Una hesitated.A large part of her didn’t want to let Violet back into the nursery ever again.If she did, she had an idea it would be the end of the quiet refuge she had made for herself there.But part of her looked at Violet and saw something bright and strong—something she had missed.
“Come on,” Una said in a whisper.“It’s cold.”
A moment later they were shuffling about under the bedclothes, top to tail, until they found a mutually tolerable orientation.Then Oolong climbed up on the bed and they groaned and rearranged the blankets all over again so that there were no gaps.
Then Una lay still and listened to Violet’s breathing.It was too quiet for her to be asleep—Violet was a noisy sleeper.
“I’m sorry about Elfed,” ventured Una at last.“And I’m sorry you can’t take him to Blackpool.I’m sorry I said everything was easy for you.”
After a pause, Violet answered a little gruffly, “Get some sleep.And stop being a pig with the bedclothes.Do you want Oolong to catch a chill?Oh!And Una—?”
“Yes?”
“Will you promise to give me the nastiest job in the menagerie tomorrow?At the circus, I had to follow along behind the animals during the show and keep cleaning the droppings up, so the prodigies didn’t step in them.It was such a lark, and it kept me fighting fit.”
“The droppings?”Una whispered, indignant.“Didn’t they know who you were?”
“Not likely!They would have exhibited me if they’d known, wouldn’t they?Violet Worms, dragon-tamer!Except it would have been all flannel, because I can’t even tame my own dragon.”
There was a small silence while they both contemplated this reality.
Then Una said, “Wyvern waste.There’s a cell that needs cleaning out.One of the wyverns was quarantined with an infected eye, just before opening day.No one’s got round to cleaning it out yet.”
“Perfect,” said Violet, nestling deeper into the bedclothes.“Night.”
Una soon recognised the familiar sounds of Violet sleeping.They had both been babies in this room, once upon a time.Did the abbey remember, and heave a sigh to have them back?
As if in answer, a low, reassuring creak emanated from the roof, and against all the odds, Una slipped into a deep sleep.
Pip couldn’t sleep.He had turned down Una’s dinner invitation because he wanted to keep working but he hadn’t got anywhere at all with his sketches for the fresco.And he knew why.
Other artists might dream of a cold Yorkshire abbey wreathed in dragons, but Pip’s dreams were all of sun-warmed Venetian stone, glittering Roman mosaics, and bee-loud Provencal gardens where fraternal painters shared laughter, bread, and wine, and did not judge each other because of their accents or the cut of their clothes.
And all that stood in his way was money.
Rather awkwardly, he had brought the subject of payment up with Sir George, and he had quickly agreed to pay whatever was fair for Pip’s work, but Pip had been too cowardly to bring up the matter of the art school money, which was really what he had wanted to know about.It had almost sounded as if it hadn’t been Sir George at all who had arranged for his education, which was perplexing.So Pip had nothing to rely on but the payment for his restoration work on the fresco.
Pip was weeks away from attaining full majority in the eyes of the law, but his prospects were meagre at best.If only Pip would come into an inheritance!What great things he’d be able to do if he wasn’t forced to always worry about money!It was terribly unfair.If he could get the training and experience he needed, he’d support himself.And it was frankly hypocritical of his stepfather to judge Pip for avoiding dangerous manual labour when everyone knew that Janushek himself had come here a decade ago on a mission to steal dragon eggs!
Pip had even begun to consider thievery himself.He had the skills to nab a dragon, but he didn’t think he could bring himself to do it.He’d been raised with too strong an abhorrence for dragon snatchers.But maybe he could steal something else—something that wouldn’t be afraid and look at him with piteous eyes.
He jumped out of bed, and, crossing the room, found his jacket hanging on its peg.His hand groped for the two hard objects in the inner pocket, and when his fingers closed on them, he shivered.
He pulled back his hand, because the cold, hard feel of those keys in his hand scared him.He shook himself.He wasn’t a thief, he told himself.Whatever else he was, whatever the circumstances of his birth, he was the son of a gentleman.So he would act like one.
Chapter thirty-six
London
AttheofficesoftheDaily Mail, Penelope Fairweather was presented with a stack of correspondence related to her newspaper article.
“What am I to do with this?”
“You want to be a proper reporter, don’t you?”said the subeditor, a bleary-eyed man who exuded the fumes of a sleepless night fuelled by coffee, tobacco, and breaking news.
Penny found this aroma thrilling.She’d met the man all of twice, and already she coveted his job as if she’d been dreaming of it since she was ten.
“Write a follow-up,” he replied.“The dragons always sell.”
