She stayed in her tree and watched the dragons long after she was supposed to be done with her evening chores and started on her homework. But she couldn’t tear herself away. An enchanter visited each of the dragons, blessing them with incense and little dabs of something– oils or pigments, perhaps– that were probably meant to bring long life, good health, and fertility. Asta had gone with her mother to the charm shop in town once or twice and seen such things on their shelves.
The sun slid down to the horizon, and the heat of the day eased into something softer and cooler. Several small figures came to lead the dragons into their stables for the night. Asta followed them with her telescope.
One man watched over the evening ritual, pointing to direct the dragons into one stall or another. He took charge of the last dragon, the big green one, himself, sending all the other people away. The large beast flared its wings and arched its neck. Then it put its head against the man’s chest and flared its frill. The man rubbed the dragon’s cheeks and its green neck and tugged on its horns, which were dark as oil. To Asta’s delight, the man went around the side of the dragon and mounted it. No saddle or anything. He just scrambled up its side and positioned himself a little in front of those big wings, his knees pressing hard above its shoulders.
Almost before the man was settled, the dragon sprang forward, so quickly that Asta lost sight of it. She lowered the telescope and watched the tiny dragon and its rider as they raced through the fields, streaked gold with the last bits of evening sun. In the hedgerows, a chorus of summer bugs raised their song, like crowds cheering the dragon and rider on. The big green dragon seemed to frolic, to dance. It made Asta laugh to see it.
Then the man crouched low on the dragon’s back, and the animal put on its speed. Its wings pounded the air. And suddenly, it was flying.
Whenever it approached the containment fence, the dragon would touch back down, its footfalls kicking up earth and grass as it pivoted for another run across the pasture until it was in the air again.
Asta felt something settle into place inside of her, like the gears of an engine meeting and engaging. She knew, right then, that she would only ever be truly happy on the back of a dragon.
The next day, she amazed Mama by hopping right out of bed and doing her chores with an hour to spare before it was time to leave for school. Asta grabbed her backpack and her lunch and told her mother that she was walking to school today. She set out for the dragon pasture instead. Before the day was over, she promised herself, she would touch a dragon.
The new owners of the Turrentines’ farm had erected an iron fence around the whole property. The soil around the newly placed posts was still bald clay. The fence was meant to keep people out, but the bars were far enough apart that a wiry thirteen-year-old could squeeze through if she left her backpack behind, which Asta did. She darted up the slope of the mown lawn toward the dragon fields, marked by the shimmering net that rose from the perimeter.
Asta thought she might be able to walk straight through the containment fence, since it was made for dragons, not people, but a barrier of hefty wire livestock panels prevented her. That must be for backup, Asta thought. If the magic cracked, you didn’t want your dragons wandering off. Or was it for the protection of the creatures outside the fence? These weren’t hunting dragons, but if a loose cow found its way into their enclosure, the animals’ wild instincts might come back to them quick enough.
The holes in the fence were large enough that she could reach through. She marveled at the faintly shimmering screen of magic that swallowed her arm as she slipped it through the wire fence. It didn’t hurt at all. In fact, it didn’t feel like anything.
‘Here, dragon,’ she called, and waved a scrap of beef jerky at the four dragons that stood in the pasture. The closest one to her swiveled its head in her direction, its nostrils flaring. It was a dark earthy color, but there was an iridescent gleam that intensified along the ridge of its back and down its tail. Studying the animal through the containment fence, Asta thought that yellowish-orange blush might be a ridge of feathers catching the morning light.
Asta rearranged to push further through the fence. But the back of her arm brushed a little wire running along the fence that she had not noticed. Asta screamed. Her arm spasmed, the muscle twitching and pulsing with pain.
Someone grabbed Asta from behind and pulled her from the fence. From the grass, where Asta was lying flat on her back, she saw a rather scrawny-looking boy flexing his hand from the transferred shock of the electric fence.
Asta scrambled to her feet. ‘Who are you?’
The boy looked confused. He was a few inches shorter than Asta– thin and a little pale. He had slightly gappy teeth, like they were still finding their place in his mouth, though he appeared to be about Asta’s age. He was an oddly formal-looking boy, dressed in a charcoal-gray jacket with white piping, a crisp collared shirt and striped tie, dark slacks, and shiny black shoes.
‘Who am I? Who areyou, and what are you doing to my dragons?’
‘They’re yours?’ Asta forgot immediately about her aching arm. ‘Can I ride one?’
‘Ride my dragons? I don’t even know who you are.’
‘I’m Asta. Asta Ekenberg. I live over there.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the farm. ‘I love your dragons. So much. Please, can I ride one?’
The boy shook his head again, this time with the air of a disappointed teacher. ‘You can’t justridea dragon, Asta. There’s a lot of things you need to know before you can even think about it.’
In spite of herself, Asta was impressed by the air of experience he exuded. Most of the other boys her age were blathering idiots. The closest they could come to conversation was quoting stupid movies to each other and making boob jokes. But this boy actually seemed to know what he was talking about, even if his snooty tone annoyed her a little.
‘You know how to ride?’ she asked.
‘I’m a Seraphin,’ the boy said, as if that answered her question.
Asta furrowed her brow. She vaguely remembered this term from one of the dragon books she had checked out of the library, but she couldn’t remember what it meant.
‘What’s a Seraphin again?’
The boy gaped.
‘Is that what you call a person who rides dragons?’
‘I mean, kind of.’ The boy lifted his chin. ‘My family is the Seraphins. We raise dragons, and we race them.’
Asta was mortified that she had been speaking to a Seraphin without knowing it, but it was good news nonetheless. ‘Well then, if you’re a Seraphin, you can teach me. What’s your first name?’
