Amsonia’s royal luck had well and truly run out. Her father, missing. Her purse of gold, her sapphire diadem—all left behind in the haste she’d made to escape before she too was lost in the dark red mist that had settled so mysteriously over Vyranthrall.
The luck that had seen her as far by foot as the village of Fennsweald, the luck that had pointed her in the direction of their mage, who could, in turn, point her toward a certain dragon that knew all and saw all—that luck had evaporated in the face of the mage’s beady eyes and bone-dry air of skepticism. She certainly would never have consulted him if she hadn’t been desperate. She must find her father.
The smell of the mage’s chambers filled her flaringnostrils with the reek of animal hides, spilled wine, and acrid smoke, causing her to feel queasy and ill at ease. He peered out from under voluminous gray eyebrows, sweeping her travel-stained garments and poor, weary face with an assessing glance.
“Help you find and free your supposedly royal father, for naught but your fabulous tales of future recompense? If you can’t pay me this very day in gold, girlie,” he said, a rapacious smirtle stretching his leathery cheeks, “you are of no value to me whatsoever! The Dragon Qavox would tell you the same, then swallow you whole.”
His back was already turned and his hands busily weighing out portions of a noxious powder into small cloth parcels. Blindly she turned from him and tripped over a low footstool, her hands clutching at a haphazard stack of parchment papers in a foolhardy attempt at staying upright. Dazed by disappointment, her teary eyes slowly focused on the foremost parchment.
Bright green and brown shapes swam in the air and, written in blood red, the words “Here Liveth the Dread Dragon Qavox and His Most Coveted Cache of Jewyls” materialized. A flash of insight and determination (from whence, she knew not!) bade her keep the yellowed map curled within her fist and told her to run, run, run down the narrow stairs without looking back...
Dex didn’t even notice when the nurse brought him tea, so engrossed was he in the princess’s plight. The tea sat, growing cold,as he read every one of Analise’s letters and the chapters from her novel, turning the thin pages swiftly, eager to find out what happened next. She’d only reached the halfway point of the novel when her father died. Dex would never learn whether the evil mist could be defeated, or whether the Dread Dragon Qavox (a helpful key instructed the reader to pronounce the nameHavox) was a prince who had been cursed, as he suspected.
A brave young princess. A father swallowed by an evil mist. A schoolgirl whose father was torn away from her by war. But in her story he could be rescued, the curse lifted.
Beneath the stack of letters was the miniature portrait Crewe had shown Dex. Analise wore an emerald necklace and eardrops that Crewe had mentioned belonged to her mother, who had died giving birth to the girl. Her hands were folded demurely, her posture correct, but her green eyes sparked with impish high spirits.
If Dex still possessed a heart, it would have ached for this innocent young lady tucked safely away in her finishing school in London, writing fantastical tales for her father on the battlefield. Imagining that her love was strong enough to conquer any evil, lift any curse, and bring her father safely back home to her.
Dex knew how the story really ended.
The father taken by the red mist. Transmuted into memory in an instant by an inexplicable act of horror.
Analise’s life had been ruined two months ago. Her sweet hopes and dreams for her father’s return and her debut Season in London had been dashed to death. She would never see her father again.
Dex swiped the back of his hand over his eyes, his stomach lurching.
He couldn’t take away her suffering, but he could do what he’d solemnly promised to do: Become her guardian. Protect her. Pave her way in the world.
He must leave the hospital today.
He had a promise to keep.
Chapter One
“’Tis indeed the very dragon that can help ye find yer kinfolk, milady! He be nae ordinary type o’ dragon, that he nae.” The hobgoblin dragged a line through the forest on the map with a gnarled forefinger. “But ye best be asking for an escort from Ogress Barlayhurl. These woods have a hungry way about them, that they do.”
—The Dragon and the Blue Starby Analise Crewe
Several years later . . .
Analise Crewe had proven a damnably difficult young lady to find.
When his man of business had arrived at the finishing school, the headmistress had informed him that Miss Crewe, unable to pay her tuition, had left the school by night with one small valise, observed only by a guard, telling no one her destination.
She’d simply vanished. A young lady all alone in the world. Where had she gone? Every day that passed made Dex imagine worse and worse fates. He and his agents searched high and low—every distant relation of Crewe’s, every possible connection with one of Analise’s schoolmates—to no avail.
If only he’d regained consciousness earlier, he might have found her safe and sound at the finishing school. He would never stop trying to find her.
He’d done everything in his power: interviewed her schoolmates, placed advertisements with her portrait in all the newspapers, visited every boarding house for ladies in London. He’d left word at every pawnshop in London about the emerald jewelry she’d been wearing in the miniature portrait, offering to purchase it at three times the price in exchange for information about the seller. It was this latter line of inquiry that had finally yielded fruit. Just this morning he’d received notice from a pawnbroker that he might have a match on the emerald necklace. It was the best lead Dex had encountered yet. He wasn’t going to entrust it to an agent.
The pawnshop was cramped and grubby and smelled of mildewed old clothing and acrid metal polish. “Are you Mr. Henry Arkwright?”
“Who’s askin’?” The man behind the counter had a face that was permanently flushed a violent purple and deeply wizened, looking for all the world like a prune brought to life by a magician with a questionable sense of humor.
“The Duke of Warburton. You answered my notice about a particular emerald jewelry set.”
“Oh, well now, a duke, is it?” He pantomimed a facetious bow, his florid face wrinkled and winking. “We don’t usually entertain the Fancy in these parts lest it’s for the bawdy house down the way.”