"You're going to forget me," Marcellus declared solemnly.
Cyrus looked up from his book. "Good morning to you too."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. It's barely breakfast time, Marcellus. Must you begin the day with nonsense?"
Marcellus dragged a chair beside him beneath the old oak tree in Castor's garden. At six, he had developed a remarkable ability to appear wherever Cyrus was reading, usually with a question, an invention, or a scheme that required a second person. Cyrus had long ago stopped pretending to be surprised by this. Corvus perched on a branch above them, while Rook sat on the arm of Marcellus's chair, examining the contents of his pockets with an interest that suggested she had already decided to steal something.
"You're going to the John Dee School in a few weeks," Marcellus reminded him. "You'll meet clever people, learn alchemy, perform magic, and probably become terribly important. Then you'll come home during the holidays and act as though the rest of us are ignorant peasants."
Cyrus slowly closed his book and sighed. "Have you finished?"
"Not quite. I haven't mentioned that you'll probably acquire a ridiculous school uniform."
"How tragic." Cyrus rolled his eyes.
"And friends who don't know how to build a proper flying carriage," Marcellus added.
"An extremely specific requirement for friendship."
"Well, someone has to help me!" Marcellus protested.
Cyrus's expression softened into a smile. "You know I'll write to you, don't you?"
"Letters aren't the same as having someone to talk to." Marcellus looked down at his shoes.
"You can talk to your parents," Cyrus suggested.
"They don't appreciate my ideas."
"Your last idea involved attaching a kitchen chair to a cart and rolling it down the hill."
"It was a prototype!"
"It was a chair with wheels."
"It was a prototype with wheels."
"And it crashed into my father's laundry."
"Which is precisely why I need you. You would have spotted the problem."
Cyrus stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. Marcellus grinned, pleased with himself. It was difficult to remain properly gloomy when Cyrus was laughing at one of his jokes, even if the joke was mostly at his own expense.
"Come on," Marcellus said, getting to his feet. "I've arranged something."
Cyrus immediately became suspicious. "What sort of something?"
"A surprise."
"Is it dangerous?"
"No."
"Will we need to apologise to anyone?"
"Probably not." Marcellus suddenly found the tree beside him very interesting.
Cyrus narrowed his eyes. "Marcellus."
"Fine. We might need to apologise to one person."
Cyrus sighed and stood. "I should have stayed in bed."
"You'll thank me later."
"I have serious doubts about that."
The boys crossed the garden and followed the path towards the outer pastures. Their ravens flew above them, occasionally swooping down to investigate whatever had caught their attention. The McArdour estate was already busy. Workers were taking feed towards the creature enclosures, a cart creaked along the track beside the cattle pastures, and two men were arguing outside a workshop about a piece of equipment that had apparently broken for the third time that month.
Cyrus glanced towards the workshop. "Do you think they'll fix it?"
"Probably."
"Perhaps we should offer to help."
Marcellus gave him an incredulous look. "We're going to see dragons."
"Yes, but if we help them fix it, perhaps they'll let us see the dragons more often."
"That's manipulative."
"That's negotiation," Cyrus replied with a grin.
"You're going to become unbearable after studying alchemy."
"I was unbearable before. You'll simply have a certificate proving it."
Marcellus laughed and hurried ahead. They passed the last of the ordinary pastures and approached the low stone buildings that housed the youngest dragons. He had been asking his father for permission to visit the nursery for months. After several discussions about safety, maturity, and the meaning of the word supervision, Clement had finally agreed, provided that an experienced handler accompanied them.
Mr. Pritchard was waiting outside the entrance. He was in charge of training the new Dragon Keepers and a distant relative too distant to be called Uncle Pritchard...
"Morning, lads."
"Good morning, sir," Cyrus replied.
"Are we going in?" Marcellus asked eagerly.
Mr. Pritchard looked at him. "That depends. Have you remembered what I told your father?"
"Yes."
"And what did I tell him?"
"That I was curious, enthusiastic, and needed to be supervised."
"I believe the exact words were that you needed watching."
Cyrus coughed to hide a laugh.
"That's basically the same thing," Marcellus protested.
"Not quite. Put these on."
Mr. Pritchard handed them thick protective gloves and opened the door. "Stay beside me, don't reach over the barriers, and don't touch anything unless I tell you it's safe. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," both boys answered.
