by Kim M Watt
“I suppose I can kind of understand how he feels, then,” Mortimer said. “You know, the danger of contact with humans.”
“I can’t,” Beaufort said flatly. “Living in fear and hatred, living without joy or forgiveness for all those centuries? No, Mortimer. I can’t understand it at all.”
Mortimer dropped his rabbit bones into the fire, then sat back on his haunches to lick his paws clean with the fastidious concentration of a cat, his gaze wandering around the cavern. There were quite a lot of dragons in here for what was really a rather reasonable winter day. He spotted Rockford and his hangers-on huddled together in a corner, and wondered what they were up to. They didn’t normally spend any time at all in the Grand Cavern. Beaufort tended to laugh at them when they were boasting about their fighting skills, and it made them a bit huffy.
The High Lord had wandered off again and cornered a harassed-looking dragon called Violet, who had some very patchy scales not just on her tail but everywhere else as well. Mortimer thought she might be the only dragon other than Lord Walter who was shedding more than he was. Beaufort was questioning her while she tried to keep track of two very small dragons that appeared to have only recently grasped the rudiments of flight.
“And where were you yesterday afternoon at approximately 4 p.m., Violet?”
“When, sir? Rupert get off the ceiling right this instant you’ll fall and crack your skull and I am not going to show you any sympathy!”
“Around when it was getting dark.”
“I really don’t know. Probably trying to Josie don’t you dare bite the High Lord’s tail if he doesn’t skin you I will!”
Beaufort twitched his tail out of reach of a small, gleefully red dragon, and said, “I imagine you had your paws full.”
Violet gave him a disbelieving look. “I’d love to have my paws full. Having my paws full sounds wonderful. Harriet’s meant to be sharing the parenting, but I don’t even know when I last saw her. It might have been this morning. Or half an hour ago. But it feels like last summer and gods love me you two if either of you leave this cavern I will let you freeze out there and the ghasts can eat your bones!”
Mortimer blinked in alarm, and Beaufort patted Violet gently on her shoulder. “I think that’s all fine. Let’s see if we can maybe find some help for a spot of herding duty, shall we?”
Violet looked at him blankly. “Can we? I mean, would someone?”
“Of course,” Beaufort said, and Mortimer could see him wincing slightly. The two young dragons, neither of them bigger than a cat, had run back from the cavern mouth and appeared to be having a tug-of-war with his tail. “Lovely little critters. Just lovely.” He flicked his tail, and the hatchlings went flying backward, giggling and spitting half-formed flames.
Mortimer plucked Josie off the floor as she went scampering past, and saw an older dragon called Lydia snatch Rupert out of the air on his way to the ceiling. She beckoned Mortimer over imperiously, and he carried the wriggling Josie to her, depositing the little dragon next to her brother.
“Behave yourselves,” he told them. Not that they’d have much choice, with Lydia. He still remembered being left with her as a very small dragon himself, and how much his tail had hurt after she’d caught him wearing one of her crowns and having a sword fight with his shadow. Yep. Good luck to them.
He turned to head back to the workshop and found himself snout to snout with Lord Margery. “Um, sorry,” he muttered, scooting sideways while she gave him a look that suggested he still wasn’t too old to have his tail thoroughly tweaked.
Lord Margery marched toward the seat of the High Lord, even though he wasn’t on it. “Beaufort,” she said, and her voice was hard and carrying. “We need to talk.”
Mortimer suddenly decided that Amelia and Gilbert could manage on their own for a little longer, as the cavern grew quiet and the dozen or so dragons inside turned to watch. He had an idea that at least some of them had been waiting for just this. It explained why there were so many dragons here. Rockford was nudging a burly dragon called Lucille, who had piercings in all her spines, and they were both flushing an excited red, grinning broadly. Mortimer didn’t like the look of that. Rockford would love to see Beaufort’s changes revoked. The big dragon hated the idea of human contact as much as Lord Walter, but for different reasons. Lord Walter thought dragons were safer away from humans. Rockford, Mortimer suspected, thought dragons should be eating humans, as if it was something they’d ever done. He had some very strange ideas about what he termed the “glory days” of the Cloverlies, and didn’t seem to have a great grip of history. In fact, he didn’t have a great grip of much other than being big and loud, in Mortimer’s humble opinion.
“Lord Margery,” Beaufort said, his voice amiable, and suddenly Mortimer knew that, never mind anyone else, the High Lord himself had been expecting this. “How may I be of service?”
“You can drop this charade of human/dragon relations before we’re chased from our homes, for a start. Or you can stand down so someone more responsible can take your place.”
Mortimer heard his own quick intake of breath echoed around the chamber, and a few jeers from Rockford’s corner. The High Lord faced his challenger with his eyebrow ridges raised slightly, his gaze warm and resigned.
“You know that I believe this is in the best interests of all of us, Margery,” Beaufort said.
“Which is why I no longer think you are suitable to continue as the High Lord of the Cloverly dragons.”
More gasps, and some rapidly hushed cheers, and all eyes were on Beaufort as he nodded thoughtfully. “A High Lord cannot just step down. Are you challenging me to a battle?”
