Page 1 of The Teacup Dragon Sanctuary

1

Dragons of any size had no place in Portia Starling’s orderly life. She had left all that behind her at home on the island. Apothecaries didn’t have time for rare breeds or rescues, and neither did professors. So, when Milo appeared in their laboratory decked out in the most elaborate formalwear he owned, and that cautious look on his face which said he needed to break particularly bad news to her, she knew trouble was looming.

‘Dragons!’ he exclaimed.

Felicity Montague marched after him, clearly annoyed that he was interrupting Portia’s work. ‘I’m sorry, Professor Starling, he wouldn’t wait.’

Of course he wouldn’t. Not Milo. The girl ought to know that by now. She was Portia’s most promising student as well as her assistant, but no one could withstand Milo when he had a mission in mind. Not even Felicity, the daughter of an earl with all the self-confidence and poise that entailed. Not that Felicity used her background to pave her way. She had earned her entry into the Academy rather than have the keys to the place handed to her. Portia would never have taken her on if that was the case. She liked to think of Felicity as the future Portia Starling of the Apothecarial department.

Portia shook her head and smiled. ‘That’s all right, Felicity. I’ll deal with him.’ As Felicity left, Portia flicked her fingers and closed the door behind her. The little wave of magic it took to do so sent a shiver through the room and the flask she had simmering away on a witchfire burner at the other side of the room bubbled ominously.

Milo was watching her. ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’

‘Forgotten what? And what are you wearing, Professor Leyton?’

He actually did a twirl for effect, the velvet frock coat flaring out perfectly, the purple lining matching the paisley of his waistcoat. There was no doubt about it. His taste always ran to the extravagant.

‘Do you like it? I had it made specially.’

Portia got up and turned her attention back to the flask. The bubbles increased, her nice stable potion now resembling some kind of seltzer. What was making it do that? ‘Very nice. Specially for what?’

Milo pulled a pocket watch from the waistcoat, with a heavy gold chain attached to the buttonhole, and he held it up for her. ‘The afternoon tea? The Teacup Dragon Fanciers’ Association is coming to discuss the upcoming Royal Show, and the dean is angling for several large donations out of it. Lady Moorland is in charge of their funding. He did particularly ask you to be there, if you recall.’

Portia sighed, her mood plummeting. Unfortunately, magic being sensitive to mood, it sent the potion she was brewing in the flask off into the realm of olive green, the odour changing from pomegranate to bile. She glared at it, the texture transforming to a sickly gloop which was now no use at all. She snapped her fingers and the burner snuffed out the flame. Not quickly enough, however. The magical field had been holding it together and once that was gone, the vile concoction burst out of the top of the flask to splatter down her front.

Portia jumped back with a curse on her lips.

‘Is that number fifty-four?’ Milo asked. He peered at the flask now, a tiny crease forming between his immaculately kempt eyebrows. It was the only line on his perfect face. ‘I had high hopes for that one. Thought it was more stable than that. My version was. Did you mean to do that?’

‘No, obviously not.’ She raked her hair back from her face and looked around for something to wipe herself down.

‘Do you have a change of clothes? You’re going to need one.’

Portia glanced down at the admittedly plain but perfectly serviceable dress and fitted jacket she was wearing. And the gloop dripping off it. ‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.

‘They’re covered in… well, whatever that is. And even if they weren’t… honestly, Lady Portia Starling.’ Milo tutted, taking a moment to fluff out the curls of his flawlessly coiffed golden hair. ‘Come on, with me. I’ll sort you out.’

Portia hated it when people used her title, and Milo knew it. Not that it stopped him, especially when he intended to get his way. Before she knew what was happening, Portia had been whisked off to his office.

There was no one in the whole Academy with a larger wardrobe or a more detailed eye for fashion than Milo Leyton. If he caught her wearing anything that did not pass muster, the sheer weight of his disappointment was the worst part. If he wasn’t her research partner, and her best friend, she’d loath him.

Milo handed her a pale blue dress which probably cost half of his weekly budget.

‘Where did you get this?’ she asked. It was beautiful. And it suited her perfectly. It was also far more ladylike than anything she usually wore.

He gave her a pointed glare and passed her a matching fringed shawl, embroidered with wildflowers. ‘I bought it. From a shop. As normal people do.’

Milo didn’t have the family connections that most of the mages at the Academy boasted. He wasn’t distantly related to even the meekest country knight, let alone the child of a viscount, and definitely not third cousin to the king and forty-whatever in line to the throne. Portia had always speculated that was why Milo always looked so perfect in every way. To make up for it. The Academy was a cutthroat place and Milo would be the first to tell anyone who even thought about asking that the Leytons were nobodies. Proudly.

Portia’s own inherited nobility on both sides was something to be ignored rather than celebrated. It meant nothing to her and besides, her family had retreated from the court and all that it entailed years ago. Long before the untimely death of her parents. Since then, her great-aunt had raised her, along with her siblings, and the less said about Lady Iris Starling in court circles the better. And ‘raised’ was probably an exaggeration. ‘Dragged up,’ one of the governesses had said, just before she’d fled. ‘Allowed to run wild,’ one of the others announced, raising a hand to strike poor little Seb, whose erratic magic had caused yet another catastrophe. Her big brother August had all but thrown that one out of the house himself. Portia had been left to lure Ophelia out from under the bed where she’d hidden when the shouting started, and wrap her arms around the shivering, terrified Seb. Then, once she had calmed the younger pair, she’d gone to tell Great-Aunt Iris.

‘Good riddance,’ the old woman had declared, feeding a herbal cure for indigestion to her current batch of teacup dragon foundlings with a tiny pair of tweezers. That had been the end of their formal education. Not that it had stopped Portia. She’d set her mind on herbalism and becoming an Academy apothecary from that moment on. All the better to get herself off Starling Island.

Milo was fussing about with her hair now. He sighed as he grabbed a hairbrush and started in on its length.

‘You can’t possibly afford this,’ she told him, and felt him pause just for a moment. Portia winced. She hadn’t meant that to sound as it did.

‘I have a budget, I’ll have you know.’