"And Marcellus?"
"Yes?"
"That means you too."
"I understood the first time."
"Excellent. Perhaps today will be a pleasant surprise."
Inside, the nursery was warm, and the air smelled of straw, earth, and smoke. A low scraping sound came from the nearest enclosure, followed by a small squeal. Marcellus stepped forward and stopped so abruptly that Cyrus nearly bumped into him.
"Oh," Cyrus whispered.
Several hatchlings lay in the straw, their green and bronze scales glimmering beneath the lamps. One had curled itself beneath a warming charm, while another was trying to climb over a low barrier. Near the far wall, a third was attacking a bundle of straw with such determination that it repeatedly lost its footing.
"They're smaller than I expected," Cyrus remarked.
"These are the youngest ones," Mr. Pritchard explained. "They grow quickly enough. Give them a few months and you'll see the difference."
Marcellus was barely listening. A little Irish Green had lifted its head and was watching him from across the enclosure. Its eyes followed him as he moved, and its nostrils flared when he stopped.
"Can it understand me?" he asked.
"Not your words, necessarily. But it can hear you, smell you, and notice how you move."
"So it knows I'm here."
"Very much so."
Marcellus crouched at the permitted distance. The hatchling tilted its head, and he tilted his in return. It took two steps forward, its claws scratching against the stone, then opened its mouth and released a thin curl of smoke.
Cyrus stepped backwards. "Is it going to breathe fire?"
"Not properly yet," Mr. Pritchard replied. "They're still learning to control it."
"That's reassuring. I was worried it might burn the building down before lunch."
Marcellus barely heard him. "Can I touch it?"
"No."
"What if I—"
"No."
"I haven't finished asking!"
"And I haven't finished answering."
Cyrus laughed. Marcellus gave him a wounded look before turning back towards the hatchling.
"How do you know when they're ready to be handled?" he asked.
"Experience, careful observation, and knowing the creature," Mr. Pritchard explained. "You don't rush it. A dragon isn't a toy, even when it's small enough to fit in your arms."
Marcellus nodded, studying the hatchling's movements. He wanted to know how its wings developed, how its body produced heat, and how something so small could eventually grow large enough to carry a person through the air. He had read about dragons in books, but the books never seemed to explain enough. There were always diagrams, descriptions, and lists of facts, but nothing quite like standing in front of a living creature and watching it breathe.
"Do you think a dragon could fly faster than a flying machine?" he asked.
Cyrus stared at him. "We've been here for less than five minutes."
"It's a relevant question."
"To whom?"
"To science."
Mr. Pritchard chuckled. "Depends on the dragon and the machine, I'd imagine. But if you're planning to race one, I'd advise you to build the machine first."
"See?" Marcellus said triumphantly. "It's possible."
"I said I'd advise you to build it first. I didn't say you'd win."
"That's a detail."
"An important detail," Cyrus observed.
Before Marcellus could reply, a sharp squeal came from the far enclosure. They turned to see the hatchling that had been attacking the straw now lying on its back, its legs kicking in the air. It rolled over, scrambled upright, and immediately charged the straw again.
Cyrus pressed his lips together.
"Don't," Marcellus warned.
"I'm not doing anything."
The dragon seized the straw and shook it violently. It stumbled sideways, bumped into the wall, and sat down with a thoroughly offended expression.
Cyrus burst out laughing.
Marcellus lasted perhaps two seconds before joining him. The hatchling responded with an indignant squeal, as though it understood that it was being mocked.
"Sorry!" Cyrus managed between laughs. "I'm sorry. You're doing very well."
"Don't encourage it," Mr. Pritchard said, although he was smiling himself. "That little fellow will be large enough to knock you both flat before long."
Cyrus wiped his eyes. "I hope he remembers us when he's grown."
"I hope he doesn't," Marcellus replied. "Imagine explaining to a dragon that you laughed at it when it was a baby."
"Imagine explaining to your father that a dragon knocked you flat because you laughed at it when it was a baby."
"Why do you always assume I'll be the one in trouble?"
"Experience."
