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Epilogue

November 15, 1812

“Look what I have for you!” Marianne backed into the cottage, holding the edges of her apron close to her waist.

Afternoon sun streamed into the Smalleys’ main room, painting the plain stone floor with a warm beam of light, complete with dancing dust motes and a sunning dragon. Buttercross squealed, leapt up and bounced from left feet to right.

Mama, who stood at the fire stirring a fragrant soup pot, looked over her shoulder and laughed. It was difficult to tell what warmed the room more, the fire or her laugh.

Once she got over her resentment of Buttercross’s theft of her scotch hands, Mama and the dragon had become quite close, to the point the puck declared she had three Friends now, something that made her deliriously happy. Almost as happy as her growing hoard.

Philip sat at the rough table, several ledgers and notebooks open before him. It wasn’t too soon to start planning for spring gardens and the possibility of adding a few sheep and more chickens to the cows they kept.  With Marianne’s help, they could extend the gardens next year, both to feed themselves and to sell. Perhaps a conversation with Michael to help identify what the most profitable vegetable might be …

Marianne crouched and reached into her laden apron and rummaged about under the vegetables to produce three smooth round stones that she rolled across the floor to Buttercross.

Salivating and quivering with excitement, Buttercross’s color shifted from grey-brown to russet. She was actually quite pretty when she turned that color—one she wore quite often now since the wedding and settling in with her bounty of new Friends. Dancing on her front feet, Buttercross wriggled her back half like a cat and pounced on the stones with pure abandoned glee.

She clutched them to her chest, flipped on her back, and held each one up in her front feet, turning it round and round to admire its many perfections. One with sparkly bits that caught the sunlight made her squeal, and the striped one left her trilling a contented purr.

She repeated the process, licking each one carefully and polishing it against her soft, pale belly hide. Finally, she grabbed all three in her jaws and scampered off to her secret hiding place, which they all knew, but carefully avoided to allow Buttercross to keep face. Pucks never told the location of their hoards, after all.

Of the three of them, Marianne was the best at finding her the right sort of stone for her hoard. Mama did not indulge Buttercross often, but many of her offerings were accepted. But Buttercross only liked one out of every three or four that Philip picked for her. At least she was gracious even when he brought her the wrong thing.

She really was a dear little Friend.

Marianne stood and made her way to the table, where she emptied the bounty of her apron. Beetroot, cauliflower, and exceptionally large swede rolled along the table. “I suppose it is a good thing she doesn’t admire vegetables the way she loves her ‘pretties’ or we might have a serious problem on our hands.”

“I still wonder how it was that Sinclair convinced her she loved pretty stones.” Philip held up the swede and examined it like Buttercross did her stones.

“Not all pucks are so amenable, you know. But our little Friend has been through quite a lot and it’s made her more open than most.” Mama took the swede from him. “Do not play with your food.”

“You were able to sort out where she came from?” Marianne asked.

“Aye, that I did. Poor little mite. It’s a wonder how she’s stayed so sweet.”

“You are planning on telling us the story, yes?” Philip bit back the show of frustration he would have liked to have offered. It would only encourage Mama to be difficult.

“Saucy boy! Yes, yes, of course I will.”

“Pray tell us, then!” Marianne said so sweetly. She was so much more patient with Mama.

Mama sat at the table between them. “Well, as I’ve been able to piece together, she’s come from the other side of Winscombe, near the Max Bog. Do you remember, perhaps two years ago now, we heard a cottage near the bog had burnt to the ground, killing the old hermit who lived there?”

Philip’s brow furrowed as he thought. “Yes, I do recall something about that.”

“I thought there was some rumor of it being deliberately set to drive the old man away,” Marianne said.

“I heard tell of that, too, but there weren’t no proof of it one way or the other, so the sheriff let the matter go. But it were after that that things started disappearing in Winscombe, little things I heard that no one really ever gave any mind to, until one night a pair of guard dogs at one of the big houses made like there were a thief on the property and seemed to chase ‘im off. After that, nothing more went missing.” Mama laced her hands together and pressed them to her chest. “I’m thinking that our Friend Buttercross lost her Friend in that fire and has been shifting for herself since.”

“Poor little dear, no wonder she was so distressed.” Marianne looked toward the door as though anxious for the little dragon’s return.

“The Order must not have known about her and her Friend. They are supposed to have records of all Dragon Mates, Friends and Keepers, in the whole of England,” Philip said.

“Clearly the old hermit didn’t want to be bothered. Why would he have welcomed the Order nosing about his affairs?” Mama lifted her shoulders in a dramatic shrug.

“I suppose, but it is troubling when you think about it. How much did she suffer for being on her own, and how much trouble resulted from it? Had the Order done its job properly—” Philip drummed his fingers on the table.

“You know, husband,” Marianne gave him a particularly piercing look. “Mr. Sinclair mentioned something about a Blue Order census needing to happen.”

Philip shook his head. “He’s determined to make an Order man out of me yet.”

Buttercross burst in and bounded into his lap. “You are good dragon Friend! Very good! Little dragons need men like you in the Order.” She nuzzled her head under his chin and wrapped her tail around his waist.

Such an affectionate little creature—a mite too affectionate at times.

Marianne lifted open hands. “She said it, not I. You can’t fuss at me this time.”

“The work pays well—your papa did it once. And it would bring a tidy sum into the household, you know.” That was always on Mama’s mind, with good reason. “And since before the next year is out, I expect there will be another mouth to feed, and clothe and house—”

“She makes a good point.”

“I suppose there is no point in arguing, is there? Very well, I will see Sinclair in the morning and see what the Order has to offer.”

Buttercross trilled as she settled into his lap.

Find other chapters HERE

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