Mouse nodded, but Thornwood lingered. His hand twitched at his side, tapping out a disjointed rhythm.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
He turned sharply up the path to Thistlemarsh. The light stayed with Mouse and the dragon rather than following him to the house.
The dragon gasped again. Mouse shuffled over to its head and sat down beside it. Its soot-covered scales flaked away in her hands as she stroked down its neck. She lifted her hand, palm first, until only her fingertips remained on its face. Slowly, she traced them up onto its cheeks. The dragon shuddered, leaning into her touch.
She stroked the bridge of its nose, up between its eyes, and back down again.
“You are going to be all right,” she said over and over, the words transforming into a song. “It is not too late for you.”
Weakly, it nudged its golden muzzle into her knee. It was small enough now that Mouse could gently lift it by the shoulder and pull its head onto her lap. It sighed.
“You’ll be fine,” Mouse continued, her hands steady on the creature’s head. “You’ll see the sky whenever you like. You don’t seem like a man-eating dragon to me—otherwise, you would have snapped us up as soon as you saw us.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she pressed on.
“When I cook, I can give you the first share of what I make, if you’d like. I can only make egg sandwiches at the moment, but I will learn. My brother loves egg sandwiches, so I learned for him. To jog his memory.” She laughed, the sound more of a sob. “It didn’t work.”
The stars shimmered above, and Mouse traced miniature constellations along the dragon’s nose.
The garden door finally swung open, smacking against the wall. Thornwood’s silhouette filled the doorway, the light inside spilling out around him and onto the pathway. He dashed toward them, Mickelwaithe close on his heels.
Thornwood did not remark on the dragon’s size. He merely motioned for Mickelwaithe to stand near the animal’s legs. The Faerie servant pulled off his long black coat, and he pressed the fabric into Mouse’s hands.
“For the dragon—we don’t want it collapsing like spent coal,” he said.
Mouse nodded.
“We’ll have to lift it,” Thornwood said. “Do you think that it can stand that?”
“I’m not sure, but we don’t have much choice,” Mickelwaithe said. “It will certainly die if it remains here.”
His words made her choke on the sorrow growing in her throat. Leaning down, she put her mouth to the dragon’s ear.
“It will only hurt for a short while, I promise. So, try to stay with us, even though it is hard.”
She straightened, catching Thornwood turning away from her and staring at the ground, as though he was ashamed of her emotions on her behalf. Indignant rage flashed through her. She knew that her attachment to the dragon was irrational—silly, even—but she felt it deep in her bones.
Wordlessly, Thornwood and Mickelwaithe took hold of thedragon. Thornwood propped up its head and shoulders, and Mickelwaithe supported its back, legs, and hips.
Mouse weaved Mickelwaithe’s coat around it slowly, careful not to jostle against its scales. The dragon whined; its eyes trained backward to look at her face. She gave it a shaky smile.
As soon as they wrapped the coat around it, Thornwood and Mickelwaithe lifted the dragon up completely. The creature shuddered, a ring of char floating out from under the coat and down to the ground, but it did not collapse into ashes as they brought it up the path. Mouse trotted behind. The pain in her leg shot through her anytime she bent her knee.
She collapsed on the staircase as soon as they were through the door.
“Is it all right?” she asked their backs, her voice crackling.
“It is frightened, but alive.”
“Bring it into the lounge—there is a sofa bed there. I doubt it could stand the stairs,” Mouse said. “It is warmer there, too.”
Both men ducked into the hallway, leaving Mouse leaning against the decaying staircase banister. There was nothing else she could do for the dragon now that it was set up in the lounge.
Taking a deep breath, she clutched at the singed, grass-stained hem of her nightgown. Slowly, she peeled the fabric away from the burned flesh. The cloth was wet with sweat, dew, and blood. The skin on her leg stung as she lifted the cloth away.
A yellow welt the size of Mouse’s hand stood out against her skin, already bubbling up in a line of red blisters through the center, threatening to split down the middle. She hissed as she lifted herself up the stairs, keeping her nightgown firmly in her hand and away from the wound.