The puck’s frill extended and turned a bright sort of red that could not possibly be a good thing. The hissing and spittle dripping from its front left fang probably were not good signs, either.

“What do you mean, your things? They certainly were not. To start with, those scotch hands belong to my mother. She missed them sorely, and they are not the sort of thing we have ready money to replace.”

“They were in my cave, so they were mine.” The puck’s tail lashed back and forth.

“And how did they get in your cave?”

“I brought them there and made them mine.”

“You stole them. You are a little thief, plain and simple.”

“Thief? I am no thief.”

“You take things that are not yours.”

The puck’s chest puffed a little larger. “No one had those things, not in anyone’s hands at the time. So they were free for me to take.”

“That has nothing to do with ownership. It only means you did not assault someone to get them.”

“You are talking nonsense.” The puck stamped its front foot. “My things! I want them.”

“You are daft. Now leave me alone. I have important matters to attend to.” People were starting to stare at him for talking to an ugly little stray dog. He stepped around the puck and hurried toward the pub.

“I am not finished with you. You are a thief. I want my hoard!” The scrabble of talons on stone suggested the creature was chasing after him.

Certainly, it would go away, like a dog begging for food did when it was ignored long enough. Philip strode down Bath Street to the pub.

The pub’s worn red door stood partially open, the low hum of warm comradery and decent beer flowed out, like spilled treacle, sticky and sweet to draw in the passersby. He ducked inside, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light within.

Stone walls enclosed eight small battered square tables, each surrounded by several plain wooden chairs. Frank King and Mr. Newsome sat near the small fireplace that still had its flower-painted fire screen in place. It would be at least another month before a fire would be lit there. Half a dozen men populated the other tables, with tankards of beer and slabs of toasted bread and cheese before them. Still early yet for a meal, but the pubkeeper never let that stop him serving food of some sort.

Mr. Newsome, from the top of his head to the toes of his worn boots, the perfect image of a respectable English farmer, caught Philip’s eye and waved him toward the table. That was promising, indeed. No point in waiting for a second invitation. Frank, also farmerly, but in a scruffy, unkempt sort of way, scowled at Philip as he approached.

Yes, it was a good thing he listened to Michael’s urging. If Frank did not want him coming around, that was exactly the sort of time Philip should most be there.

“Good day, Mr. Newsome, Frank.” Philip nodded and pulled a chair from an empty table to sit between Mr. Newsome and Frank.

“Don’t you have butter to sell?” Frank muttered into his beer.

“Kind of you to ask, Frank.” Philip didn’t bother to look at him. “Michael is managing it for me for a bit—”

“Nice of you to let others do your work for you.” The left side of Frank’s mouth pulled back in a sneer, dragging the edge of his bulbous nose back with it.

“I am lucky to have a good friend with whom I can exchange favors. I managed his for a bit while he tended to some important business. He is returning the favor in kind.”

Frank did not appreciate that response. Probably because his sort of friends could not be trusted around money.

“It is a wise man who maintains those sorts of relationships.” Mr. Newsome nodded. “We none of us can make it on our own, we all need community.”

Philip laid his hands on the table and twisted his father’s ring. Why waste the opportunity to remind Mr. Newsome that they shared a particular sort of community that Frank did not?

Newsome glanced at Philip’s hands and touched his own ring, nodding slightly. “You spoke of important business. What sort of business might that be, Mr. Smalley?” His eyebrow lifted just slightly over small smile-creases beside his eyes.

That was a good sign, every bit as much as Frank’s disgruntlement was. “Indeed, sir, some very important business. But it is of the sort that I would not prefer to discuss in company. I am sure you understand.”

“I see.” Mr. Newsome stroked his stubbled chin and turned an upraised brow to Frank. “Would you excuse—”

Chairs and one table screeched against the stone floor.

“Thief! Thief! You owe me my hoard!” The puck screamed as it raced through the open pub door.

Several men jumped to their feet. “Whose dog is that?”

“Get that cur out of here!”

“Is that creature mad?”

“Do you know this creature?” Mr. Newsome whispered just loud enough to be heard over the uproar.

“No, I do not. I have only met it today.” Philip stood. “Shoo, shoo! Get along there, you do not belong here.”

Mr. Newsome came alongside him. “Get out of here.” He picked up a chair and thrust it toward the dragon.

The puck flared its frill, growling and hissing.

“It’s a mad dog. It must be killed!” Someone near the far wall screamed.

“It’s not mad.” Mr. Newsome declared.

“Not mad. Not mad at all. Hungry. The dog is hungry. Feed the dog.”

“I think it is simply hungry.” The closest man threw a half-eaten slice of buttered bread and cheese at the puck, who gobbled it down without hesitation.

Two more threw their food.

“Hungry … dogs … do foolish things.” Newsome whispered. “We must get it away from here.” He advanced toward the puck, chair poking at the dragon. “Get along now. You’ve taken the wrinkles out of your stomach. Now be off with ye.”

Philip grabbed an empty chair and mimicked Newsome. “Back out through that door now, ye yapping little beggar, out with you.”

“I am not a yapping little dog, and you know it. Out with you!” The puck lunged at Philip, snarling and spitting.

“It don’t seem to like you very much.” Frank called from behind them. “You can’t trust a man that dogs don’t like.”

Coward. Getting his cuts in behind a man’s back.

“Dogs don’t belong in pubs. Get out now. Don’t need no trouble out of you.” Newsome’s voice took on a firm edge.

“Only giving as I already got from him.” The puck darted closer to Philip.

“Head outside; it will follow you, and we can deal with it there.” Newsome chin-pointed toward the door, his tone so low only Philip’s preternatural hearing could have picked it up in the noisy room.

