The Whim of the Dragon by PAMELA DEAN Read Free Book Online

don’t know, in the winter,” said Ted, and then, catching Laura’s appalled glance, “Oh, hell.”
    “School,” said Laura. “What day is it?”
    “By my reckoning,” said Fence, gently, “it is the fifth day of September in the four hundred and ninetieth year since King John threw o’er the Dragon King.”
    A red bird flew out of the bottle tree, circled the three of them, whistling, and took off over the hill. Well, thought Laura, that’s that.
    “That’ll fetch them,” said Ted, somewhat too smugly.
    Fence caught hold of Ted’s cloak. “What knowest thou?”
    “We keep being rescued by cardinals.”
    Fence let his breath out and shook the fold of the cloak a little. “What art thou?” he said.
    “Ask Claudia,” said Ted.
    A maniacal barking made itself apparent, the persistent yap of a collie. A black-and-white streak, flapping behind it a long yellow leash, shot down the hill and halted three feet away from them, growling like a cageful of tigers. Laura stared. Shan was a lazy dog who wouldn’t even run races with you.
    Fence stood quite still, keeping hold of Ted’s cloak. “Is this thy rescue?” he said.
    “It’s just Shan,” said Ted. “Good dog, Shan, good boy.” The dog, a nondescript, sharp-nosed, shaggy creature who had looked much more like a collie when he was a puppy, wagged his tail and went on growling. Laura supposed he remembered her and Ted, but didn’t care for Fence.
    Fence said, “Thy dog’s called Shan?”
    “It’s Ruth and Ellen and Patrick’s dog.”
    “They weren’t allowed to call him Prospero,” offered Laura.
    Fence turned and stared at her; Shan growled louder and Fence took no notice. “Prospero?” said Fence.
    “Prospero,” said Laura, bravely, “is a magician in a play.”
    “Thy play? Thou hast made him up also?”
    “No, William Shakespeare did.”
    “Shan!” yelled a distant and familiar voice.
    “Here they come,” said Ted.
    Three figures came over the hill, two short and one tall. Ruth was not wearing a skirt, as had been her wearisome custom when they played together, but she was, to Laura’s eyes, very oddly dressed in gray corduroy pants, pink legwarmers already splotched with mud, pink-and-gray running shoes, and many layers of shirts of pink or gray or white whose tails hung out at varying lengths and made her look as if she were wearing a jester’s costume. Laura thought she ought to tie bells to all the hems.
    Patrick and Ellen, on her heels, were dressed reassuringly in brand-new jeans—Aunt Kim must have noticed that the old ones were too small—battered red corduroy jackets, and dirty tennis shoes. Ellen had found, somewhere, a black wool beret like the velvet caps the pages wore in High Castle. Patrick had a blue stocking-cap falling out of his jacket pocket. Ellen’s and Ruth’s cloudy black hair tangled in all directions in the wind. Patrick’s pale brown, straight hair was only a little ruffled. All three of them wore bulging knapsacks.
    Ellen caught Laura’s glance immediately, with a look half of greeting and half of alert bewilderment. Patrick was so expressionless Laura knew he was upset. Ruth looked the way she used to if you burst into her room without knocking when she was writing her journal.
    “What are you doing here?” demanded Ruth, stopping next to the dog. Her harried glance brushed Fence, faltered, and settled firmly on Ted.
    Patrick got down on his knees in the wet grass and laid an arm across the dog’s back. Shan stopped growling. Ellen grinned at Fence, but Patrick did not look at any of them. Laura supposed that seeing Fence in his own back yard was upsetting all Patrick’s theories.
    “That’s a fine greeting,” said Ted to Ruth.
    “We’re going to miss the school bus.”
    “Ruth,” said Ellen. “They brought Fence . Forget about the school bus.”
    “You have to come back,” said Ted.
    “No way in hell,” said Patrick, still without looking up.
    “There’s a fine, open