The Dragon, the Witch, and the Railroad

By Elizabeth Ann Scarborough and TBD

Progress has transformed Queenston, capital city of Argonia. Once the land of witches, wizards, fairies, and other magical people and animals, since the Great War, the country has changed. Queenston, particularly, is now the city of contraptions and conveyances, including a modern international railroad.*

n the Great War Argonia's drag

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gypsy Shadow Publishing
• Release date: Mar 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781619505421

Book preview

The Dragon, the Witch, and the Railroad

by

Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

All rights reserved

Copyright © February 25, 2015, Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

Cover Art and Illustrations Copyright © 2015, Karen Gillmore

Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-542-1

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: March, 2015

tmp_29a674900f09916891a060f3ccd547bd_DdqoRB_html_m638633fe.jpg

Dedication

To Kerry Isabelle Greenwood, author of mysteries and histories, friend to cats, wombats and dragons (and me). Her generous contribution helped make this book possible.

Acknowledgments

For artist, volunteer editor and Kickstarter cheerleader, Karen Gillmore, thank you so much for all of the ways you’ve helped bring this book to life. Karen provided both the cover and the interior illustrations, including the new map of Argonia, Brazoria and Glasssovia. The new map of Argonia and the railroad is somewhat based on the original map of Argonia drawn by the late Doug Dean. I must also thank Ron Gillmore, eagle-eyed proofreader. To volunteer editors Becky Kyle and the meticulous Carolyn Plant, thanks for helping to make this book look as professional as its predecessors. Charlotte Holley and Denise Bartlett of Gypsy Shadow Publishing have my utmost gratitude for help, advice, publication and prettification of the manuscript and presentation of the art materials. Also I’d like to thank Tania Opland for listening to half of the book before it was finished, as she has with many books before this one. Additionally, I appreciate all of the pointers CE Murphy and Tarah Wheeler Van Vlack gave me on producing a Kickstarter campaign and thanks to Jonathan and Billie Stratman for making the video for the campaign.

And to my Kickstarter patrons, thank you so much for collectively financing the rebirth of a nation (Argonia). A fine bunch of writers, readers, musicians and music lovers, bead artists, cat people, relatives and friends you are!

Lauri Wojcik, Dian Curtis Regan, kfieldho, Juliana McCorison, Elizabeth Lane, David Odenwald, Cea Noyes, Marcia Stacy, Becky Kyle, Kal Powell, Katie Dunn, Kathy, Suzie Buck, Beth Cook, Jamie Cloud Eakin, Ronni Eloff, Ellen, Laura Wallace, Stephanie Bonsanti, Peg Betterly Robinson, Wendy Cook, Judith Bertoglio-Giffin, ShadesOfMauve, Matthew Price, Morva Bowman, Hans van der Boom, Liza Olmsted, Ron Chance, Kris Empting-Obenland, Jan Gephardt, Richard Novak, Lindsey Ekland, Gail de Vos, Danna Garcia, Virginia Korleski, Michelle Masters, Charlotte Calvert, April Osburn-Harris, Emrya, Brian Williams, Chrysoula Tzavelas, Alyc Helms, Cat Skyfire, Dale Subitch, Sarah Wishnevsky, Tiff Arnold, Tania Opland, Kamalloy, Samanda Jeude, Katrina Oppermann, soapturtle, Jenn Ridley, Rebecca Moskowitz Hewett, Andrea Hosth, Anne Walker, Paul Bulmer, Marjorie, Marketa Zvelebil, CE Murphy, Kirsten Pieper-Scholz, Michael Bernardi, Darlisa Black, Phil Boswell, Linda Dimitroff, Paul Simmons and Michelle Biddix-Simmons, Lelia M. Guinn, Jeremy Zimmerman, Linda Bruno, Amy Browning, Tracy Lunquist, Frank Herda, Karen Cobbe, Victoria L. Sullivan, Barbara J. Loyd, Bernadette Constant, Maryrita Steinhour, Daniel Pelletier, Marilyn L. Alm and Harry L. Alm Jr., Tom Linton, Tony Kyle, Hope Ring, Susan Petroulas (Suelder), Michael B. M,oe, Carolyn Plant, Lori Lum, Jami Nord, Beth Meacham, Linda, Maria Nutick and Liz Loveday, Sarah Frazier, Elizabeth Kerner, Alexandra Cenni, Guinevere K. Buxo, Star Fitzgerald, Sue Averill, Kathleen Lane, Barbara Chandler-Young, Kevin Andrew Murphy, Shannon Scollard, Rachel Gollub, EmmaBull, aprilsrain, Carol Guess, Barbara and David Denz, Shana Worthen, Dale Swisher, Kate McNamara, Kathleen Hanrahan, Deborah Fishburn, Denise Bartlett, Charlotte Holley, Anne, Gadgetman, Juith Tarr, Rachel Reither, Marti Wulfow Garner, Carole Nelson Douglas, Jean Marie Ward, Conrad Wong, Karen Lee Gillmore, Heather Dixon, William Pint, Noel Eskew, Marsha Wiest-Hines, Juliane Elanor Thomas, Deb McAlister-Holland, Kerry Isabelle Greenood, Terri Weiner, Tara Rayner, Adrienne Robineau, Katie Johnson, Donna Mendrygal, Erika Hamerquist, Cynthia Bond. Kathy Ozog, Sally Tierney and Debby Rodrig.

