In which Sir Fitzhubert tries to assert dominance.

Find earlier parts HERE

Between Thomas’ sign and the helpful dragon nudges, more orders had been placed for boxes, and even some home deliveries than ever before. By Christmas Eve, Millicent was beginning to question whether or not they could take on any more. What an unexpected problem, all things considered. It was difficult to consider turning down business, though. But disappointing customers was even worse. It had not come to that, not yet. She would take another look at her notes later today. Maybe she could sort it all out to accommodate a little more.

The Christmas Eve customers seemed especially jolly this year, relishing generous amounts of chocolate, especially the most expensive varieties with exotic spices and wines for flavor. A bit of largesse to start the Christmastide season early, no doubt. By afternoon, every arm in the Chocolate Dragon kitchen was worn out from all the mixing and whisking to bring up a proper froth on the chocolate. Peter and Jules had both been pressed into service in the scullery to was the trembleuse cups and saucers, while Royal dried them. They were so proud of themselves for finding a way to be truly useful.

Millicent stood at the far side of the fully occupied dining room, arms gently wrapped across her waist. The place smelled of chocolate and baked goods, warmth, cheer, and goodwill. Satisfied customers filled every seat, smiling and laughing and talking with friends and neighbors. If this was how the rest of the season would progress, she could be nothing but thankful.

Criollo and Pouncer stood like matching andirons in front of the crackling fire in the hearth, surveying their domain. Posing as a dog and a large cat, at home and at peace, they seemed to radiate goodwill through the space. Although neither of them mentioned it, Criollo was the Chocolate Dragon’s dominant dragon.

It had taken a bit for Millicent to work that out, but there was no doubt. Anytime there was a question, Pouncer, the garden wyrms, and even the lesser cockatrix who regularly visited the street—taking guise as a raven to the dragon-deaf—they all looked to Criollo for guidance. Interesting how he always offered it gently, almost as a suggestion, not a command. In a way that radiated peace and confidence, so much so that even Jules and Royal occasionally looked to him for direction. Truly, those times were funny, because Criollo would then look to her, acknowledging her dominance in the scene.

Utterly unlike the experience she had with dragons in the past. Maybe tropical dragons were just different to English ones.

The front door swung open and remained so, despite the driving wind outside.

Sir Fitzhubert. Lovely.

Criollo slunk back into the shadows as she hurried to the door.

“Good afternoon, Sir Fitzhubert. Pray now, close the door and have some consideration for those of us who came in to be warm.” Gracious, that was awfully direct, even draconic of her. But it was true.

A few surprised but gracious looks thrown in her direction suggested she had only said what others were already thinking.

Sir Fitzhubert slammed the door behind him but remained stationed in the doorway, sure to block anyone else trying to enter.

“What might we do for you today, sir?” Millicent took a step back toward the dining area. Hopefully, he would follow.

He remained as he was, digging in his heels. “You have already done too much.”

“I have not the pleasure of understanding you.”

“Oh yes, you do. Don’t play games with me, woman.” He parked his hands on his hips, apparently trying to look big.

“Why are you here, sir?”

“You killed my dog. Your little menace killed my dog.”

Someone at the back of the room snorted a laugh. A quick glance confirmed that customer had been there to witness the entire dreadful affair.

“That is hardly what happened, and many people here can attest to the fact that your dog tried to attack my boy. My … dog … protected Jules from serious injury.”

“My dog was going after the buns the boys carried, not the boy.”

“On that point, we will have to agree to disagree.” She sucked in a deep breath. Must control her temper. But where the boys were concerned—

“No, we will not.”

“What are you talking about?” Her face flushed hot and prickly, all the way down to her shoulders.

“I have filed a complaint.” He tapped the Blue Order signet ring he wore on the small finger of his right hand. “You are wanted immediately, to be held to account for the actions of your dangerous animal.”

“By whom?” Millicent barely restrained the urge to stomp.

“You heard me, you have been summoned.”

“I have a business to run. I cannot be dashing here and there and the whim of someone one—”

“For now, you have a business to run. That might well change, especially if you refuse to attend me.” Sir Fitzhubert snarled with a level of self-satisfaction he must have learnt from Twyford.

Ambrose rushed to her, Criollo and Pouncer following. “It may be best that you go, missus. I can manage here for a bit. You know how Sir can get.”

“I think he is right,” Criollo pressed his side against her leg. “I will go with you, since this is about your dangerous little dog.”

