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you needed?”
Atticus pointed the walking stick at Finch. “You look peaky, boy. I mean, Finch. Like a stiff wind
might blow you over. I don’t like it.”
“I’m fine, sir,” Finch insisted, although he felt terrible. This round of illness was the worst one
so far.
“Atticus!”
“I’m fine, Atticus. When I’m finished with this missive, I’ll go get a few ginger biscuits from Cook,
then lie down. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow.”
The dragon huffed and a plume of smoke came out of his nostrils. “What you need, boy, is a
doctor.”
“Finch,” he said firmly. “Not omega and not boy. Or I’ll go back to saying ‘your grace.’”
“Impertinent baggage. But point taken. You can finish the letters tomorrow. None of them are
urgent. Go lie down. I can’t have you dying on me. It would be dashed inconvenient.”
“I’d hate to put you to any trouble,” Finch replied.
Atticus snorted more smoke. “Just go. Stay in your rooms until you feel better. I’ll have Cook
send up biscuits and tea. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”
“Thank you, Atticus.”
The grumpy dragon was, at his core, quite the dear. Finch stood, then put out a hand to steady
himself. He felt quite faint, but it was probably from sitting too long and standing too quickly.
“Finch. Are you quite—”
Finch never heard the rest of what Atticus was going to say because a sharp knock sounded
at the door before it opened to show a somewhat flustered butler.
“Sir,” said Willoughby, who didn’t call anyone by anything as crude as their given name, “there
are visitors to see you.” He turned an accusing look on Finch. “Unannounced and
unscheduled.” As if Finch had control of every dragon and could predict their movements.
“Which of my get have come to trouble me today, Willoughby?”
“None of them, sir. These are American dragons,” he said with a slight curl to his lip to show
his distaste.
Finch began to tremble. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Spots swam in front of his eyes.
“We are,” said a dry voice from behind Willoughby, “to be precise, your great-grandnephews.”
