The Buttercross Dragon: A Tale of the Blue Order (Jane Austen's Dragons: A Regency gaslamp dragon fantasy adventure) by Maria Grace

Author:Maria Grace [Grace, Maria]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: White Soup Press
Published: 2022-01-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

The puck’s frill extended and turned a bright sort of red that could not possibly be a good thing. The hissing and spittle dripping from its front left fang probably were not good signs, either.

“What do you mean, your things? They certainly were not. To start with, those scotch hands belong to my mother. She missed them sorely, and they are not the sort of thing we have ready money to replace.”

“They were in my cave, so they were mine.” The puck’s tail lashed back and forth.

“And how did they get in your cave?”

“I brought them there and made them mine.”

“You stole them. You are a little thief, plain and simple.”

“Thief? I am no thief.”

“You take things that are not yours.”

The puck’s chest puffed a little larger. “No one had those things, not in anyone’s hands at the time. So, they were free for me to take.”

“That has nothing to do with ownership. It only means you did not assault someone to get them.”

“You are talking nonsense.” The puck stamped its front foot. “My things! I want them.”

“You are daft. Now leave me alone. I have important matters to attend to.” People were starting to stare at him for talking to an ugly little stray dog. He stepped around the puck and hurried toward the pub.

“I am not finished with you. You are a thief. I want my hoard!” The scrabble of talons on stone suggested the creature was chasing after him.

Certainly, it would go away, like a dog begging for food did when it was ignored long enough. Philip strode down Bath Street to the pub.

The pub’s worn red door stood partially open. The low hum of warm comradery and decent beer flowed out, like spilled treacle, sticky and sweet to draw in the passersby. He ducked inside, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light within.

Stone walls enclosed eight small battered square tables, each surrounded by several plain wooden chairs. Frank King and Mr. Newsome sat near the small fireplace that still had its flower-painted fire screen in place. It would be at least another month before a fire would be lit there. Half a dozen men populated the other tables, with tankards of beer and slabs of toasted bread and cheese before them. Still early yet for a meal, but the pub keeper never let that stop him serving food of some sort.

Mr. Newsome, from the top of his head to the toes of his worn boots, the perfect image of a respectable English farmer, caught Philip’s eye and waved him toward the table. That was promising, indeed. No point in waiting for a second invitation. Frank, also farmerly, but in a scruffy, unkempt sort of way, scowled at Philip as he approached.

Yes, it was a good thing he listened to Michael’s urging. If Frank did not want him coming around, that was exactly the sort of time Philip should most be there.

“Good day, Mr. Newsome, Frank.” Philip nodded and pulled a chair from an empty table to sit between Mr.

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