part 7

For the moment at least, it seemed like there was no one else in the mews between the buildings, a strange little haven from the recent chaos. Two- and three-story buildings rose up on either side of the little service alleyway, shadowing it, buffering it from the bustle of the market streets. A cat chased a rat across the way near the cart horse that was waiting patiently with its cart for the next burden. The morning breeze raced through the narrow channel, stirring up the smells of rotting vegetables and excrement and a reminder, warning that the privacy would not last long patiently; best hurry. The less attention the little dragon attracted, the better.

Philip increased his pace. Marianne walked so close their shoulders almost touched. She kept a hand on the dragon, between her shoulders, as though to keep her calm, and cast an approving glance up at Philip as they went.

Who knew that Marianne was so sympathetic towards dragons? It was not a thing they had ever discussed, not something he had ever considered important before now. But all told, it was a pleasing, though not surprising, discovery.

Despite her often-sharp wit, and the tongue that went along with it, Marianne was a compassionate soul, the sort of person one really did want to spend their life with. He held the little dragon a little closer. In a way, the creature had done him a good turn today. Too bad he had nothing to offer in return. Hopefully the Order would find a way to repay that favor.

“Her hide is actually very soft, and it seems to calm her when I pet her, even in her sleep. I confess, it is a little odd to feel her skin so cold and know that it is as it should be,” Marianne said.

“I had a very similar thought. I have never really held a dragon before now.”

“Neither have I. Even though I know Gingernuts and have learned all the Order has required of us, it never seemed quite so real before. There is something very endearing about this little creature.”

“At the risk of being accused of being sentimental, I see it, too.” He chanced a quick glance into her warm, soft eyes. “Look, there is your father!”

Newsome waved at them from the plain, worn back door of the next building on their left. That door was not painted Order-blue, so Philip might have missed it. Gingernuts poked her head out beside him as Mr. Sinclair squeezed his way out past them both.

“Capital job getting her under control! Pucks are such mischievous little creatures they are difficult to subdue without considerable damage! Come in, come in, we have a place prepared to receive her.” Mr. Sinclair ushered them inside.

They entered through a little kitchen with a warm friendly fire and a pot of stew simmering on the hob. Large enough for only a single work table that ended at a dry sink, it felt homey and welcoming and warm. The cook, with her stained apron and sturdy build, hardly raised an eyebrow as they carried the sleeping dragon through her domain.

Why was there a cook? … Oh, right, two young clerks—Order men themselves—who worked for the local solicitor, lived upstairs, giving the image of a ‘normal’ function for the house that the dragon-deaf could grasp. Perhaps one of them might befriend the little puck.

That would be good for the dragon. Why did the thought leave a little bit of loneliness in its wake, though?

“Downstairs, to the cellar, if you please.” Sinclair sidled through the narrow kitchen and opened the crooked door near the fireplace to reveal narrow, irregular stairs. Slender windows, just above street level, provided just enough light into the musty, stale-smelling cellar to avoid the need for candles to safely traverse the creaky stairs.

“There is a basket for her to sleep in in the corner there, and chairs for you to wait with her until she awakens.”

“Wait with her? I do not understand,” Philip looked from Sinclair to Marianne, who seemed as perplexed as he as he laid the dragon in the straw filled basket. Surrounded by cold stone walls, the cellar felt a little like the cave that had started this entire strange adventure.

“She will likely panic when she wakes up without an acquaintance here to calm her. Since, as I understand, you both fed her recently, you are by far the most familiar and friendly faces to her, making you the best choices for the duty. I will have a bowl of food sent down as well. Considering I can see her ribs from here, I expect she will be hungry again when she wakes up.”

“But, sir,” Marianne looked up at Sinclair. “It is not proper that Philip and I should be alone together.” She might not be high society, but her concern—right and proper, not haughty-like— for her reputation was one of the things Philip admired about her.

Sinclair looked over his shoulder. “What say you, Newsome? Do you object? You can stay down here as well if you like ….”

Mr. Newsome peeked over Sinclair’s shoulder, eyes fixed on Philip. His forehead knotted just a mite, as though asking a question. His eyes darted to Marianne briefly, then back to Philip.

He was asking. That question! Did Philip want a private audience with his daughter?

Philip’s heart thundered hard enough to leave his vision as blurry as his thoughts. That expression, it was as good as Newsome’s approval, was it not? He caught Newsome’s eyes.

Yes, yes, it was.

Now what?

He had not spoken to Mama about the matter, not directly, in any case. But then again, did he really need to? Technically he was the man of the house and in a place to make his own decisions. More importantly, though, she liked Marianne very well and encouraged him to keep company with her. And Mama never kept an opinion to herself. If she objected, he would have known by now.

He nodded at Newsome.

“The dragon will be a sufficient chaperone, I am sure.” Newsome turned back up the stairs.

“Very good. The cook will listen for sounds of the puck awakening and will send for me at that time. Then we can sort out the creature’s future.” Sinclair retreated and shut the cellar door behind him.

The dragon’s future? What was that to him? It was hardly the future he was worried about.

Marianne pulled one of the straight-back worn wooden chairs beside the dragon and sat down. Folding her hands in her lap, she looked at him, one brow raised.

Subtle she was not.

He dragged the other chair closer, legs leaving little trails in the floor’s the dirt. He turned it backward and straddled it, folding his arms over its back. Not sitting room behavior, to be sure, but it was a cellar, after all.

“What do you think will become of her?” Marianne stroked the dragon’s side. “Do you think the Order will cast her out to starve again? It seems so very cruel. Do you think there is a poorhouse for dragons?”

