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  Dragon’s First Valentine

  by Emily Martha Sorensen

  Copyright © 2018 Emily Martha Sorensen

  Cover art by Eva Urbaníková

  To Ben,

  the best husband ever.

  Thank you for being

  my always Valentine!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Vexed

  Chapter 2: Voracious

  Chapter 3: Variety

  Chapter 4: Verdant

  Chapter 5: Victim

  Chapter 6: Vindicated

  Chapter 7: Veracity

  Chapter 8: Variance

  Chapter 9: Virgil

  Chapter 10: Vitamins

  Chapter 11: Value

  Chapter 1: Vexed

  Rose woke up to the unmistakable sound of someone trying to be quiet.

  “No no no no. No no no no. No no no no. No no no no —”

  There was an earsplitting shriek.

  Rose flung the blankets off her legs and stormed to the door of their bedroom, feeling rather vexed. She had asked to be permitted to sleep in this morning, seeing as it was Saturday and Henry’s first class did not begin until eleven o’clock, but it seemed that was not to be. Why had Henry permitted the baby to get so close to the door where she was sleeping?

  “Your mother’s asleep,” Henry’s voice whispered in a frantic undertone from the other side of the door. “We can’t disturb her. Just —”

  Rose flung the door open.

  Henry froze from a crouched position in the hallway.

  Looking past him, Rose saw that there were flower petals scattered all down the length, and Virgil was currently rolling around in them. The baby dragon tried to shake a red flower petal off his vicious back claw, somersaulted into a sprawl, looked back, found it still stuck there, and let out another furious scream.

  “I see he’s managed to make a mess,” Rose said dryly. “Where did he even find those?”

  “He was supposed to be helping,” Henry said sheepishly. He leapt to his feet and spread his arms. “Happy birthday!”

  Rose blinked and looked down more closely. She supposed she could see how, if there had not been a baby dragon frolicking in them, those flower petals might have seemed romantic rather than looking like a florist’s trash had been knocked over.

  A better birthday present would have been an extra hour of sleep, Rose thought, exasperated.

  But she knew her husband was not as practically-minded as she was. It was just like him to want to make a silly gesture like this. And she could appreciate the thought behind it.

  “Thank you,” Rose said. “What a nice present.”

  “Oh, that’s not all,” Henry said, bursting with pride. “Come into the living room!”

  With some misgivings, Rose picked up Virgil and followed her husband down the hallway. The little dragon wiggled and complained and commented telepathically about the red thing stuck on his back claw that wouldn’t come off and it was stuck and he wanted to breathe fire at it but he didn’t have fire in his tummy right now!

  Rose paid him no heed. She was too frozen with horror at the sight before her.

  Twenty vases.

  Twelve flowers in each vase.

  There were twenty dozen roses.

  “How —?” Rose asked, her voice rising in a panicked squeak.

  “I bought them,” Henry said proudly. “See, your name’s Rose, and it’s your twentieth birthday —”

  “It’s two days to Valentine’s Day!” Rose cried, hyperventilating. “Why would you not ask me before making such an extravagant purchase? Why would you purchase twenty dozen flowers at the most expensive time of the year? Why would you purchase twenty dozen flowers anyway?!”

  Henry looked hurt. “It was a present —”

  “This is not a present!” Rose exclaimed. “This is bankruptcy!”

  Henry’s face turned bright red. “I was just trying to be thoughtful!”

  “Then think about things! Just because I’m balancing the budget now doesn’t mean it’s not a good idea to look at the book once in awhile!”

  “We’re not that poor!” Henry exclaimed.

  “How would you know?! You’re terrible at sums!”

  She knew at once that it was the wrong thing to say.

  Her husband spun around, flung open the door to the apartment, and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

  Rose flopped onto the couch, trying to put her head in her hands. Since their dragon son was still in her arms, he made a spiny, wiggly barrier.

  Why was Virgil’s mother upset? Virgil’s father thought the red things were pretty.

  “They are pretty,” Rose mumbled, moving the baby dragon onto her lap and successfully depositing her forehead into her hands this time. “They’re also completely impractical. Why couldn’t he have bought me a new saucepan or something?”

  Virgil’s father liked pretty things. Virgil’s father never thought they had enough pretty things. Virgil’s father had been excited about buying Virgil’s mother the present. Virgil had gone with his father. It had been fun! He’d only broken one of the vases while they were there.

  Rose sighed heavily.

  She’d handled it wrong. She knew she had. It really had been a thoughtful gesture. She had no doubt that if she did something this ridiculous to celebrate his birthday, he would be thrilled.

  But she couldn’t do something this ridiculous. That was the whole point. Their monetary situation was tight enough as it was. Keeping Virgil fed was a constant struggle, given that their dragon son ate more and more every month and still adamantly refused to try anything less expensive than chicken, such as pork or even the cheapest cuts of beef. He was even starting to object to having eggs mixed in with his chicken, since he preferred the meat.

  Rose would not allow their picky eater to win that battle, thanks very much.

