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The first rays of dawn teased his eyes open. Market day!

What would he do with himself without the worry of this quarter’s rent?  Perhaps, if he sold all his wares early, he might pay a call to Marianne on the way home. Three weeks was too long to go without seeing her. He missed her bright green eyes, the soft blonde curls that framed her face, and most of all, her sharp wit that was never without an astute observation about village life.

She said she understood his absence, but still, it wouldn’t do to allow Frank King to become all too friendly with her. He was a humorless sot who would never properly appreciate her sense of humor. But her beauty and the little dowry she had were enough to make her a prize to the likes of him. A prize Frank King did not deserve to have.

Philip rolled out of bed, fed the cows, and packed up the old wooden hand cart that stood slightly off-kilter in the crisp morning air. The wheels squeaked and groaned as he headed toward the market, like an old man that did not want to get out of bed, but they were the voice of an old friend and companion. The Cheddar market buttercross was only three miles from the front door. Nothing more than an invigorating walk along a good-enough road, with the cart loaded with butter, a few eggs, extra squash from the garden, and the mending Mama had finished to be delivered along the way. The cool mist ensured he would barely break a sweat by the time he got to market.

Entirely agreeable.

Traffic filled the meandering country road leading to Cheddar. Farm carts drawn by plodding horses loaded with the bounty of gardens. Hand carts, some even more modest than his own, with preserves and homemade wines. One with firewood; another with its goods covered from sight with a heavy tarp—was that to increase curiosity and draw buyers, or some more practical reason?

The last part of the journey, when the road trudged uphill, was always a challenge. The old cart did not like to climb hills any more than most old men did. But his was not the only struggle. He pushed his own cart off to the side of the road to help Old Mrs. Murry and Old Mr. Jenson get their handcarts to the hilltop where the market cross on Bath Street came into view. They thanked him kindly and wished him a good day as they trundled off toward their favored places at the market.

Mama said he was silly and sentimental, but the sight of the old buttercross always made him smile. It was said it had been built no less than two hundred years ago and had stood since then to bless the officially chartered Cheddar market. Six pale stone, probably local limestone, arches held up the roof. Buttresses decorated the bases of the archways and crenellations like a storybook castle bedecked the edges of the roof, surrounding the stone cross that stood tall above the center of the roof. As buttercrosses went, he was told, it was small and simple, without space enough for sellers to be under the roof. But it was the place where the family’s living had been made for as long as he remembered, and that made it special to him.

The streets were rapidly filling. Best not waste time woolgathering lest it become difficult to get the cart through the crowd. He tipped his head to the old chandler as he passed the shop with the rather garish red candle painted on the sign hanging near the door. The chandler often bought butter from Philip to resell in his shop. The plump pubkeeper, in a fresh apron that would be stained by the end of the day, waved to him from across the street. Another frequent customer for Philip’s wares. The apothecary’s door stood open beside his shop window filled with fancy labeled jars and boxes. Odd herbal smells poured out from the shop. The apothecary must be tending customers inside. Otherwise he would be on the street inviting them in. Philip’s nose tickled and he sneezed as he always did when passing the apothecary’s shop.

Fortune was indeed smiling on him!

His favorite spot at the covered butter and dairy corner, near the outer wall of the vintner’s shop, beside Michael who sold milk, was open and waiting for him. Philip wrestled his groaning cart though the milling soon-to-be-shoppers with market bags slung over their shoulders.  The wheels always turned balky over the street stones near the buttercross. Michael enthusiastically waved at the open space beside him, the light wind blowing his unruly mop of blonde hair into his face.

“Welcome, my man! Hero of the hour, some are calling you.” Michael bowed deep, barely holding his laughter.

“Just a spot of dumb luck, really. Any word on how the driver and his mate are doing?” Philip maneuvered his cart into place beside Michael’s farm cart. The worn gray farm horse, tied beside the cart, snorted once and then ignored him.

“They’re both still alive, if that’s what you mean. One of them got a mighty crack on the head, though, may never be right again, as I heard it. The other broke his shoulder, ribs, leg, and maybe something else—he’ll be laid up all winter, it seems.”

“Guess it’s lucky for them that they don’t actually have to work to get by, and that there’s room at their fathers’ big houses for them to recover.”

“Careful there, you’re starting to sound awfully bitter for a man who suffered quite the windfall for their misfortune.”

“You’re starting to sound like me mother!” Philip chuckled and arranged his wares as artfully as he could, but neither squash nor butter lent themselves to attractive display. “Besides, as I recall there was a fancy candlestick and a silver hairbrush in that hidey-hole that belonged to your mother and your girl. I wasn’t the only one to benefit!”

“Now you’re just making excuses.” Michael laughed as he scanned the crowd. “Watch me cart a moment? I see Mr. Wilkens just down Bath Street, and I need to talk to him.”

“Go on. You know I’ll see to your business and only skim the slightest bit of cream from the top.” Philip winked. Michael had been planning to have a talk with Mr. Wilkens for quite some time.

Michael chuckled and disappeared into the crowd. He was a good sort of man and an even better friend. The sort one could rely upon when things turned dark.

Philip rearranged the squash into a tidy pile that looked a little better beside the butter and leaned back against the edge of the handcart. How many of his regular customers were already here? The clocktower bells had not rung yet, so the market had not officially opened yet, but still, he usually saw at least a few of them by now.

