“We wish to visit the museum,” I said.
His lips puckered, then his forehead. When he did not move, I tried sidling to one side. He stepped in front of me and said, “Then your husbands are bringing the tickets?” dragging out the final S.
Tickets. I glanced at Mary, saw her preparing to erupt, and hastily said, “I understood the museum is public.”
“It is public for those withtickets,” he enunciated through bared teeth. “The collections are for serious visitors. Ladies’ tickets are requested by those with”—his gaze strayed down our skirts—“proper credentials.”
“Are proper credentials a physical appendage?” Mary snapped.
“Madam?” he said, gathering his lips into an offended rose.
I was reading an elaborately engraved brass panel on the wall. I sighed theatrically. “My aunt will besodispleased. She had specifically requested our report.”
He curled his lip. “How sad.”
“I have witnessed Lady Catherine’s displeasure,” I said cheerfully, which was perfectly true as I had been the cause of it. “Displeased is severe enough, but I fear she will beseriouslydispleased, and that is frightening to behold.” My hint did not seem to be penetrating, so I added, “When we last dined at Rosings, I fondly remember Lady Catherinede Bourghreminiscing about her patronageof the museum. You must give me your name so I may compliment your service to her.”
The man’s eyes grew round as his head. Doubtless, her ladyship had visited to ensure her funds were properly spent. She invariably left an impression.
“Your tickets were likely held in reserve,” he stammered. “Do you recall your guide’s name?” I stared blankly, so he prompted, “A museum curator? Or the area of interest…”
“Dragons,” I said as Mary replied, “Tudor royalty.” The man smiled as if that were perfectly sensible and dispatched a young boy.
The boy returned with a scarecrow of a young gentleman. His coat dangled from shoulders sharp as folded paper, but his smile was full and welcoming, and he said, “Tudors, is it?” and led us to the entrance.
The museum entryway was grand, with twenty-foot ceilings, endless pillars, and elaborate wrought iron banisters. Mary mentioned the Pendant of Fiery Justice, and our guide studied his shoes, muttered “east wing,” and wandered off. Mary and I exchanged a glance and followed.
The east wing was secured by a locked door that swung open with a hoary groan. The airy spaces vanished as we wandered through a cluttered mess of dusty display cabinets, crates that were closed and obscurely labeled, crates that were open and empty, and peculiar items of art and nature in baffling locations.
As I passed an enormous stuffed owl head-down in a basin, our guide stopped in front of a rack of ancient cabinets. “The first Queen Mary,” he announced. “Not her remains, but rather the museum’s stored artifacts from her reign. The pendant…” He opened a drawer and began piling the contents on top of the cabinet.
“I doubt the pendant is here,” I said. “We saw it elsewhere.”
“Oh, no,” he said reassuringly. “I remember it. It cannot have been more than four years ago.” He extracted a snuffbox, gave a delighted cry, and peered at the underside.
“Thependantis not in your collection,” Mary said sharply. “We hoped you would know who possessed it.”
“The Pendant of Fiery Justice,” he said. “Beautiful piece. I saw it, no more than four years…” He bent double to peer deep in the drawer. Mary sighed very audibly, and he shook a finger in the air without interrupting his examination. “Do not be impatient. I understand you perfectly. The pendant was in the museum collection, and it was here. Nobody could move it without my knowledge.” He straightened and frowned. “Yet it appears to be gone.”
Despite Mary’s hope that this would provide a clue, I was not surprised. Anyone who secured both a royal artifact and deadly crawler venom was clever and resourceful. “Can you tell us about it?”
He ticked off facts with his fingers. “Crafted in gold by the royal jeweler. Four oval sapphires, each three carats. Twelve minor stones. Despite the incorrect hue, the blue gems represent dragon breath. Originally it was worn with a leather strap, then fitted—”
“What?” I said. “You know that dragon breath is not blue?”
He blinked as if I were an errant entry on his list. “Yes. Dragon breath is not blue. At least, not the dragons I know of.”
The blue flame of regular draca was a terrible weapon, hotter than any forge, but Yuánchi’s breath was something else. I was not even sure it was fire. He had used it twice in my presence, and it was too blinding to view and too thunderous to hear. It was like a fragment of blazing sun torn away and smashed to earth.
“Do you know of many dragons?” Mary asked, which was good because I was too surprised to speak.
“The historical record describes several dragons,” he said. “The accounts are consistent, even across cultures. I prefer the Chinese records, which are less fanciful. The red dragon is prominent and symbolizes vitality and life. They describe its breath as molten light.”
“And the other dragons?” I asked, my tongue finally working again.
“Their records are murkier, but there are distinct creatures. One is obscured by poetic description—tiresome rhapsodies on heavenly hues and such. But the shadow or black dragon is straightforward, even though the references are second hand. They inevitably follow disasters—razed cities, lost civilizations, that sort of thing. Some argue the black dragon is a metaphor for plague or drought.”
Mary made interested, academic noises, then asked, “How is a scholar of Tudor royalty so knowledgeable of dragons?”
