In which our little dragon friend proves his mettle.

Find earlier parts HERE

To his credit, Criollo tried hard to keep to his agreement with Millicent, to keep to the kitchen hearth and patrol the garden, kitchen, and shop for rats. But when the weather turned solidly cold, the boys picked him up and carried him upstairs to bed with them, and that was the last time the little dragon spent the night in the kitchen alone.

Although he was a quiet little fellow, Millicent noted every time Criollo crept out of the boys’ room to patrol the house and shop. The patter of clawed dragon toes on the floorboards was impossible to mistake. Three times a night, he would make his rounds, starting in the attic, ending with a tour of the chocolate shop. Twice she heard him chasing and catching something. Rats! How she hated them. And once he stood at the shop’s front door, growling like a menacing dog, far larger than himself. Footprints in the snow the next morning suggested that his efforts had changed someone’s mind about bothering the Chocolate Dragon.

The boys lavished him with praise, petting and hugging and scratching under his chin. They declared him a hero, and exactly what a Friend should be. They were not wrong in their assessment. Perhaps they did have a Friend now. But it was definitely too soon to have that conversation.

Something about the snowy weather brought customers into the shop in droves. One would think they would have preferred to stay in their homes, in front of their own fires, and drink chocolate there. But no, they wanted her fire, the chocolate she provided with wine and exotic spices, and the warm company of their friends and neighbors instead.

Not that she would complain about it, but it did make things busy enough that she had to call Peter into the shop for help, while Jules and Royal washed dishes in the kitchen.

Sweet and spicy scents wafted through the busy chocolate house, hovering over the customer’s heads and tangling in the fragrant greenery that adorned every wall and window. A cheery fire crackled in the large fireplace, which cast its warmth into the dining area, like a warm welcome to all who entered.

“What a smart little fellow you have here.” Old Mrs. Smith, widowed for more than ten years now, had a sharp wit and a sharp tongue toward those who tried to treat her like a doddering old woman. She liked a touch of brandy, not wine, in her chocolate, knew everyone’s business, but did not engage in gossip, and very much liked spunky small dogs. She reached down to pet Criollo.

He sat back and yipped happily at her. For the most part, he tried to avoid the customers in the shop, but there were those who could not resist a cute little ‘dog’.

“He is an excellent ratter.” Peter set a trembleuse cup and saucer on the little white table in front of Mrs. Smith, along with a plate of her favorite lavender shortbread biscuits.

Mrs. Smith sipped her chocolate. “Just the way I like it to be sure. Your ma has such a touch with this. I never could make it like this at home. It’s good the little pup is so useful. Makes it a pleasure to keep him, I’m sure.”

Criollo wagged his tail and trotted off before Mrs. Smith could pet him. He was a bit particular about whom he permitted to touch him. The dragon deaf were never allowed that privilege, only hearers who knew what he was. Two of her regular customers recognized his true nature and had discreetly made note of how proper it was for him to make a home at the Chocolate Dragon. As long as that was as far as it went, Millicent could live with that sort of attention.

The front door swung open. A large man both in height and breadth, with an equally large brindled German boarhound, which all but him feared, stood in the doorway, allowing the cold breeze to whip through the shop, rustling through the hanging evergreens, reminding them all that winter had arrived.

Millicent pressed her lips tight. Sir Fitzhubert Stanley thought so well of himself that he would not enter until he had been suitably recognized, with no consideration of the comfort of those already within. Bless it all!

She rushed to the open door, past customers who had turned to glower at the newcomer. “Sir Fitzzhubert. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Brown.” He shut the door behind him with the same attitude one patted the head of an obedient child. A dusting of snow quickly melted on the cape of his dark grey greatcoat. “I will take my usual table this morning.”

Which was naturally already occupied. But even if it were not—“I am afraid I cannot help you, sir, if you insist on bringing your dog with you.”

“Little Chester here? He is no bother to anyone. He is a favorite at the pub.” Sir Fitzhubert patted the dog’s head as it silently bared its teeth at Millicent.

“That is an opinion not all share. I will not have him in my establishment.”

“I refuse to listen to such nonsense. Cease at once and take me to my table.”

The two ladies at ‘his’ table stared at the dog, hands pressed to their chests.

“That dog is known to be dangerous to children, and I will not have such a creature—”

“Chester is no more dangerous than that—” he pointed to Criollo, “…terriers… have a far more dangerous temperament.”

The boarhound barked and lunged, snapping the leash. The end dangled limply from Sir Fitzhubert’s hand.

Time slowed as the dog leapt over the nearest table and sprang, barking and snarling at Jules, who carried a tray laden with milk breads. Someone—a woman, maybe Millicent herself—screamed.

A brown-green blur flashed through the air, wings half extended, gliding faster than he could have run. Criollo growled as loud and deep as a creature many times his size, sending chills down Millicent’s spine. Teeth bared, claws out, he careened into the dog’s shoulder, knocking him away from Jules.

Jules screeched and dropped the tray as hands pulled him away from the now wrestling creatures.

A bundle of ferocity, deadly as a goshawk focused on its prey, the dragon fastened his teeth on the dog’s throat, raking its side with his claws.

“That dog’s a menace. Git it out of here.” Two men jumped to their feed, brandishing their walking sticks.

The dog grabbed Criollo’s back leg in its teeth, whipping its head to rip and tear, but the little dragon chewed the dog’s throat. Was it in an effort to inject some sort of venom? She’d heard that some dragons were venomous.

“Get that mongrel off my hunter.” Sir Fitzhubert waved his walking stick, striking Criollo’s shoulder, and knocked him away from the dog. He knelt beside his twitching, trembling dog. “What has that—” he did not say dragon, but the Blue Order signet on his finger meant that he knew Criollo’s true nature. “—horrid creature done to my prize boarhound?”

“Just what it deserves. Brave little thing, no telling what that monster could have done to the boy.” Mrs. Smith stood, shaking her finger at Sir Fitzhubert.

“He was after the buns, not the child, you old fool.”

“Anyone who saw the gleam in its eye know that’s not true. I saw it before when he went after my grandsons while they were playing rounders, not a month ago.

“The provoked him.”

Two men pushed their way through and hauled the dog outside, Sir Fitzhubert close behind.

“Oh, he’s hurt! He’s hurt!” Jules cried and ran to the crumpled little dragon huddled under an unoccupied table.

“Go tend your dog, Missus,” Ambrose, the young clerk, appeared at her shoulder. “No one felt safe with that dog about. He’s done a fine job for all of us. I’ll deal with the mess.”

“We’ll help.” Two women, both mothers of young children, stood. “It’s about time that bully was stood up to. That dog of his is a hazard to us all. Your brave little fellow took care of that. It was quite a sight seeing him standing up to both of them.”

Jules, and now Pere as well, ran to Criollo. “He’s bleeding, Mama! Help him!”

Millicent ran to join them.

Do you think Millicent is going to regret her choice? Tell me in the comments!

Catch up on parts you missed here.