It can balance the heel of its sharp-claws-scratch paws on the board, but it's so slow and its digits are too small and it can only make sad little plink-plink noises instead of the soft-loud-rich-sound-river before. 

It mewls in frustration.

He carefully gives the dragon a reassuring pet on the head. “It is alright, little bard. We all begin somewhere.”

“Where is he?”

He is TRYING VERY HARD to make the thing SAY THE RIGHT NOISES.

Then he smells her. 

MOTHER.

He LEAPS from the piano stool - flaps his too-short-stubby wings frantically - collapses in a heap on the hard-hateful-ground - staggers up and launches himself at MOTHER.

Eloise lands in a heap, under the weight of the cannonball that is apparently her son now. Her shrieking turns into delighted laughter as she fusses the baby dragon.

“Oh, I know! I know, I missed you too!”

Ophel rises and bows. He cannot help but smile fondly at the pair of them. “Miss Bridgerton. I trust that you are well.” He looks around. “Where is His Grace?”

It is staying here now, thank you very much. Its little claws hook into her dress. 

He comes up to the threshold of the room uncertainly. Eloise has the child in her arms now - the whole scene makes him feel- well, he doesn't know. He looks up at Lord Ophel, and then thinks better of saying anything. 

Once the Duke has entered, Ophel doesn’t even spare him a glance. He returns to sit at the pianoforte, playing something soft and experimental while the happy couple talk.

“Ow– okay, okay.” Eloise manages to sit upright, though still on the floor. She has never paid too much attention to decorum. 

She looks up at Voltur. “Has Edmund been well?”

He shakes himself, comes in to squat next to her and Edmund. 

He would have thought this would be obvious, but Talen has worked her magic and the damage to the room is much less noticeable now. "I would not go so far as to say that. He did a good deal of damage when you were away. I do not think it is good for him to be parted from you."

Eloise’s shoulders slump, and she holds the dragon tighter. 

“I do not know what I am to do,” she confesses, barely audible over the gentle music. Eloise is often loud, and brave, and larger than life – but right now she looks as she is. An eighteen-year-old girl.

...He doesn't actually interact with a lot of eighteen-year-old girls. 

He claps a reassuring hand on her shoulder and sits down next to her. 

"Nor do I. But we will think of something. What is it that troubles you most, right at the moment?"

Eloise sighs, hard, and with little thought she rests her head on Voltur’s shoulder. 

“What is not troubling me might be a better question. I keep thinking, hoping that Edmund might be the answer to all our problems. I just… I have this feeling. But at the moment, he is something else I must concern myself with that I do not have the answer for. I was very nearly not allowed to leave today, Voltur, I really had to convince my mother to let me go.” She lifts her head, glowering. “And do not even get me started on our forthcoming nuptials.”

He plays a false chord. The sound makes him cringe, and he rights the melody instantly.

He doesn't look around. He can't actually identify a false chord. 

"I share your feeling. Edmund must come first - one way or another, I suspect he will be key to all this. Is there no way at all your family could be brought in on this matter? No way their fears could be assuaged?"

“No. They would never understand.” She doubles down firmly. “Voltur, I feel as if you are glossing over a very important part of the problem. Our forthcoming nuptials,” she repeats, articulating the phrase clearly. “We do not have much time left to do– something.”

She groans and lays back down in the floor, still holding the dragon to her chest. “Oh, if only a solution would walk through the door!”

“My lord! Apologies for my lateness, I was held up at Kreel’s house– The housekeeper let me in, absolutely terrifying woman might I add, but not the scariest person I’ve encountered today– Why are you on the floor?”

Lord Ambrose looks very tall from this angle, standing above her.

“Why are you not?”

“Lord Ambrose,” Ophel greets him with a smile over his shoulder. The playing ceases at last. “You may be pleased to know that our young friend here has shown an interest in music.”

“He has? He was just born– or hatched, I suppose. Huh.” Ambrose perches on a velvet chair instead of the floor. “How fascinating. I wonder if it is not too early to start to teach him language. Are dragons born with a knowledge of Draconic?” He begins to ponder to himself.

“Edmund? A musician? Oh, you take after Auntie Francesca.” She tickles the dragon under the chin.

He squeaks and ruffles his scales. 

He runs a hand down his face. "Greetings, wizard. We were just - ah - discussing - matters. Concerning Edmund. And- other things."