Gingernuts yipped a greeting at him from the far side of the buttercross. As much as he understood about the dragon-deaf being persuaded that she was a large dog, it was still odd to watch people pat her on the head as they walked past, murmuring ‘good dog’ under their breath. What would happen if they realized it was a small dragon they were casually patting? The havoc and chaos that would ensue! What a sight that would be.

Mr. Sinclair, in his tail coat and tall hat, strode just behind the small drake, proud and serious as a magistrate should be. He seemed to notice Gingernuts’ attentions and turned in Philip’s direction.

That voice in the back of Philip’s head that sounded like his mother warned that this might presage bad news. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. But Sinclair’s face did not match the voice’s warning, so Philip tried to shove it aside.

“Good day to you, Mr. Sinclair. And to you, Gingernuts.” He bowed.

Gingernuts wagged her thick brindle tail and bumped his leg with her scaly head, asking for scratches. Philip obliged. Her soft hide had been recently oiled, leaving her smelling vaguely of warm spice—ginger and nutmeg, mostly. Sinclair treated his dragon Friend well.

“I am glad to see you looking very well today. That little disgruntlement near the cave has all but been forgotten, I think. Nothing more to worry about.” Mr. Sinclair dusted his hands together.

Gingernuts sat back on her haunches and smiled an odd open-mouthed draconic smile, exposing many large, sharp teeth, that could look dangerous if one did not understand the expression. “I have seen to that. There’s no further need to worry.”

“You are a good man, Philip. The Order can use men like you.”

“For what? I have no land, no trade, just a cottage garden and a few cows in the pasture for milk and butter. What could I do for the Order?”

“One never quite knows, now does one?” Sinclair thumbed his lapels. “Keep it in mind, though, no? And in the meantime, how about two balls of butter?”

“One and a thruppence, as usual.” He pulled a battered notebook from his pocket and marked the purchase. Sinclair was always good about settling his account before the next quarter day. Probably best not to remind the magistrate that the market was not yet open. 

He handed Sinclair the paper-wrapped balls of butter, which disappeared into his market bag. Sinclair tipped his hat, Gingernuts bumped him once more for good measure, and they disappeared into the market crowd, toward the average- looking terrace house that only a select few knew served as the Blue Order office in Cheddar.

The only thing that set the narrow three-story town house apart from any other in town was the distinct blue door—Order-blue was the color, he had been told—and the brass drake’s head door knocker upon it. But inside it was very different to other houses. Inside, men and dragons worked together for the Blue Order to manage the dragon business of Cheddar, Winscombe, Axbridge, and Shipham. There could not be much to manage, could there, though? There wasn’t a dragon estate in the immediate area. Perhaps that was why Mr. Sinclair served both as the local magistrate and the local Blue Order official with some sort of title he could not recall.

Such a strange world it was, with dragons living right under the noses of so many people who would never even know they existed. It was a good joke, when Philip thought about it.

It was also rather frightening when one considered the implications, which he tried not to do very often. The dragon-deaf rarely reacted to the discovery of dragons well.

The clocktower bells clanged, like a hammer to his skull, loud and slightly off-key. The market was officially open, not that the fact led to any immediate change in the crowd. In a few minutes, though, things would begin to get busy.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, there near the buttercross. A pair of pigeons landed on the roof only to be chased off by the bird—no, dragon, a lesser cockatrix—who was already there. She must not be hungry or she would have caught the pigeons rather than chase them away. She worked for the Order and watched over the market just to make certain nothing went amiss dragon-wise.

There were no tales suggesting it ever had, which meant either she was very effective at what she did, or that it was overzealousness on the part of the Order. Mostly likely the latter.

Hmm. That was interesting. How had he never noticed that before? Inside the buttercross, at the tops of pillars there were carvings, little figures. Among those figures there were dragons! He squinted and tried to make out their details. In one corner a knight battled a long dragon, a wyrm of some kind. Two arches over, a dragon stood over a mound of treasure. A large drake, maybe a firedrake—the shadows made it difficult to tell if the carving had wings or not.

Dragons in the buttercross! Perhaps there were more dragons about for the Blue Order office to manage than he had thought. He chuckled under his breath. He would have to ask Mama what she knew of those carvings. She knew all the history and legends of the region.

Michael sauntered back, his shoulders a little straighter, his head a little higher. Had he really done that, in the middle of the market? “I take it you found Mr. Wilkens?”

“That I did, mate!” Michael thumbed his suspenders, barely able to force down his smile.

“Then he accepted your offer? You and Margaret…”

“The banns will be read starting next week.”

“Good on you! Marriage will suit you. Do you mind if I tell Mama? She has been hoping for exactly that news.”

“It’s not my news she’s been waiting on; she’s been hoping to hear about you and Marianne. Margaret and me are not nearly so interesting.”

“Speaking of her, I think I see—”

“Go, go, I’ll watch your cart. You’ve already been taking far too much time in courting her!” Michael shoved his shoulder.

Philip stumbled slightly, catching himself several steps later. Pulling himself upright and dusting himself off as he headed toward the buttercross, the place he and Marianne met on market days to plan what they would do after the market.

Just under the roof’s shelter, he paused to study the carvings. Yes, that one was a firedrake after all. There were even wisps of smoke rising from its nostrils. Oh, there was another one! Odd, it wasn’t near the pillar, but up on the ceiling itself where there were no other carvings.

It looked like a firedrake of sorts, but the wings were more nubs than wings. And there was a frill raised around its head, framing an open-mouthed angry expression.

“What has you all crusty and nettled?” he murmured.

The little dragon blinked. “You.”         

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