“I do not know much of the Order, but somehow it does not seem to be the sort of thing they would do. As I understand, big dragons can and do still eat little ones—”

“Hush! How can you say such a thing when she might hear you?”

“I did not say I was in favor of such a thing! Besides, I am sure I have not said anything she does not already know.”

“That does not mean you should be talking about it!”

“No, it really is not what I would prefer to talk about.” He caught her eyes in a steady gaze.

Leaning back in her chair just a mite, she held his eyes. “Is there something you would prefer to talk about?”

“As a matter of fact, there is.”

“Do tell, what would that be?” 

“Aye, Miss Newsome.” What words did one use in such a circumstance—and in a cellar, no less. This was not the sort of place one made such a speech. “I confess, I’m not precisely pleased by these circumstances.”

“Indeed? Then perhaps you should go upstairs and wait with Mr. Sinclair and my father. I am happy to sit with the little thing and make sure she has a friendly face to awaken with.” Annoyance, or maybe anger, peppered her soft voice.

Mama spoke softly when she was displeased and it was a very bad sign.

“That is not what I meant, and I think you know it.”

“But it is what I mean. If you do not wish to be here, that is fine. But I am going to stay. I feel quite the affinity for this little creature, and I think I may want to become her Friend.” A determined little huff punctuated her words.

“Friend? Do you have any idea of what you are saying?”

“I am well aware of the meaning of the word, both inside and outside of the Order.” She might as well have slapped him, so cold and hard her voice had become.

He pulled back and lifted raised hands. “You’ve never said anything about being a dragon Friend before. There are no Friends in your family, or at least none that I am aware of.”

“What has that to do with anything? Are you suggesting that I am not qualified to be a dragon’s Friend?”

“Hardly! Of course not! You are quite able to do anything you want.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“I had been hoping that you would be—”

“My Friend?” The little dragon opened its eyes and stared adoringly at Marianne. “You want to be my Friend?”

“Yes, yes and I…” she scratched under its upraised chin. “I will get you some more to eat. They were to have it sent down by now.”

“Hungry, yes. I am hungry, but a Friend? You want a Friend? My Friend died and I’ve been so alone.”

Philip might have accused the dragon of playing for sympathy but for the true mourning in her voice.

“Yes, I would like you to be my Friend.” Marianne turned to Philip. “And I would like to know what you were going to say. What were you hoping?”

Being a dragon Friend, supporting a dragon, had not been on his mind. Far from it.

“Perhaps you meant nothing, then,” she said.

“No, no, that is not the case. Be patient with me for a moment while I work this out a bit.”

“What is there to work out?”

“For one, how will I feed a dragon? That seems to be a rather important consideration.”

Marianne’s look of surprise should not be amusing—he must not laugh.

“Feed a dragon?” Mr. Sinclair came down the stairs with a large bowl in his arms. “This should take care of her for the time being.”

He set the bowl near the dragon.

“There you go, little one, have your fill,” Marianne said.

“How much does a puck eat?” Philip asked. “The cost to feed another mouth is an important consideration.”

“And it is a prudent man who asks such a question, young Philip.” Mr. Sinclair crouched near the dragon.

“Need my hoard, too,” The dragon muttered with her mouth full.

“A hoard?” Marianne asked.

That would be a problem. Affording food would be problem enough.

“Yes, a hoard. I expect that is how that cave came to be filled with stolen articles. Gingernuts said she smelt puck in the cave.” Sinclair rubbed his hands together thoughtfully.

“Those things were mine!” the puck growled.

“On that I must insist, they were not.” Sinclair wagged a finger at the dragon. “You well know, hoards can not be established nor maintained by theft. There is serious trouble to be had for thieving dragons.”

The puck huddled miserably against Marianne. “I have no Friend.”

“The Order is prepared to assist you to become established with a responsible Friend. Even assist in identifying a proper hoard for you, but I must draw the line in permitting you to steal.”

“The Order will assist?” Philip asked, exchanging wide-eyed glances with Marianne.

“In exchange for assisting in the management of a known troublemaker—” Sinclair glared at the puck, who squeaked and trembled, “the Order is prepared to assist a Friend with a stipend that will provide for food and a suitable hoard as needed by a small puck.” He shifted his gaze between Marianne and Philip in a meaningful sort of way. “It does look like I intruded on a private conversation, though. I shall leave you to feed the poor little thing. Talk as you will.”

They watched Sinclair leave.

“What shall we call you?” Philip scratched under the dragon’s chin as she dove back into the bowl.

“We? What do you mean we?”

“I told you, I was just working things out, and it seems they have worked out now. It would not be right to take on a responsibility I wasn’t sure I could manage. But now it seems I can.”

“And what responsibility would that be?”

“A wife and her Friend. I hear they can be rather expensive.”

“Am I to consider that a proposal?” Marianne looked offended, maybe even angry, but the little dragon stopped eating and leapt into his lap.

“Another Friend?” The puck sniffed his hands, arms, neck and face like a nuzzling dog. “I met you at the buttercross, you may call me Buttercross.”

“And what of me? You would ignore me now?” Marianne folded her arms over her chest.

Buttercross sat in Philip’s lap and looked at Marianne. “No, but he is the one who needs to be convinced to be my Friend. You already said you would have me.”

“I think, just perhaps, there is something of which she needs to be convinced as well,” Philip said softly.

“Of what?” Buttercross looked up at him, cocking her head so far it was nearly upside down.

“She knows.” He extended his hand to Marianne. “Will you and Buttercross have me?”

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