Presenting himself as bait for the angry dragon was not exactly how he had planned to use his time with Newsome. But perhaps it would help his case later. Whatever would help, no?

Keeping the chair between him and the puck, Philip edged toward the door, a clear path opening up behind him. Snapping and hissing, the puck advanced on him as though it thought it was chasing him out.

The morning sun blinded him as he left the pub. Luckily, it gave the puck pause as well. As his vision adjusted, a flash of movement from the door!

Newsome flung his coat over the puck. “Got ya!”

The puck screamed a sound a dog would have never made. It ripped through the back of Newsome’s coat, and took off into the crowded market. The crowd parted to make way, squealing and shrieking as the dragon made its way through.

Philip and Newsome chased after, because it seemed the right thing to do, not that Philip had any idea of what they would do should they actually capture the dragon. Thankfully it seemed as though Newsome had some sort of a plan. Hopefully.

The puck turned down Bath Street, heading toward the buttercross, running like a firedrake was after him, talons screeching on the street stones, frill blown back and flopping like a dog’s long ears. He turned sharp and plunged though the apothecary’s open door.

“Bloody hell! We need to get it out of there. The apothecary isn’t an Order man and if he hurts the dragon, there’ll be hell to pay!” Newsome panted hard through the words.

Not the time to ask why that would be the case. Philip sprinted into the apothecary’s.

Dim light and heady smells gave him pause three steps in.

“The mad dog! They were right! A mad dog!” Those were ladies’ voices.

He blinked hard to force them into focus. A mother and her two daughters, it seemed, huddled behind a counter with the apothecary himself, the puck snarling at them from the other side.

“Food? Have you anything to eat?” Philip kept his eyes on the dragon as he waved toward the counter.

The apothecary reached under the counter, withdrew a hunk of cheese, and lobbed it to Philip.

One hand open toward the dragon, Philip caught the cheese. “There now, you poor hungry beggar, there’s no need to scare anyone. Here’s something to sate that wolf in your stomach.” He broke a bit of cheese and threw it to the dragon.

She—it was a she!—pounced on it and swallowed it whole. Poor creature must truly be hungry.

Starving.

Philip edged back toward the door. “Here you go, have another.” He tossed out another bit.

The dragon jumped on it, that much closer to the door.

Three more bits and he stood just outside the doorway. “Come here now. Got one more bite for you.” He set the cheese at his feet and took two large steps back.

The dragon lunged for the cheese and Mr. Newsome, waiting just outside the door, lunged for the puck.

Barely stopping to scoop up the cheese, the puck took off running again Across the street, veering right, toward the butcher shop, where Bath Street became Church Street near the buttercross.

Newsome waved as though to suggest they keep the dragon out of the butcher shop. Too late! She ran between the legs of a very startled man carrying a large wrapped package and into the butcher’s.

Philip ducked around the package carrier, his nose curling at the butcher shop odors: blood, offal, raw meat, with just a bit of something going off in the background.

The puck stopped in the middle of the floor, a wild look in her eyes. Fear and hunger—a dangerous combination.

“Philip?” Marianne? What was she doing here?

“She’s just hungry, she won’t hurt you.” He raised an open hand to caution Marianne to keep back.

“Feed her, then! Scraps, have you scraps?” She pointed at the butcher, who was clearly still so startled he did not know what to make of the situation.

He was an Order man, though, and knew what he was seeing. “Right, scraps.” He trundled to the back and brought out a large bowl, heaped with slightly bloody bits and bobs.

The puck quivered and squealed, eyes on the bowl.

Marianne grabbed a handful and tossed it to the dragon.

Was that a sound of delight as the puck bounced on a gobbet nearly as big as her head? Seconds later it was finished.

“You want more, little one?” Marianne asked, tossing another chunk her way.

The puck danced from left front foot to right, tail lashing across the floor. She glanced warily at Philip.

“Go ahead, I won’t bother you. No one can think straight with a belly so empty. Take it.” He crouched to be closer to eye level with the dragon.

The puck snatched the meat and gobbled it down, glancing back and forth from Philip to Marianne to the butcher and back again.

A shadow draped across Philip’s back. A peek over his shoulder confirmed it was Newsome, slowly shutting the door behind him.

The puck started.

“More meat, little one? Surely you are still hungry.” Marianne bounced a small piece off the dragon’s snout.

Brilliant!

The puck snapped it up and took a tentative step toward Marianne.

“That’s right, you’ve got nothing to fear from me. Have another.”

A large bit landed at the dragon’s feet.

“Just wait, Mari’s got it right,” Newsome whispered.

With more and more meat, Marianne encouraged the dragon toward her. Finally, with belly distended and eyelids drooping, the little dragon fell asleep mid-bite near Marianne’s feet.

The butcher came around the counter and crouched near the puck. “Poor little mite must have been starving.”

“Thank you. I fear she would have caused a frenzy at the market without your scraps.” Newsome studied the creature.

It was rather dear, the way her frill shuddered as she snored.

“Glad to do what I can.” The butcher stood, wiping his hands on his stained apron.

“What now?” Marianne stroked the side of the little dragon’s face. “We must help her.”

“Mr. Sinclair.” Philip stood and crossed the few steps to the sleeping puck. “We must take her to the Order. They will know how to help her.” He carefully scooped the little dragon into his arms.

“Go through the back, better for all of you that way. The Order office is just a little ways down on the left.” The butcher led the way to the back door.

“I will go on ahead and alert Sinclair.” Mr. Newsome ducked out the front door.

“And I am going with you.” Marianne had that look that meant there would be no arguing, not that Philip would have wanted to in the first place.

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What is the Order to do with this little dragon? What do you think? Tell me in the comments.