They moved through the nursery, stopping at several enclosures while Mr. Pritchard explained the differences between the hatchlings. Cyrus asked how the handlers could tell them apart when several came from the same clutch. Marcellus wanted to know whether their wings grew at the same rate as their bodies. The handler answered both questions, pointing out the importance of keeping records and observing each animal rather than assuming that every dragon developed in precisely the same way.
"Do you keep records of every hatchling?" Marcellus asked.
"Of course. Their feeding, growth, health, and behaviour. Everything that might help us care for them properly."
"Could I see them sometime?"
"If your father agrees, and if you promise not to spill ink all over them."
"I wouldn't do that."
Cyrus raised an eyebrow.
"That happened once," Marcellus protested.
"Twice," Cyrus corrected.
"The second time wasn't my fault."
"You knocked the bottle over."
"The table was uneven."
"The table was perfectly level."
Mr. Pritchard shook his head. "I see your father has his hands full."
"You have no idea," Cyrus replied.
The next enclosure contained a young Welsh Spike-Tail. Marcellus fell silent as soon as he saw it. Its scales were a deep, brilliant red, and the beginnings of the distinctive spikes along its tail caught the light. He had owned a wooden carving of a Welsh Spike-Tail since he was a toddler, a gift from Aurelian, but the real creature was something else entirely. It stood with its wings half-open, watching the boys approach with bright, alert eyes.
"She's nearly three months old," Mr. Pritchard explained. "Strong appetite, healthy lungs, and a temper that will probably give us trouble when she's older."
"She's beautiful," Marcellus said.
Cyrus glanced at him. "You say that about everything with scales."
"Not everything."
"Name one scaled creature you don't think is beautiful."
"That depends on how you define beauty."
"Marcellus."
"Fine. I haven't found one yet."
The Spike-Tail took a step towards the barrier. Marcellus leaned forward instinctively, then remembered the rules and stopped himself. Its tail swished from side to side, and its nostrils flared as it studied him.
"She's looking at you," Cyrus said quietly.
"I noticed."
"Perhaps she thinks you're food."
"Perhaps she thinks you're food."
Cyrus considered this. "She'd have to be very hungry."
Marcellus laughed, and the dragon released a small puff of smoke. For a moment, he imagined it fully grown, its red wings stretched wide as it rose above the pastures. He wanted to see that flight, to understand how the wings moved and how the dragon controlled its direction. Perhaps magic made the explanation different from the principles he remembered from his previous life. Perhaps there were things he could learn from the dragons that would one day help him build a machine of his own.
"One day, I'm going to build something that flies faster than a dragon," he declared.
Cyrus folded his arms. "You haven't even built something that flies slower than a dragon."
"That's because I haven't started properly."
"You built a cart with wings."
"It was an early prototype."
"It went down a staircase."
"Because I hadn't perfected the steering."
"It went down the staircase backwards."
Marcellus looked at him indignantly. "You're supposed to encourage me."
"I am encouraging you. I'm encouraging you to improve your designs."
Mr. Pritchard laughed. "Your cousin has a point, lad. Build something that stays in the air first. Worry about racing dragons afterwards."
"Everyone is against me."
"Not me," Cyrus said. "I want to see what you build. Even if it doesn't work."
Marcellus turned towards him. "Really?"
"Of course. Someone has to document the disasters."
"You're a terrible friend."
"And yet you keep inviting me everywhere."
"Because you're the only person I know who can read instructions."
Cyrus smiled. "Then I suppose you'll have to keep me around."
They stayed by the Spike-Tail's enclosure until Mr. Pritchard announced that it was time to leave. Marcellus tried to negotiate for another ten minutes, then five, then two, but the handler remained firm. The boys thanked him and made their way back towards the eastern pasture, where a low stone wall offered a view of the adult dragons grazing in the distance.
Cyrus sat on the wall beside Marcellus. For a while, they watched the pasture in silence. Then Cyrus said, "I really am nervous about going."
Marcellus turned towards him. "The school?"
Cyrus nodded. "I know I've been talking about it for ages, and I want to go. I want to study alchemy and learn things I can't learn here. But what if everyone else is better than me? What if I can't keep up?"
"Then you study harder."
Cyrus gave him a flat look. "Thank you. You've solved everything."
"I'm not finished. What if the teachers are horrible? You can complain about them in your letters. What if the food is terrible? You can complain about that too. And if you don't make any friends, you can write to me about how everyone is boring."
