The Dragons of Wayward Crescent: Glade
Page 4
“She isn’t,” said Liz, weaving the words like a silken spell. “She’s talking to Glade in an ancient language called dragontongue. You must never let a dragon cry. If you do, it can never work its magic again.”
“Really?” Melanie’s mouth fell open.
There was a pause, then Rachel hooted, “For goodness’ sake, Liz. You almost had me believing you for a moment. Come on, let’s go inside and…have a cup of tea!”
Everyone, even Grandad, burst out laughing.
And to Lucy’s relief, Glade’s ivy was glowing gold.
Chapter 10
“Are we really going to leave Glade with them?” asked Lucy as she helped her mother do the drying up. It had been two days since the drama in the garden at Orchid Close. The two canaries had been returned, Melanie’s grandad was feeling a lot better, he and Agnes had become good friends, and so far there had been no more worrying calls from Rachel.
But a special dragon was a special dragon. Lucy couldn’t help but feel anxious.
“She’ll be fine,” said Liz. “She’s learned an awful lot in the past few days. She’s happy where she is. Besides, if she’s ever in trouble, she can always send a message to the listening dragon.”
Lucy glanced at the dragon on the fridge. It stretched its ears and hurred politely.
“So was it Glade who made all those lemon plants grow?”
Liz polished a fork and put it in the drawer. She stared out across the sunlit garden and smiled. “I think she might have had a little help.”
“From fairies? I thought there was no such thing?”
“Some people would say the same about dragons, Lucy.”
“Hmm,” she went, and stuffed her tea towel into a cup. “Will the plants stop Melanie’s grandad from dying?”
“I don’t think that’s the point,” said Liz. “What really mattered, to both of them, was that Pops was able to say sorry for what he’d done. Glade helped him to achieve that. Mission accomplished.”
“It was us who found the canaries, though,” Lucy said proudly.
“Or we were shown where to look,” said Liz. She hung up her towel. “Maybe we had some fairy help, too. Trust me, there are lots of mysteries in this world. Which reminds me, I’ve had a strange idea.” She walked down the hall and opened the door to the spare room. “One that will make us a bit more money.”
Lucy raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Are you going to sell special dragons for one hundred pounds each?”
“No. I thought we might have a lodger one day. A student from Scrubbley College, perhaps.”
Lucy’s mouth went as wide as a bucket. A lodger? An outsider? Someone who probably didn’t even believe in dragons, actually coming to live in their house?
“We’d have to clear this lot out, of course.” Liz nodded at the piles of junk in the room.
Lucy blinked and banged the side of her head. “But, Mum, they’d be normal. We can’t have normal people living in our house. Not with the dragons flying about.”
Liz folded her arms and looked thoughtfully at the room. A bed by the window and a decent pair of curtains. It could work. “You never know, things might be different one day.”
Lucy gave a curt humph. “I want a cat.”
Liz shook her head. “Absolutely no cats.”
“Absolutely no lodgers!” Lucy said stubbornly.
“One day, things might be different,” Liz repeated, as if she was talking to an unseen ghost. She closed the door quietly and patted it once.
One day.
Maybe the fairies would decide.
This story begins on a dark and stormy night. Well, actually, that’s not strictly true. It was definitely dark, but not exactly stormy. Though it probably should have been. For this is a tale of dreadful villainy. Of foul play, wickedness and shameful wrongdoings. It’s the story of a man who ought to have known better.
And that man’s name is Ron the robber.
It all takes place in the sleepy town of Scrubbley, on a quiet leafy road called Wayward Crescent. Most of the people who live in this Crescent are perfectly ordinary, respectable folks. But as some of you will know, the house towards the end, at number 42, is owned by a woman called Elizabeth Pennykettle – ‘Liz’ to her neighbours, ‘Mum’ to her nine-year-old daughter, Lucy.
Now, though she’s respectable, Liz is not entirely ordinary. She makes dragons, clay dragons, which she sells on the market. There’s nothing very strange about that, of course. But every now and then, when a magical mood inspires her, Liz makes a special kind of dragon. One that might look like a normal solid sculpture, but is in fact real. Very, very real.
This is how it was on the night that Ron the robber broke into Liz’s house. She had just made a new special dragon. A handsome young male. At that time his special abilities were not known. And he had no name.
Liz had left him on her potter’s turntable, in her workroom upstairs which she called the Dragons’ Den, while she and Lucy had gone out for the evening. The new dragon was in the care of a female called Guinevere. Guinevere was Liz’s personal dragon and she was very special indeed. It was Guinevere’s job to ‘awaken’ the young dragons when they were made. How she did it was a secret, and the details are not to be written down here. All that matters for the moment is that the dragon on the turntable could blink and blow smoke rings and swish his tail. He was eager to test his wings as well. For there was lots to explore in the Dragons’ Den. The window that looked out onto the garden, for instance. And the shelves of fascinating dragon sculptures. But Guinevere had spoken firmly to him in dragontongue, telling him he must await Liz’s return before trying out his flying skills. Young dragons, she had said, had much to learn.
So, there we have it. The scene is set. As the sun goes down and the Dragons’ Den falls into dusky shadow, picture the young dragon sitting and waiting, drumming his claws on the wooden turntable, warming the air with a hrrr now and then.
Then, suddenly, his ears prick up. For somewhere far below he has heard a sound. A gentle crash. A sharp sort of tinkle. He is too young to know about the layout of the house or that the sound is a small pane of glass breaking in the kitchen door. But he sits up eagerly, expectantly, keenly, wondering if this means his mistress is coming.
Just then, however, another young dragon swoops into the den. This is Gruffen. He is a guard dragon, made to protect Lucy Pennykettle from danger. But Lucy is not here. She is in no danger. But Gruffen is concerned that the house might be. As he lands on the table next to Guinevere he tells her what he has seen. He was on the kitchen table when the glass was broken. He saw a gloved hand fiddle through the hole and turn the key which was sitting in the lock. He saw the door open and a man step in. Not Henry, the Pennykettles’ next door neighbour. A stranger. A stranger dressed like the night. Sturdy black boots. Black jacket. Black hat. A stranger carrying a flashing torch.
Guinevere urges him to search through his book. (Gruffen has a book which he always carries with him, a kind of manual of dragon procedures.) By the light of Guinevere’s violet flame, he looks up the word ‘strangers’. The new young dragon leans forward to watch. This is very exciting! He wonders if life here is always like this?
There is an entry in the book, but it is not very helpful. ‘In the presence of strangers, act solid’ it says. This is a rule all the special dragons know – except for those just born, of course.
There is a creak on the landing. A footstep. Two. Light breaks at steep angles into the Den. Gruffen and Guinevere immediately turn solid, forgetting that the youngster doesn’t know what to do.
A figure steps in. He is short. A little brawny. Stubble on the fatty parts of his chin. The light twists and burrs around the shelves, making soft glints as it catches on the ears and tails of clay.
“Well, well, what ‘ave we ‘ere?” the figure says. A man. Soft-spoken. Quite elderly, perhaps. With slightly yellow teeth. And slightly fishy breath.
The light flips again, towards the table. It passes over Gu
inevere. It passes over Gruffen. But when it hits the new dragon, he sits up and hrrrs…
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