Chapter 1

Argonia According to the Allies

Malady (it’s pronounced Mah Lady) Hide strutted to the front of the class, her long yellow curls bouncing, and faced the other students. I consider my history paper something of a makeover story, she said. Before the Great War, we have Argonia of bygone days, a vast expanse of icy mountains and frozen tundra peopled by superstitious and backward citizens and some quite alarming fauna. After said conflict, it has become the modern, prosperous, industrial nation we call home today.

Verity felt one of her headaches coming on. She slouched down in her seat, and recited the multiplication tables to herself, followed by the periodic tables, and several snatches of bardic verse. Malady was every bit as pompous as her father, Chancellor Baltus Hide, the donor of the new dormitory building, a contribution neither of them ever let anyone forget. She hadn’t exactly told an outright lie yet, but Verity was sure at least one was imminent. So far her pronouncements, though wild distortions of known facts, were matters of opinion. It didn’t make a lot of difference to Verity’s curse, though she was a soothsayer, not a prophet. She could speak only the truth, but when she heard a lie, if she did not denounce it as such, she was punished with the headaches and sometimes nose bleeds.

Her slight moan was fortunately buried beneath Malady’s continuing lecture.

"Once upon a time, dear classmates and esteemed Sister Piston, there was a foolish little country so disorganized and careless that it lost its crown princess and so was eventually left without a queen, whereupon it fell into squabbling and feuds so divisive that when it was invaded by a powerful army from the east, its army was scattered and diminished.

"The realm was ill-prepared to say the least. After many lazy years of peace followed by infighting, those who might have led an army were busy raiding their neighbors.

Thus the invaders thundered across their borders plundering crops and herds, burning forests, razing castles, and ravishing young ladies. She said the last with relish which was met with titters from her fellow students. Our Lady of Perpetual Locomotion Scientific Academy (and Finishing School) for Young Women of Gentle Birth was, as the name suggested, a girls’ school. None of them knew exactly what ravishing meant, except that it involved men, and that was enough to interest them.

Verity scooted down even further, so that her head was no longer higher than that of the other girls. Her head had started to pound and she bit her knuckles to keep from speaking. If Malady thought so little of Argonia, why didn’t they send her back to Frostingdung, where her parents came from? Verity badly wanted to say so, but even her father had told her that if she was kicked out of any more schools for contradicting people, they’d have to do something drastic, though he hadn’t said what.

In an exasperated tone, Malady continued. "All the country had for its own defense were a few old dragons and a lot of charlatans who claimed to be wizards and witches and sorcerers and such and who had kept the superstitious people in absolute thrall for as long as anyone could remember.

They were losing badly when Prince Beaubon Rotgut, who had married a minor princess who was a remnant of the royal family, suggested that perhaps his own family might help, in exchange for a trade agreement. My brother and cousins are part of an amazing enterprise there, he told them. The Widderwinds Consortium has everything you need for a decent war. And so it came to pass, the trade agreement was signed, mercenaries were hired, certain technologies deployed, and the invaders driven back. The little country became a permanent client under the wing of the greater kingdom of Frostingdung, with free trade between them and a sharing of resources and scientific advances, and the client country never had to fear another foreign invader. The end.

