“Are they firestones?” Fly asks, tipping forward to take a closer look.
“Looks like it to me,” Tudor says.
“They might not come away for me,” Briony says. “They weren’t calling to me like Blaze’s egg was. Maybe these ones don’t want to be found.”
“Just give it a try, sweetheart,” Beaufort says.
Her magic glides around the two stones and yanks, but not yanking in the way my shadows and Dray’s had. Instead, carefully, her magic nudges them loose, and both come away easily, gliding up to the surface and floating there, cradled in Briony’s light.
“They’re beautiful,” Clare says in astonishment.
“And just sitting there all that time,” Fly says. “I can’t believe you never checked this pond, Briony.”
“I was kind of astounded to find the first one. I didn’t know what it was and didn’t give any thought as to whether there would be any others. And like I said, these two weren’t calling to me.”
Tudor wades into the water, the icy depths quickly reaching his knees. He leans forward and scoops both stones into the palms of his hands. Then he turns and wades back the way he came, offering them both to Nini.
She stares at them. “I wonder why these ones didn’t call to me,” she ponders.
“They may not be alive,” Tudor says, handing her the first stone. “They’re warm, though. Can you feel that? A little warm.”
Beaufort comes closer and takes the other stone from the Professor’s hand, gliding his palms over the smooth black surface.
“This one’s warm too,” he says.
“So we might have two more dragons,” Dray says.
“I don’t know,” Briony says. “But I think… maybe yes. Two more dragons.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Briony
The two stones are almost identical in shape, size, and color, although there’s more of a brownish tint to the black of the first one and more of a bluish tint to the second. The brownish stone is also a fraction lighter than the other two.
I tuck the lighter brown one inside my jacket, zipping it up, and Beaufort does the same with the heavier blue one. Then we’re trudging back through the forest, reaching Tudor’s home as the sun is already low in the sky and the streets are filling with people again, either on their way home from their shifts or heading out to the next one.
We find Tudor’s parents in the kitchen, his father covered in black soot, his skin smeared with it so that his eyes seem almost ghostly in his dirty face. His mother stands beside him.
“There you are,” she says, sliding mugs our way. “I was beginning to worry. I thought maybe…” She trails off, shaking her head. Then she straightens her shoulders. “The word’s been spread. There’ll be a crowd gathered in the market square at six.”
My eyes flick automatically to Tudor, who looks down at his wristwatch.
“Half an hour,” he says. “You have half an hour.”
“Sure you want to do this, son?” his father asks, swiping a dirty cloth over his face in an attempt to remove some of the soot. “It exposes you. Puts you in danger.”
“One way or another,” the Professor says, “fate has brought us to Slate, and I think that’s for a reason.”
Of course, that reason may just be the stones hiding in our coats. But like Fox, I can’t help believing there’s more. We’ve been brought here for a reason.
His father tosses the dirty cloth onto the tabletop and lifts his mug, sipping the tea and saying no more.
We haven’t eaten any lunch, so we fill our bellies as best we can with the leftover stew that Mrs. Tudor serves us. Then I’m counting down the minutes. I chew on my cheek and on my thumbnail. I’m anxious and fidgety. I’m finding it hard to keep still.
I consider resting the firestones in the hearth by the fire, then dismiss the idea. The last thing we need is two baby dragons fluttering around us. Best to keep the stones as they are for now.
I debate going out to see Blaze again, then dismiss that too.