  It would be very helpful if their son were capable of eating plants, but Deinonychus antirrhopus was a carnivorous species, so there was nothing that could be done about that. It was hard not to resent her son’s diet when she and Henry had not bought any meat for themselves in over a month, however.

  And now this! Why had Henry thought this present was a good idea? Why?

  Virgil vigorously kicked his back foot, and Rose narrowly escaped having the wicked hooked claw slice at her elbow.

  He wanted the thing off now! Off! Off! Off! Off!

  Rose carefully removed the rose petal from around her son’s hooked claw, a rather difficult feat to accomplish without being speared, given that he kept on kicking with it.

  The front door opened, and Henry reappeared.

  “Henry!” Rose said with relief. “I apologize that I —”

  “No,” Henry said in a low voice. He squared his shoulders and looked up. “I was thinking about what I wanted, not what you wanted. I . . . should’ve thought more. I’ll see if the florist will let me return them.”

  Rose swallowed. The thought filled her with relief, and that made her feel guilty. Henry had probably been really excited about this gift. “It was a thoughtful present —”

  “No, it was a stupid present, just as you said,” he shot back flatly. “I should’ve bought you a book about dragon bones, or something.”

  That would have been a lovely gift, yes. Rose bit her lip, wishing she could think of an honest way to contradict him.

  Henry gathered up the vases of flowers, two at a time, and took them outside. It took him ten trips. Then he got the wooden wagon out of the hall closet and took it outside, as well.

  Rose got up from the couch and followed him out of the apartment. He was now walking up and down the stairs carrying the wagon, then a few vases, then th
e wagon, then a few more vases from one landing to another.

  He must have done this all the way up, she realized. And carrying Virgil, as well. How much effort did he put forth?

  “Would you like help?” Rose asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “But I’d be happy to —”

  “It’s your birthday,” Henry said stubbornly. “It’s my mess. I’ll fix it.”

  Rose headed back into the apartment, where she found Virgil had already crawled into his bucket, and was now happily rolling around the room and whamming into the wall over and over again.

  Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam!

  She sighed heavily.

  “Happy birthday,” she murmured.

  Chapter 2: Voracious

  Fixing breakfast, Rose went to dispose of the eggshells and discovered a dozen rose stems in the trash. She pulled them out and looked at them, then walked over to the hallway, where — sure enough — she counted enough rose petals to have come from twelve beheaded roses.

  Rose sighed heavily. So he can’t return all of them. He had already deconstructed a dozen he’d bought for that purpose.

  Still — a single dozen was not going to ruin them. And there was nothing that could be done.

  Behind her, Virgil let out a gale of amusement at having discovered a new game of pick-up-a-rose-petal-with-his-teeth-and-blow-it-out-in-the-air.

  By the time Henry got back home, Rose had prepared a breakfast of pancakes for both of them, and Virgil was halfway through his raw eggs mixed with water and chicken.

  Henry came through the door with the wagon under his arm. There were no roses or vases present, which was a relief.

  “Good morning,” Rose said. She did not mention the rose petals, which she had gathered into a bowl on the top of their dresser. She would, perhaps, make potpourri from them later.

  “Good morning,” Henry said, depositing the wagon into the hall closet. He did not mention the rose petals, either.

  Rose was dying to ask if the florist had taken the flowers back and returned their money, but she didn’t see how she could do so without seeming overly eager for the disposal of her birthday present, so she kept her silence.

  Henry sat down at the table and stared wistfully at the stack of pancakes on a plate by the stove, his eyes communicating that he didn’t know whether he was allowed to eat them.

  Taking the hint, Rose smiled and took the plate over to him. Looking relieved, he eagerly helped himself.

  “I’ve already had mine,” Rose said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind?” Henry asked between bites. “It’s your birthday. You can do whatever you want.”

  She was still dying to ask about the florist and whether they had gotten all of their money back, but she didn’t want to spoil the congenial atmosphere. They must have gotten it all back, mustn’t they? Surely they had.

  She didn’t want to make demands of Henry when his ego was no doubt fragile. Doing that would be —

  Virgil had eaten his food! Virgil wanted more food! More food, more food, more food!

  Rose glanced over to see that Virgil had made his way across the room in a flash, and was now trying to claw his way up to Henry’s lap.

  The attempt was, of course, piercing tiny holes all over the pant legs. But the one bright side of this was that no one would be able to distinguish them from the many other tiny holes Virgil had left before. There was a reason Henry did not wear his nicest clothing around the house. Neither did Rose.

  “Of course you do, you exasperating boy,” Henry said, picking the little dragon up. “One might say that’s the source of all our problems.”

  Virgil nuzzled his father with his snout. He liked food. Could he have food again? He wanted chicken all by itself this time. He liked chicken the best. He wanted chicken, chicken, chicken, all by itself.

  “No,” Rose said. “Don’t pretend to be voracious.”

  Virgil pointedly ignored this, emanating pitiful memories of hunger as he curled his tail around his father’s wrist. Could he have chicken, chicken, chicken? He was still hungry. He was still very hungry. His father didn’t want him to starve, did he?

  “Well . . .” Henry hesitated. “I mean, if he’s still hungry . . .”