"What if they aren't boring?"
"Then I'll be offended that you've found people more interesting than me."
Cyrus laughed, but he soon grew thoughtful again. "What if you find someone else to do all this with?"
Marcellus stopped smiling. He had expected Cyrus to worry about school, but not about their friendship.
"I can have other friends," Marcellus said. "So can you. But that doesn't mean we stop being friends."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Cyrus shrugged. "I suppose I'm worried things will be different."
"They will be different. You'll learn things I don't know, and I'll probably break something while you're away. Then you'll come home and tell me how stupid I was, and we'll try to fix it."
"That sounds about right."
"And you'll still be the person I blame when my experiments go wrong."
"You already blame me."
"Exactly. Why would I change a perfectly good arrangement?"
Cyrus smiled, and Marcellus nudged his shoulder. After a moment, Cyrus held out his hand.
"We should make a promise."
Marcellus shook it. "What sort?"
"We write to each other. You tell me about the estate, and I'll tell you about the school. When I come home, we'll visit the dragons again."
"Even the Welsh Spike-Tails?"
"Especially the Welsh Spike-Tails. And you'll show me your flying machine."
Marcellus hesitated. "What if I haven't built it by then?"
"Then we'll build it together."
Marcellus grinned. "Deal."
Above them, Corvus and Rook landed on the wall. Cyrus offered Corvus a treat, and the raven took it neatly from his fingers. Rook snatched the one Marcellus offered her and flew away to eat it on a branch.
Cyrus watched her go. "I think she likes you."
"Obviously."
"She seems to like stealing your food more."
"She's independent."
"She's a thief."
"An independent thief."
Cyrus laughed. "You'll miss me, you know."
Marcellus immediately looked offended. "Why would I miss you? Who else will stop me from making terrible decisions?"
"Perhaps you'll finally learn to make good ones."
"Unlikely."
"At least you're honest."
They remained on the wall until the sun began to dip towards the horizon. Eventually, they went their separate ways, with Corvus following Cyrus and Rook accompanying Marcellus back towards his family's house. Marcellus had spent the entire day telling himself that Cyrus's departure was nothing to worry about. It was only school. They would write letters, see each other during the holidays, and continue their adventures whenever they were together again.
It was a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Unfortunately, reasonable explanations did very little to improve his mood.
That evening, Marcellus sat at his desk drawing the Welsh Spike-Tail. His first sketch was too broad through the body, the second had wings that looked more suitable for a bat, and the third was finally beginning to resemble the creature he had seen. He added a few notes about its tail and the development of its wings, then wrote down a list of questions for Mr. Pritchard.
Clement appeared in the doorway and glanced at the notebook.
"More dragons?"
"Observations."
"Of course. Did you enjoy yourself?"
"It was brilliant! I saw the hatchlings up close. One of them tried to fight a pile of straw and lost."
Clement stared at him for a moment. "An impressive opponent, I suppose."
"It was a very determined pile of straw."
His father laughed and came to sit beside him. "And what did you learn?"
"That dragons develop at different rates, that the handlers keep records of everything, and that I should probably learn how to draw wings properly."
"That last one sounds particularly useful."
"Father?"
"Hm?"
"Did you know what you wanted to do when you were my age?"
Clement considered the question. "Not exactly. I was curious about how things worked, and I liked understanding how people made decisions. I didn't know I would end up managing the family's business. Life rarely follows the plans we make when we're children."
"Do you regret it?"
"No. But I do think you should give yourself room to change your mind. You can be interested in dragons now, decide to study something else later, and still have gained something from the experience."
Marcellus nodded slowly. "I think I want to study how they fly."
"Then start by learning what you can."
"And maybe build something that flies faster than one."
Clement raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should begin with something that flies at all."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Perhaps everyone has a point."
Marcellus sighed dramatically, and Clement laughed before ruffling his hair. He was about to leave when he paused at the door.
"You'll miss Cyrus when he goes."
Marcellus immediately looked down at his notebook. "No, I won't."
Clement folded his arms. "Really?"
"Really."
"Interesting. Because your mother tells me that lying is a bad habit, and I believe you agreed with her."
Marcellus frowned. "I haven't lied."
"Then you won't miss him?"
"No."
"Not even a little?"
