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Several boats exploded, with the dragon spitting flame with such force as to cause them to shatter into pieces. The last blast was a little too close, shooting bits of flaming wood and metal into the air, and causing Kit to pull up abruptly. And to swallow a scream as several of said bits nonetheless tore through one of his calves.

And promptly set it on fire.

He did scream then, although Gillian quenched the flames with a word, and threw up a shield as another blast threatened to immolate them in mid-air. That caused the baby to coo in delight at the inferno streaming around their little bubble. And Kit to scream again at the sight of his leg, which was now a blackened, smoking stump with the bone sticking out.

Someone sighed, right in his ear.

“I said that it would cost you,” his Lady reminded him.

For once, Kit wasn’t even intimidated. His standard for intimidation had risen considerably in the short time since they had last talked. Especially since Gillian’s shield had just popped.

Thankfully, it had happened after the blast passed them by, and he immediately dodged another one, which the dragon was spewing despite him still having her child. The baby must be fire proof, he thought wildly. And then almost ran straight into the mother’s flailing tail, which was thicker than the trunk of a massive old oak tree and missed them by inches.

“Let me see,” his Lady commanded, and the next thing he knew, his chin was being jerked up, until his face was staring at the sky—and the massive green creature gliding overhead.

In all their maneuverings, they had somehow ended up directly below the dragon, which was currently close enough to touch. Kit could dimly see himself through a haze of pain and blood loss in the mirror-like scales of its huge underbelly. He swallowed, wondering if that was the last thing he would ever see.

It seemed likely.

“What the devil,” a man’s voice said, loudly enough to cause Kit to flinch. He concentrated inwardly, and could just make out through his mental eye a second person coming up beside his Lady. It was Anthony, her husband and co-consul, dressed in a toga and holding a golden goblet. “What is he doing?” the handsome brunet demanded.

“I have been asking myself that all day,” she murmured.

“Is that . . . a dragon?” someone else said, and Kit’s mental picture widened again, to show him a handful of richly dressed people around a table in a sumptuous dining chamber.

It was set for dinner, but the food had yet to arrive, leaving a large expanse of polished wood that acted as a mirror. It should have been reflecting the jewels and extravagant clothes that the company wore, which were sparkling in the candlelight, or their surprised expressions. But instead, he saw his own terrified face and smoking, bloody shank, his hands almost white so tightly were they clenching the staff, whilst the babe and Gillian hugged him fiercely on opposite sides.

He looked like a madman, with a wash of black freckles across his visage where sparks had burned him, wild eyes and wilder hair.

And Anthony seemed to agree.

“No, it’s a simpleton,” he said dourly, and Kit didn’t think he was talking about the dragon. “I told you; you shouldn’t have Changed him.”

“He amuses me,” his Lady murmured.

“Amused,” an older woman corrected. She was the grand dame type with a towering column of white hair and so many jewels that he could barely see her clothes. “I do believe you shall need a new pet, my dear.”

“But I like this one. And he did gain me a potentially useful ally today.”

“What ally?” Anthony asked.

She shrugged. And then her eyes brightened. They were highlighted by a smear of silver above the kohl tonight, and sparkled in the candlelight. “I know. We should play a game!”

“What game?” Anthony said, suspiciously. “And what ally?”

“The game is: keep my servant alive—”

“A game is supposed to be winnable,” the older woman said dryly.

“I thought we were to play primero after dinner,” a young man put in. He was a popinjay in amethyst silk, perhaps to compensate for extremely nondescript features: mousy brown hair, mousy brown eyes and a round, pudding face.

“Yes, but it is before dinner now,” an older man noted. “So, we may do both.”

“Oh, yes, let’s do both!” a young woman said, and clapped her hands. She was a pert blonde with daringly low-cut cleavage, perhaps to show off the fortune in diamonds she wore, and was perched on the edge of a seat beside the older man. He was wearing mulberry satin, and had the look of someone whose youthful good looks had been ravaged by time. “But I have never played this game before,” she added. “What are the rules?”

“You can see him through my eyes,” his Lady pointed out. “So, too, can you help him by interweaving your power with mine. A point for assisting him to dodge or distract the creature, and ten times as much to whomever helps him get away entirely.”

“Ooh, like Gioco dell’oca—”