Chapter 2 #2
“Don’t look at me like that, Mr. Grumpy Robes.
I was careful; I waited for nightfall so I wouldn’t be seen.
Oh! And I’ll need another fire spell.” Dirk swiveled around to inspect his spine.
“How are my wings? I didn’t crumple them in my sleep, did I?
These ones are as thin as tissue paper. It’s said G’Serah the Gargantuan’s wings were as thick as sail canvas. ”
Bradley released a sigh and turned for the door.
“Hey, wait up!” Dirk stumbled across the uneven ground of his budding treasure hoard with a few muffled “Oofs,” before he seized the edge of the tub, ivory claws clamping around the rim. With a ripple of scales, he launched himself into the air and coiled into a sinuous wreath above Bradley’s head.
“Is this about the arson or the spell? The shed was a falling hazard already,” he explained. “Termites, vicious little things. We both agreed I was doing that pig herder a favor. Not that he deserved it—the moron thought I was Dirk the Disastrous, not Dirk the Dangerous.”
The little dragon swirled to the peg on the bathroom door to retrieve his satchel, cinching the strap tight under his armpits.
Flying out into the stairwell, he began a spiraling ascent for coffee.
Dirk much preferred tea, even dreamed of visiting the teahouses in Amberly one day, but Bradley always seemed to burn it.
Out of necessity, the little dragon had become fond of the roasted bean juice since coming to the desert.
The sorcerer apprentice followed, his long legs taking the steps two at time. “H-h-how m-m-much?”
“Heh, well, that’s the thing about insurance, isn’t it? The claim needs filed, then inspected, and yada yada yada. But I got a big ham and some bacon out of it!”
“B-b-but y-y-you’re a p-p—” He sucked in a fortifying breath and tried again. “P-p-pes—”
“Pescatarian,” Dirk interrupted. “I know. Well, technically a pesca-insect-atarian. But you’re not. I figured—”
Bradley lurched to a halt and slammed his boot heel against the stone step.
The whole tower quivered, releasing crumbs of mortar and a sprinkling of dust. An errant wind whipped his robe about his knees and set the tasseled ends of his rope belt into the tizzy of freshly beheaded snakes. His blue eyes blazed, jaw tight.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Dirk dropped altitude and reared back onto his haunches like a begging border collie. His feathery mane flattened against his neck as his tail coiled tight against his legs. “I know you don’t like being assisted. I’m still a bit groggy.”
He thrust his front paws out wide, stubby things when compared to the long length of his body. “Hug of forgiveness?”
The wind guttered out, and the tassels calmed. Bradley grunted and opened his own arms. Dirk flew into him, nuzzling against his neck like a cat as his serpentine body coiled around Bradley’s from shoulder to opposite hip and back around to his knee.
“I don’t suppose you’ll let me have some coffee before we start work on that anti-stuttering potion again?” Dirk reposition himself across the sorcerer apprentice’s shoulders as Bradley began climbing once more. “I’m more lucky when I’m alert.”
“Yes.” The one-word answer was crisp and precise, just like his stride up the stairs to the kitchen.
A ham as thick around as Bradley’s chest dangled from a hook in the rafter.
Dirk had wisely set it in one of the kitchen’s darker corners, out of direct sunlight where it could remain cool.
Ish. The desert had a way with ambient temperature that could only be described as deviously fickle.
There was no sign of the bacon, so it had to be crammed into the little icebox.
Most sorcerers were so focused with their art that they often forgot to eat, and as such, they were very lean and spindly like storks and their larders were lucky to have a sleeve of biscuits or saltines and a tin of tea.
Milk might be found in the icebox, but only because it was needed for the tea.
Since the Donmarins were historically fishermen hailing from an area of dangerous coastline call the Cut, Bradley came from a long line of hard workers and healthy eaters.
It was assumed that’s why he’d been born with such incredible talent—his body was literally a vessel of power and potential.
So his larder was stuffed with beans, rice, oats, flour, grease, salt, nuts and nut spreads, tins of tea, and sacks of coffee beans.
The icebox was packed with the fish he hooked from the spring at the bottom of the tower, milk, yogurt, and sometimes eggs from the insufferable flock of pigeons that infested the attic.
Master Excelsior didn’t understand his apprentice’s strange need to eat, but he still sent covered baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables by way of griffin and Miss Penelope Shrewsbury once a month.
Bradley could write requests with chalk on a small blackboard affixed to the icebox, and, far away in the College kitchen, a twin blackboard would reveal these requests to the head cook.
Yet no matter how many times Dirk requested grilled lobster tails drowning in garlic butter, the griffin never arrived with those in her basket saddlebags.
However, Miss Penelope did manage, most times, to bring the little dragon his favorite lychees.
“Mmm, coffee, coffee, coffee.” Dirk’s paws minced against Bradley’s shoulder.
“Ow,” the sorcerer apprentice said pointedly. Those ten claws were the size of Bradley’s thumbs and very stabby.
“Like you don’t have tomcat skin after all those days in the sun.” The dragon launched into the air, feathered tail flaring to act as a rudder. He flew to retrieve the coffee pot and then his teacup—a dainty thing of bone china and autumnal Tianzi maple leaves—from the cupboard.
Perched upon the countertop, his noodle-like body arched into an upside down J, Dirk wedged his cup against the base of a giant block of brown sugar.
The desert had robbed the sugar of its moisture, which made it an absolute headache to bake with yet perfect for carving.
Dirk stabbed and scraped with his claws, whittling sugar into his coffee and excavating more of the tower replica from the block.
He’d been focused on the roof shingles for weeks.
When Dirk looked like he’d fallen prey to obsessiveness, Bradley cleared his throat loudly. The baby dragon still had the coffee pot clutched, forgotten, in one paw and he could use a refill.
“And what cup number is this for you?” Dirk filled him up before setting the empty pot into the sink.
The faucet immediately flooded the sink with water, and the soap and sponge leapt from their stations to dive in and start scrubbing.
“Five.” One-word answers came easy. Confidently. Strangely uncursed.
“And yet it still shocks me every day that I don’t find you vibrating before breakfast. Are you sure you don’t want anything in your stomach?”
Bradley shook his head gravely.
“Probably for the best, as usual.” Dirk slung back the rest of his coffee and set his china cup in the sink to be immediately attacked by the cleaning supplies.
A shimmer of white light emanated from his ivory horns all the way down to the tips of his feathered tail tuft. “Ah, I’m ready now. Shall we?”
The baby dragon led the way up to the workroom, only a half-turn about the tower. Bradley lowered the trapdoor closed after them, testing its secureness with a tap of his boot before crossing towards the potions set.
The trolley wheels were in need of some grease, protesting each inch as Bradley dragged the old cart with its rattling glassware into the center of the room. If this ended poorly, like the previous forty-two attempts had, best for it to fail away from anything breakable or stainable.
Dirk settled on the trolley handle, hooked his thumb claws in the belt-like strap of his satchel. “You got this.”
He’d said that forty-two times before, but Bradley appreciated him showing up with the same confidence he’d had on day one of this experiment.