Malady’s voice rose and her eyes lowered, proud of her paper but trying to seem humble about it.

Comments? Sister Piston, the history instructor, asked.

Verity’s hand fell from her mouth, her hand shot up and she said, Simplistic and prejudicial. Oh dear. She’d done it now, but surely Sister Piston could see Malady’s condescending condemnation of Argonia could not be allowed to stand? Nobody fights someone else’s war out of the goodness of its heart. Father says Frostingdung was in it for our resources.

That will be enough from you, Miss Brown, Sister Piston said. Anyone else?

At that point, she was—possibly?—saved by the entrance of the headmistress’s secretary, Sister Coggins, who entered the room without knocking and handed the teacher a note.

Sister Piston pulled her reading spectacles from her hair, where she stored them when not in use, and adjusted them on her nose. Miss Brown, you are wanted in the headmistress’s office.

Oh, no, not again, Verity mumbled, picking up her book bag in case she was not allowed to return. Although—she might not be expelled this time, she hoped with crossed fingers. She had been careful with her language—no excrement of any species had been included in her remarks. She had not said bullshit, horse manure, or even fumets, nor had she mentioned other bodily functions, natural or improbable. She’d made no references to Malady’s antecedents. And she had countered the incorrect assumptions of her classmate with her own logic in support of her objections.

But it wasn’t fair. She didn’t understand why she hurt when someone else told a lie. Surely it would be better if something happened to them? Something that would make it obvious to everyone that the truth was being distorted. Maybe that person’s hair should fall out or their fingernails grow? Or maybe her nose? Yes, that was it. The lengthening of noses would be unnatural, disfiguring, and make it clear that the truth was being trifled with, and at no cost to Verity.

She said as much to Sister Coggins before it occurred to her that the headmistress couldn’t possibly have known of her indiscretion—she refused to call it a transgression since she knew she was in the right—so soon. The headmistress’s office was miles of hallways from the classroom.

Sister Coggins did not reply, but marched her into the outer office where Verity beheld not just the headmistress, Mother Machination, but a happier surprise as well.

Papa! she cried, and rushed forward but was stopped by the iron arm of Sister Coggins before she could embrace her father.

Use your ladylike voice, Miss Brown, Sister said.

Now, now. If she has to do that, I’ll never hear from my daughter again, her father replied in a jovial tone. Sister Coggins’s jawline did not relax even a bit.

I mean, this is such an unexpected treat, Father, Verity said in as soft and calm a voice as she could muster.

I have an important business matter to attend at the iron mines, and I feel it is time you begin learning a bit about such affairs. Since it will be an educational trip, I felt sure the school would release you for a long weekend.

Meanwhile, Sister Coggins had sidled up to Mother Machination and was whispering something in her ear.

Indeed, Mr. Brown, you may take Verity with you and while you are about it, take her trunk and bags as well. I’m afraid she has proved a disruptive influence once more and has just sassed her instructor and insulted one of her classmates—an excellent scholar and a young woman who will be an ornament to society. We cannot expect this girl to continue her studies in the hostile environment created by your daughter’s presence.

If she expected Verity’s father to fly into a rage, she was disappointed. Gowen Brown bit down on his pipe stem, shot Verity an admonishing look, and said, How disappointing. I suppose a partial refund of tuition is out of the question?

Certainly not. We can only hope that Miss Hide’s parents do not sue you and us for the mental suffering inflicted upon their daughter.

Ah well, our attorney will be in touch then, Her father said and Verity ducked her head to conceal a smile. Uncle Nic would sort them out. Tod N. Balgair, Attorney, was an old friend of her real mother’s and probably the cleverest man in Argonia. Wait in the carriage, Verity, and send in the driver to help with your trunk, her father said.

The girl should apologize to Miss Hide before she leaves, Mother Machination said.

Her father asked. Verity, will you take back whatever it was you said to the other girl?

I can’t, Papa. I was telling the truth. She meant it. She could not tell a lie. Her mother had told her it was a curse she’d had from birth, but not to fret. She was the third generation of women in their family to have some kind of curse so it was sort of a tradition. Her real mother had sometimes had an odd idea of what would comfort a three-year-old.

Of course, you were, my dear. You always do. There you have it, Madame. Verity cannot apologize. Perhaps the other girl should reconsider her remarks. You have our address if she’d like to send a note.