  “Hey, Virgil,” Rose said, picking up a slice of pancake from off his father’s plate. “You can have chicken if you eat this first.”

  The little dragon exploded off his father’s lap and raced into the other room.

  No yucky! No yucky yucky! Virgil wouldn’t eat yucky food! Virgil wasn’t hungry!

  “Are you sure he isn’t hungry, though?” Henry asked.

  “If he were hungry, he would have finished off the food in his bowl,” Rose said dryly, picking up their son’s food bowl and displaying the interior. The boy had polished off every scrap of chicken, but there were still gooey patches of egg. “He also would have been a lot less cute and manipulative.”

  Henry laughed. “Okay. He got me.”

  “Honestly,” Rose said with exasperation, covering the food bowl with its lid and placing it in the icebox, so that she could get the boy to finish the eggs later. “We’ve got to find something less expensive that he’s willing to eat.”

  “You could ask the Lawrences what they’re feeding Ophelia,” Henry said. “She’s clearly healthy, and I suspect they have less money than we do.”

  Rose hesitated. While Alice and Willie seemed like very nice people, she hadn’t really made their acquaintance well enough to show up at their home unannounced. Not to mention that . . . well . . . she was white and they were colored, and she wasn’t sure if there were rules against her doing such a thing.

  “We could call Mr. Teedle and ask if they have a phone,” Henry said.

  “Yes! A phone!” Rose said with relief. Surely there could be no rules of propriety against that. And then, if they invited her to come over to visit, she would graciously accept and know that it was acceptable by any relevant social rules.

  A phone. Of course, a phone. Why had she not thought of that herself?

  “You’re brilliant,” she informed Henry.

  He snorted. “I think I’ve shown today that I am certainly not.”

  “Making mistakes doesn’t make one not capable of brilliance,” Rose said. She hesitated. “Did the florist take the flowers back?”

  “Yes. Although he said he wouldn’t have if it were Easter.” Henry gave her a tentative and sheepish smile. “Apparently that’s their largest holiday of the year.”

  “Then let us not buy flowers around Easter,” Rose said.

  “So, what do you want to do to celebrate Valentine’s Day?” Henry blurted out. “I was thinking the flowers would be part of that celebration, too. That’s why it seemed so perfect. I want us to do something special. It’s our first one together, after all.”

  Rose blinked. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  Why did it matter so much to him? It really wasn’t that important a holiday, unlike Christmas or Easter.

  “I’ve never known my parents to celebrate Valentine’s Day,” she went on. “A wedding anniversary is more important.”

  “That’s just it!” Henry cried. “Our wedding anniversary is on the same day as Virgil’s birthday! If we want to have a day that’s just about us, it has to be Valentine’s Day!”

  Ah. He did have a point, she supposed.

  “We could always choose a different day to celebrate,” she pointed out. “Like the day we met, for instance, or the day you proposed to me —”

  “Those were both the same day, and it was also the day we met Virgil!” Henry said. “I don’t want our relationship to be all about Virgil!”

  Small chance of that, given that Virgil is the reason we got married in the first place, Rose thought tartly, but that didn’t seem to be the answer Henry wanted right now.

  “I will think about it,” Rose said carefully. “Perhaps we can ask my parents to watch Virgil, and we can go out to the theater or some
thing.”

  “And spend more money?” Henry asked gloomily.

  “For a special occasion, and an expense we both agree to, yes.”

  Henry didn’t look very excited by the prospect.

  “Or my parents could watch Virgil for the night.”

  “How would that be any different from normal?” Henry complained. “It’s not like we don’t have time together when he’s asleep. It’s just . . . the flowers were what was going to make it special!”

  Rose was starting to feel rather exasperated. Apparently I should buy him flowers for his birthday.

  She made a mental note to write that down. It might actually be a good idea.

  Not twenty dozen, though, for crying out loud.

  “Well, what do you want to do?” Rose asked in a sensible tone. “We can do whatever you like.”

  “I want to do what you want to do,” Henry said stubbornly.

  So now she was expected to come up with something that she personally wanted to do that Henry would consider romantic enough for an outing on Valentine’s Day? Something other than ignoring the event altogether?

  Rose wanted to throw up her hands at the impossible assignment. Why couldn’t he settle for her merely being willing to humor him and tolerate whatever he wanted to do?

  Virgil snuck back into the kitchen, his eyes gleaming.

  He spotted the source of his food. If he could butcher it, it would reveal its yummy innards to him.

  “It’s not prey,” Rose said dryly. “You can’t kill it.”

  Virgil could try!

  The tiny dragon launched himself at the icebox, trying desperately to slaughter it.

  Henry doubled over laughing.

  Chapter 3: Variety

  One would think one’s birthday would be a special time, different from any ordinary day. But once Henry had left for his eleven o’clock class, Rose found herself entrenched back in her usual Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday routine.

  Washing the breakfast dishes. Changing Virgil’s diaper. Studying her textbook. Changing Virgil’s diaper. Ignoring his not-so-subtle hints that he wanted chicken without egg as a snack before lunch. Changing Virgil’s diaper.