“I’d prefer not to,” she said, her voice steady and her wings high. “But since you’re such a fan of new ways, why not be the first High Lord to give up his seat for the good of the clan?”
“Because I do not agree that going into hiding again is in anyone’s best interests.”
“You’re wrong, Beaufort. This cannot continue. You’ll expose us all, and the humans will tear us apart as they did our parents, our cousins, our friends, our children. I don’t want to remove you, but I will if I have to.”
“And if we fight and you lose?”
“Then so be it.”
Beaufort sighed. “The old ways are really not the best, you know. The rule of the strongest is no longer the wisest choice. So, no, Margery, we won’t fight. And I won’t just step down either. We’ll vote.”
“We’ll what?”
A rumble of noise washed around the cavern, and Rockford shouted, “Fight him, Lord Margery! Fight him!”
She glared at him, and he subsided into silence. She looked back at Beaufort, eyebrow ridges raised. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“A vote,” Beaufort said. “It’s when every member of the clan has a voice—”
“I know what it is, you imbecile. But when have dragons ever had their lives decided by a vote?”
“Well, maybe it’s time they did.” Beaufort flipped the cover down on his notebook, rather sadly, Mortimer thought. “Spread the word. This afternoon we call another Furnace. Every dragon shall have a voice in deciding the future of the clan.”
“Boo!” Rockford bellowed. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Lucille and a couple of others joined him, but not even Lord Margery looked at him this time, and after a few half-hearted shouts the little group fell silent again.
“This is ridiculous,” Lord Margery said. She’d gone a strange mottled colour, partly her own silver blue, partly angry puce and a little alarmed pink. It wasn’t a particularly nice shade.
Beaufort gave her a broad grin. “I don’t know. It might be fun.”
“Imbecile,” Lord Margery muttered again, and padded off, shouldering past Mortimer with a baleful glare. Rockford hurried after her, trailed by a handful of dragons, and Mortimer scooted backward before anyone could “accidentally” step on his tail.
“Votes!” Rupert shrieked, barrelling across t
he middle of the cavern. Lydia must have dropped them both in her shock at the challenge. “Do the votes!”
“Votes!” his sister echoed as she flew after him, then crashed into the wall and bounced off a couple of outcroppings before coming to rest at Beaufort’s feet. He looked at her indulgently.
“And who will you vote for?” he asked.
“Rupert,” she said firmly, and her brother cheered.
Mortimer swallowed hard, the rabbit suddenly heavy in his belly, and stared at Beaufort. The old dragon had climbed onto his seat and was arranging the fireproof blanket over his barbecue as if he had nothing more important to do. Mortimer stumbled over to him, and the High Lord sat back on his haunches and regarded the younger dragon with his eyebrow ridges raised in mild interest.
“That’s a funny grey you’ve gone, lad,” he said.
“Beaufort, you can’t,” Mortimer said, his voice sounding strange and faraway.
“It’s a better plan than rolling about the place trying to knock each other’s teeth out. I quite like my teeth.”
“Well, yes, but—” he stopped. He knew Beaufort couldn’t just not answer the challenge. That wasn’t how it worked.
“Do you think I might lose, lad?”
Mortimer gave an awkward little shrug.
“You may be right. But there’s no use in going forward when half the clan are dragging their feet and wishing you’d drop dead so they could go back to the old ways.”
“But then we need to talk to them. We need to explain that this is good for everyone, that – that it’s safe and everything …” He trailed off, thinking of the bauble thieves.
“It’s not, though, is it? We think it’s better than the alternative, but that doesn’t mean everyone does. That’s my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed ahead without making sure the whole clan was behind it.”
“What if you don’t win?” Mortimer could barely whisper the words. There weren’t many dragons alive who could remember the days before Beaufort was High Lord. He couldn’t even imagine it. It seemed like the world would be a much darker and more unfriendly place without the big dragon at its centre.
“Well, then. I shall take myself off somewhere and have a nice retirement.” Beaufort patted him on the shoulder. “Now off you go. An old dragon needs his naps.”
Mortimer watched him climb onto the barbecue and settle himself down with every evidence of enjoyment, then ran for the cavern entrance. He thought he might be about to lose his rabbit.
14
Miriam
Miriam passed a restless night, full of fractured dreams of baubles eating postmen and vans turning into dragons that promptly vanished, leaving behind nothing but wrapping paper. Eventually she gave up and went downstairs to sit at her kitchen table, peering blearily out at the heavy dark of a winter morning and wondering what she was going to make for the impromptu meeting at Jasmine’s. Everyone had assured the younger woman that they’d bring a plate and she shouldn’t cook anything at all, and hopefully she’d listened, otherwise they’d all be sitting there amid the fumes of an abused oven.
Miriam shook herself. That was a terribly unfair thought. Well, maybe not unfair, but certainly unkind. Being tired was no excuse. She got up and switched the radio on for some company, then pulled the butter out of the fridge. She had time to make some Christmas cookies, and get them decorated as well. No one could stay miserable when there were cookies to decorate. Or, indeed, to eat.