Mother Machination’s lantern jaw dropped, or at least gave the impression of dropping. She said nothing more though, and Verity practically skipped out the door to the waiting carriage.

She could think of no other girl who would envy her a trip to an iron mine with her father, but she was excited about it. After her mother disappeared and before he married her stepmother, when she was eleven, the two of them had worked together in his workshop, where she watched him make clockwork toys and prosthetic limbs for men and beasts. She had helped him and learned to make silver jewelry.

Other girls like Malady were proud that their parents had money and position, but her own parents were interesting, and she liked that better. Rich, too, of course, and she wasn’t exactly clear on how they got that way, but interesting.

She remembered Mother telling her when she was very little that her family was connected to both royalty and to gypsies, specifically gypsies who were also royals. They were also a little bit bear on that side.

Her father was also part Gypsy, which a lot of people thought was a bad thing, but he acted just like it was the same as Brazorian or Elvish or Frostingdungian. He said that metal shaping and smithing were traditional gypsy occupations. At one time settled people called them tinkers in an insulting manner, though not all gypsies worked metal, of course. Supposedly, they also had hereditary tendencies toward music, handling animals, and fortune telling. That and traveling, of course, an urge he said the business trips to oversee his interests satisfied. As for the animals, there were the dragons. The businesses her mother left them involved a lot of dragons, and Papa saw it as his duty to look after them and see that they were well cared for.

The visit to the iron mine was not as fascinating as she’d hoped. When she saw the beautiful and, to her, rather exotic red soil along the rails leading to the mine, she’d thought the visit might be quite interesting.

She liked gemstones, agates, jaspers, and such, but once in the mining camp huddled around the shaft, she couldn’t really see any potential in the raw iron ore as it rose from the mine shaft in cars running on tracks like the railroad. It was ugly and the process of turning it into ingots and steel was no more attractive, even to someone who liked metal work. One large old dragon had a flame trained to the correct temperature, which was apparently critical in the smelting process that turned iron into steel, and she watched him fire the furnace while her father talked business with the mine steward. She admired the efficient way the dragon did its job. Its wrangler, who operated the apparatus feeding the furnace ore, told her that it was called Auld Smelt, though its number designation was its real identifier—369.

tmp_29a674900f09916891a060f3ccd547bd_DdqoRB_html_m1c13af87.jpg

She soon wearied of the unseasonal heat of the place, the din of production, and the dust that permeated her hair and pores. She was ready to get back on the train again and wandered over to stand beside her father near the entrance to the shaft, where he and the steward discussed something about dragon rations she could barely hear and didn’t understand at all.

She was watching the miners emerging from the yawning entrance to the shaft when she heard the clatter of iron wheels flying down the tracks as a car full of ore crashed toward them.

No one was quite sure how it happened. One moment her father was talking to the mining steward, the next the car was bearing down on the three of them at alarming speed and with amazing racket.

The next part happened so fast it was confusing. As it was with thunder and lightning, she wasn’t sure if she heard Auld Smelt roar or saw his fire first. She hadn’t been looking at him before he warned them.

But the roar hadn’t ended before the mining steward jumped away from the tracks in one direction and her father shoved her away in the opposite direction, diving on top of her. The blinding blast of furnace-hot fire from the dragon scorched across her face as he bellowed, and she felt the loaded ore car crash toward them. She was imagining herself crushed beneath it when it burst into flame not two feet away. The last of its clatter was when, with the frame gone, the half-fused ore spilled onto the track and across the ground. Only the wheels of the car remained, fused to the track, smoke rising from the wreckage.

With spots dancing before her eyes, she followed the phantom of dragon flame back to Auld Smelt, catching his watchful eye before he turned his head away from them and aimed his next blast at his work-in-progress. He had somehow heard or sensed the renegade car and diverted his flame to destroy it and save them, then returned to business as usual.

Overhearing her explaining this to her father, the mining steward shook his head in disbelief and said it wasn’t possible, that Smelt did not have the brainpower to react purposefully. ’E’s just not that bright, sir.

Later, the Queenston broadsheets even referred to the incident as a dragon malfunction, another one to add to an ever-lengthening list of such incidents that apparently had been happening quite often in recent months.