Marcellus gripped his quill. "Father, I'm trying to finish my drawing."
"And I'm trying to have a conversation with my son. It seems we're both having difficulties."
"You're being annoying."
"Perhaps. But I'm also waiting for an honest answer."
Marcellus stared determinedly at the page. He could have argued, denied everything, or demanded that his father leave. Instead, he felt a strange tightness in his throat, and when he tried to speak, his voice came out smaller than he intended.
"Perhaps I'll miss him a little."
Clement's teasing expression disappeared.
Marcellus blinked rapidly, but it was too late. Tears had gathered at the corners of his eyes, and one slipped down his cheek before he could wipe it away.
"I don't want him to go," he admitted. "I know he has to. And I know he'll come back. But it's not going to be the same. Who am I supposed to show my inventions to? Who's going to tell me when something is a terrible idea?"
Clement crossed the room and knelt beside his chair.
"Your mother might have a few suggestions."
"Father!"
"All right, all right."
Marcellus wiped his face with his sleeve. "You're laughing at me."
"I'm not laughing at you, little one."
"You were."
"I was teasing you. There's a difference."
"It doesn't feel different."
Clement's expression softened. He drew Marcellus into a hug, and for once his son did not protest that he was too old to be held like a baby. He pressed his face against his father's shoulder and allowed himself to cry, quietly at first and then with the unrestrained sadness of a child who understood that something important was about to change but had not yet learned how to make peace with it.
Clement held him until his breathing settled.
"Listen to me, Marcellus. It's all right to miss someone. It doesn't make you weak, and it doesn't mean you're being selfish by wishing things could stay the same. Cyrus is your friend. Of course you're going to miss him."
"But what if he makes better friends?"
"He probably will make other friends. And so will you, one day."
Marcellus pulled back to look at him.
"That's not helping."
Clement smiled gently. "I'm not finished. Making new friends doesn't erase the old ones. Your friendship with Cyrus isn't a place that someone else can simply take over. You've shared years together. You've got memories, jokes, and promises that belong to the two of you. Someone he meets at school won't change that."
"What if he forgets our promise?"
"Then you can remind him."
"What if he forgets me?"
Clement brushed the remaining tear from his son's cheek. "I don't think you need to worry about that. From what I've heard, you've made yourself rather difficult to forget."
Marcellus gave a small, reluctant laugh.
"There you are," Clement murmured. "And when you miss him, write to him. Tell him about the dragons. Tell him about your inventions. Tell him all the things you would normally tell him if he were sitting beneath that old oak tree."
"What if I don't have anything interesting to say?"
"Then tell him something boring. Friends are allowed to be boring with one another."
Marcellus thought about that. "Cyrus will probably complain."
"Then you'll know he's still himself."
That finally brought a proper smile to Marcellus's face. Clement hugged him once more before standing, then picked up the notebook and examined the drawing.
"Not bad."
"The wings are wrong."
"Then you'll improve them."
"The tail isn't quite right either."
"Then you'll improve that too."
"And I need to ask Mr. Pritchard about their wing development."
"Then you'll ask him."
Marcellus looked up. "You make everything sound simple."
"Not everything is simple. But you don't have to solve every problem tonight."
Clement placed the notebook back on the desk and kissed the top of his son's head. "Now finish your milk and get some sleep. You have more dragons to bother tomorrow."
"They're not bothered by me."
"Of course not."
"Father."
"Good night, Marcellus."
After Clement left, Marcellus returned to his drawing. He added one final note beneath the sketches: Show Cyrus when he comes home.
He stared at the words for a moment before closing the notebook. Outside, the estate was settling into the quiet of evening. Lights appeared in the family houses, the last workers returned from the pastures, and the dragons were led into their enclosures for the night. Somewhere across the compound, Cyrus would be preparing for the journey that would take him to the John Dee School.
Marcellus still wished his friend could stay. He suspected that he would wish it tomorrow, and the day after that, and perhaps for several days after Cyrus finally left. But he had a plan now. He would write letters. He would keep exploring the estate. He would learn about dragons, improve his drawings, and continue working on his flying machine. And when Cyrus came home, they would have plenty to tell each other.
Besides, someone had to help him make sure his next invention didn't go down a staircase backwards.
And Marcellus knew exactly who he intended to ask.