovely thing for us all to enjoy. Thank you.” I squeezed her hand, and she smiled—but nodded me toward the other gifts.
The little round package I knew would be from Gareth; each birthday he gave me the same thing, as beautiful a stone as he could find all the year long. His gifts had a pattern; for instance, on the anniversary of Genevieve’s arrival, which we had declared to be her birthday, she always received an unusually pretty bit of driftwood. This year, my stone was dark with veins of glittering silver; I put it in