But her father was convinced, as Verity was, that Smelt had deliberately saved them, and ordered that the beast be given a double ration of dragon kibble as a reward.

On the train back to Queenston, Papa asked, What do you think just happened, Verity? Am I unscientifically sentimental? Am I erroneously anthropomorphizing the beast?

No, Papa. I had a bit of a headache already from the heat and dust, but when the mining steward said Smelt didn’t realize what he was doing, it grew worse. Smelt knew exactly what he was doing. He looked me in the eye afterwards and I know he was checking to make sure we were unharmed. I think dragons are a lot more intelligent than people give them credit for.

I agree, he said, and she hoped they’d have a nice chat about it, but Papa, troubled, busied himself with his paperwork for most of the rest of the ride home. She was disappointed. It was such a relief to have someone use her curse as a measure of the truth instead of some kind of social disease.

Chapter 2

The Balloon

Verity scarcely knew her stepmother, but she didn’t like her. She didn’t really see why her father had to marry the woman, but he had done so unexpectedly, while on a business trip to Frostingdung, and seemed quite proud of himself for finally laying aside his grief over his first wife and finding a new mother for Verity. The woman had no sooner set foot in the house than she began sending Verity away to a series of schools. While Verity missed her father, she was glad to be away from his wife. She got headaches just looking at the elegant Sophronia.

She also had the distinct impression her dislike was reciprocated.

So Verity was surprised when her stepmother announced, during dinner, I must take a small jaunt—just for overnight and tomorrow—to take some things to my cousin, whose wife is ailing. Their quaint little cottage is high in the foothills near the Mountains of Morn so it’s a bit of a journey. By the time you told me we were to have Verity back for her birthday, Gowen, I’d already made arrangements so unfortunately I cannot be with you.

Verity tried to hide her smile.

But I was able to quickly pull together quite a lovely surprise for your birthday, dear. She showed Verity her teeth, which were sharp and gleaming white. I’m sure you and your papa will find it great fun.

Verity was so relieved that she would not have to share her day and her father with her stepmother that she wouldn’t have paid attention to a headache if she had one. It sounded like fun already, whatever it was.

True to her word, for once, her stepmother left that evening to catch a late train. Verity watched from her window to make sure Sophronia and her baggage actually left. Then she went to sleep in her own bed, knowing that when she woke up she’d be sixteen.

After her very long day, she slept well in spite of her excitement and rose before anyone else was up. Only the cook was at work in the kitchen. Verity, still in her robe and slippers, sat at the table with a hot chocolate until her father came downstairs, then she hurried out to meet him.

Dress warmly, he told her.

She did, looking forward to wearing her own things again instead of the school uniform, but found to her disappointment that she was now too big for most of her clothes. Finally she pulled on woolen pants over the bottoms of her combinations, which served as both chemise and drawers, warm socks and sturdy boots for her feet, and a coat of soft tan suede with an attached woolen cape in a Loden green tweed trimmed in the same suede and fastened with little frog knots.

The carriage was waiting for them by the time she galloped down the steps.

You’re going to like this, her father said with a grin as the two of them climbed in.

The carriage drove them outside the crumbling city walls to a meadow close to the bay.

In the field were two men—well, a man and a boy, a woven basket large enough to hold them all lying on its side while a small dragon stood in the opening held wide by the men and beat her wings mightily, forcing air into the silken sack. This was attached by a great many ropes and two stout chains to an open framework clamped atop the basket. The framework bore a platform just big enough to hold the dragon atop it. With a great deal of unfolding and fanning out to enable more of the little dragon’s forced wind to enter the balloon, the men belled it out enough that she was able to blow flame into it without touching the silk, so that it bloomed into an enormous globe of gloriously hued silk, patterned in a rainbow-colored aurora design.

Verity was charmed and clapped her hands appreciatively.

What a cute little dragon! she said.

This is Taz, the younger of the two men, who didn’t look much older than she was, said over his shoulder. He was busy helping set the basket on its bottom. Taz flapped aloft to perch atop the platform, while the balloon bobbed above them in a most impressive fashion.

On the boy’s signal, the dragon once more lifted her head and began puffing a steady, gentle, orange flame into the narrowed base of the balloon.

In less time than Verity would have thought possible, the balloon was fully inflated and tugged at the tethered basket, as if anxious to go.