“And I will come as a witness to everything that has happened.” Pouncer wound himself around her ankles. Such protective little dears.

Millicent crouched. “You know me means to take me to Twyford. The dragon, not the town.”

“Of course.” Criollo trotted toward Sir Fitzhubert, head and tail held high and proud.

“Restrain your beast.” Sir Fitzjubert jumped back.

Had he just conceded dominance to a little dragon?

Those in the dining room laughed. Even the dragon-deaf in the room understood what had just happened.

Millicent scurried toward Criollo, and with his permission, picked him up and held him close.

“You afraid of a little rat dog?” someone from the back of the room jeered.

Sir Fitzhubert stomped out.

“You go and show ‘im what for, Mrs. Brown.” Another voice called. “It’s about time he got taken down a notch or two.”

Easy for them to say, they were not about to confront an angry dragon.

Ambrose brought her hat and pelisse. She put them on and followed Sir Fitzhubert out, just in time to see him shut the door on his carriage. A small, decrepit horse cart, with an equally shabby horse, waited nearby.

“I am to take you to Twyford, Missus.” An old man on the cart said. Would the horse make it that far?

The wind, tinged with the smell of soon-coming snow, carried a note of warning.

The wind was right. She certainly could not walk there, not in this weather. She climbed onto the cart and held Criollo and Pouncer close against the wind.

What would Twyford demand of her? What would she say—what could be said in such a situation? The major dragon would have all the rights. She, Criollo, and Pouncer, none.

“You are going to need the magistrate.” Pouncer said. “The new magistrate, not the doddering old fool.”

“There is a new Blue Order magistrate?”

“Yes. His house is not far from here.” Pouncer spring-hopped from the cart and disappeared down the lane.

It was a sensible suggestion, to be sure, but would a Blue Order magistrate be bothered to listen to a lowly tatzelwurm?

Criollo cuddled into her chest. “I am sorry, I never meant to be trouble to you.”

“It wasn’t you that was trouble, but Sir Fitzjhubert’s dog. You save my Jules, and I can never forget that. I don’t know what I can do to protect you. But I will do whatever I can.”

“Do not endanger yourself—”

“I will do no less for you than you did for me.” She held him a little more tightly. It was only right that she should see it that way. Not sentimental, it was just right.

The cart stopped in front of a deep pit with an imposing fence around it. The lair of the major wyrm. He did not even have a proper cavern to call home, but a series of tunnels dug out over the centuries of his life. Every year there were stories of subsidence and building falling into sinkholes—the result of Twyford’s unrestrained digging. Not so different to what River had done, ruining her family. One more thing the Blue Order’s Ministry of Keeps never seemed to manage. “Off you go, Missus, you and your … dog. Sir is waiting in the shed near the fence, there.”

“Is it wise to just walk up to a dragon’s lair?” Criollo jumped off the cart.

“No, not at all, but I would not have Sir Fitzhubert storm out and drag me there, either.” She straightened her hat, pelisse and shoulders. Now was not the time to show fear.

“Twyford cannot harm you, there are rules about such things you know.” Criollo trotted next to her. “He is free to eat me, though.” He shook in a gust of wind.

“I will not permit that. I promise you.” Just how she would do that was a very good question indeed. How did one stand up to a dragon, even a lowly wyrm?

“Come along.” Sir Fitzhubert’s voice echoed across the pit. “It does not do to keep a dragon waiting.”

The horse cart moved away at a trot—was that the horse’s idea or the driver’s? Horses did not like large dragons. Either way, there was now no way for her to get back home, not unless Sir Fitzhubert provided it. Lovely, just lovely.

“I do not see why it should make any difference to me. You are his Keeper, not me. I don’t rightly care what the crusty old lizard thinks, it is no never mind to me.”

“Full of cheek and vinegar, you are. But Twyford won’t have your disrespect, you know. You’ll learn soon enough, you bit o’ cunning baggage you. And you, miserable scrap of hide—don’t be expecting to come out of this. He knows how to handle trespassers like you.” Sir Fitzhubert sneered, so ruddy proud of his power and position.

“You will not threaten my Friend.” She picked up Criollo and held him tight.

“I will threaten whomever trespasses on my territory.” A huge dark form shot up from the pit.

Twyford, in all his horrible glory, towered over them.

Who is going to save who? Tell me in the comments!

Catch up on parts you missed here.