It was a very pleasant way in which to pass a winter morning. The kitchen filled rapidly with sweet, buttery scents, and Miriam even dug out her winter spiced chai tea, still sweet-smelling after a year in the cupboard. The Christmas carols had been overplayed since the last week of November, so she swapped the radio for an old Tom Petty CD and danced happily in her slippers, scattering flour over every surface and singing badly but enthusiastically. There was frost shining in the garden as the sun crept up and wandered through the bare branches of the trees, the sky was a pale and fragile blue, and, missing postmen and counterfeit baubles aside, all was well with Miriam’s world.
She headed for the door just before 10 a.m., cheeks pink from the shower, carrying a tray of cookies on which the icing was still drying and wondering where her favourite gloves were. There was a scattering of post on the mat, and she realised that she’d been playing the music so loud that she hadn’t even heard it arrive. It seemed the police escort was working.
“Hopefully they couldn’t hear me singing,” she said to the quiet house, and put the cookies down to scoop up the mail. She shuffled through it, sorting the Christmas cards from the rubbishy things that companies send out disguised as real mail, then wrinkled her nose in startled disgust. Her fingers had slipped on paper that felt oddly greasy, like old menus in fast food cafes. She found it stuck to the back of a card by its own slickness, one ragged sheet that looked a little like that old fax paper that came on rolls and bleached in the sun, and a little like a receipt from somewhere terribly disreputable. There was either dried mud or chocolate smeared all over it. At least, she hoped it was dried mud or chocolate.
Do not trie to follow us agin.
The bubles ar ours.
Stop seling yors or else.
And no talking to polis.
Miriam read it twice, bewildered by the scratchy text and terrible spelling, like a ransom note written by a preschooler.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured eventually. “Oh dear. This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.” She tucked the note carefully into her jacket pocket and wondered if she had time to break into her cheese puff stash. It seemed like the sort of situation that called for cheese puffs. But she was already late, so in the end she peered around the door, checked for chocolate-smeared note writers, and hurried out, locking the cottage up firmly behind her. She headed for Jasmine’s house, coming back five minutes later to collect the forgotten cookies.
All of which had seemed like rather urgent news to share, until now. Now she watched in open-mouthed astonishment as the counterfeit bauble bore down on the sofa like a small and furious comet. Carlotta was standing directly in its path, and she dropped into a squat with surprising agility, only ruined slightly by the fact that she immediately toppled backward onto the floor, crashing into Rose and sending her sprawling. Pearl grabbed Rose and tried to hold her up, and instead overbalanced and fell forward, landing on top of both Rose and Carlotta while the missile screamed over their heads. Teresa grabbed a cushion from the nearest chair and hurled it as hard as she could at the furious bauble, sending it careening back across the room toward Priya, who fielded it with a yelp and a glancing blow from the notebook she’d had on her lap. Miriam dived for cover as the ornament shot toward her at eye level, and Rosemary grabbed the poker from the fireplace and swung enthusiastically. She missed the bauble and smashed a wedding photo off the mantel instead, while the festive missile ricocheted off the wall and headed back toward the sofa. Rose had extricated herself from the pile-up, and she grabbed a coffee table book on steam trains and hit the thing hard enough to send it smashing into the windows. It bounced off with a painful crack, so loud that Miriam was astonished the glass didn’t shatter. It was wobbling now, setting up an unhappy hum, and it had left a nasty smudge of soot behind on the window. Alice lunged, swatting the thing with her rolled-up newspapers like it was an overgrown and particularly bothersome fly, and it tumbled sideways across the room, ran into the wall (leaving an oily black mark this time), then spun away unsteadily and picked up speed again, the hum building into a tooth-rattling whine.
Alice raised her voice over the horrible noise. “We need to get it outside! If it explodes, it’ll set fire to the whole place! Someone, open those windows!”
Primrose was barking hysterically, racing back and forth across the carpet, and as Gert rushed to open the windows she tripped over the dog and went face-first into the loveseat under the windowsill. Primrose fled, yelping in fright, and Jasmine scrambled over Gert to haul the windows open. The bauble
was hovering near the top of the wall by the open double doors to the kitchen, and Priya grabbed the doors and slammed them, giving an alarmed squeak as the bauble dipped toward her. It seemed to rethink and wobbled into the centre of the room, staying high as if sensing it was in danger. Alice raised her newspapers like a tennis racket and jumped, swiping the bauble and sending it rolling across the ceiling, dragging a trail of soot and oil behind it. It hit the wall above the windows, dropped down as if it was going to pop neatly outside, then reversed and roared back toward Alice. She stepped back to give herself room to swing, tripped over Carlotta, who was still trying to get up, and they both went sprawling. The bauble thundered over them and headed for Miriam, buzzing so furiously it sounded like a horde of attacking hornets. She snatched her cookie tray off the table, gave what she felt to be a suitably Amazonian scream (although later she’d admit to herself that it was mostly just a scream), and swung.
The tray slammed into the bauble with a furious metallic clang, sending cookies and icing sugar scattering across the room, and the bauble flying toward the windows.