The Metal Artist’s Daughter

“It’s okay to cry, Kenna,” he whispered. The bristles on his chin tickled as he kissed my cheek. He pulled me farther up his lap, gently stroking the small burn on my thumb.

Still sniffling, I buried my head in his chest. The scent of fire clung to him, so thick it seemed he might have embers hidden within his pockets and, once opened, would send smoke slithering from his collar. Beneath that, I could smell the leather apron, so old it had seen the first of my father’s creations, and had captured the scent of each one since then—a taste of meat cooked rare: molten brass, the thornless rose gifted to my mother; a whiff of burnt lemon peels curling into ash: liquid gold, the locket round my neck; the scent of a beach bonfire, though not as salty: a dozen copper horses frozen mid-stride, no taller than the length of his palm, displayed in the shop’s window.

“But you never cry cause of a burn,” I muttered.

“My skin is thicker than yours, darling.  I’ve got twenty years worth of burns on my hands.”

“Will my skin get thicker?” I asked eagerly.  I looked at my palms, imagining scales breaking out across them, silvery white and rough—thick enough to handle fire bare of gloves.

“Oh, yes,” he assured me, though a smile played on his lips.  “But if you learn to tame fire the way I have, it’ll never be able to bite you again.”

Metal-scaled dragons roared in my head as he spoke.  On command, they reared up on their hind legs, breathing fire blue as water and bright as lightning.  Their eyes sparkled as serpentine tongues slid out from behind great teeth to lick my cheek.  Fire-breathers of my very own.