The basket had a door on the side, she supposed, to make it easier for ladies in long skirts to climb in. How do you make it go up? she asked.

Why, Taz blows a little harder and a little longer, said the pilot.

And I suppose if you want to go down, you ask Taz to take a break? she suggested.

Something like that. The younger man grinned.

The older man spoke then. He was wearing a cap over what looked to be a partially bald head more than made up for by a handsome handlebar mustache well waxed on the ends, fluffy burnsides and a neatly trimmed beard. How do, Mr. Brown, he said. I’ll be your pilot this morning, name of Captain Helio Marsters. You’ve been introduced to Taz, and the lad here is Toby, her wrangler.

Pleasure, Papa said. This is my daughter Verity. It’s her birthday.

So the gentleman said when he arranged for the flight.

What gentleman? Papa asked. I was given to understand that my wife had planned this.

Then he was her representative, like, I’d guess, sir. Said it was the young lady’s sixteenth and she was to be given a grand tour of Queenston, surrounding lands, and the harbor.

That sounds splendid, Papa said.

Perhaps it was the very bright sun that stabbed Verity right behind her left eyebrow then. She ignored it at any rate, determined to enjoy herself.

Taz is so pretty, she told Toby, admiring the blossoming of golden yellow, through orange, red and fuchsia along her body, "I’ve never seen such a pretty little dragon before."

Has to be small for this job, Toby said. "As you can see, there’s not much room between her platform and the balloon’s rim.

May I give her a stroke, before we get started?

Go ’round to her front so you don’t startle her and show her your open hand first. Here, I’ll give you a bit of kibble to reward her between blows, then you’ll be great pals.

He dropped a few nuggets into her hand and she showed them to the little dragon, who batted her spiky eyelashes at the treat before snuffling it up. While she inhaled the kibble, Verity gave her a quick pat.

Enough of that, Mr. Marsters said. Take ’er up, wee Taz. All the while he and Toby unfastened knots in the lines tethering the basket to the ground. Up they went!

Later, when a sight, a sound, a word, or even the feeling of pressure in her ears brought back to her a fragment of the beauty of the ride, it was mordanted by the pangs that tore at her when she remembered the rest of what happened that morning.

But at first it was beautiful and instructive regarding the lay of the land.

Slightly to the east the burgeoning expanse of Queenston Town bristled with business. Although the historic maps showed the castle as the city center, these days the ship yards linking Argonian resources to Frostingdung industry and the train yard dwarfed the ancient fortress. The glass ceilinged station with its multiple tracks was the hub of the ever-expanding railway line stitching through the countryside, linking mountains to city to sea and onward, sending out shoots and branches to the iron mines and to foreign lands too distant to see, even from the balloon. The long-haul trains in Queenston carried passengers along with empty cars to be side-lined on feeder tracks and returned to the mines and fields to be filled with products the train would collect on the return trips.

They flew above the thin white steam puffing from the chimneys in little clouds like a field of dandelion fluff over the city. One of the advantages of dragon-fired boilers was that no fuels aside from the dragons’ food were required. Verity had briefly attended a school in Frostingdung, and the city air was foul with the fumes of the mixture of dung and peat burned to keep the boilers fired and the machinery humming, clunking, and roaring.

In the harbor below, sails drooped from the tall masts of obsolete sailing ships while dragon-fired steamships scuttled back and forth across the water like so many waterbugs. Three great long warehouses sat where herds once grazed, now near the center of town.

Clouds billowed above and all around the balloon, mirroring the distant snowy peaks, the water reflecting the blue of the sky and the cracks of the glaciers slipping down the mountainsides. Green and golden meadows studded with little farmsteads spread across the land with the sharp black shadow of the balloon floating across the crops.

Taking a break in the oohing and ahhing, her father gave her a gift, a set of metal working tools in a compact green leather case worked with knots, the whole slender enough to slip into her pocket or hang from her belt. She unpacked the lunch the cook had sent with them, including a small but lovely cake for her birthday. When she offered a piece to Toby, the wind blew his hair away from his ears so she saw that their tips were pointed. Most unfashionable these days, indicating some taint from one of the old magical races like elves or fairies or something, mostly killed off in the Great War. No wonder he chose a career in flying balloons if his ancestors had wings. He laughed when she held out a piece to the little dragon as well, pointing out with