The Gorgons Gaze # 2 (Companions Quartet) (13 page)

“Show me what I must do—how I can help,” he offered eagerly.

The gorgon smiled and nodded. “Good. It is-
ss
as we hoped. You are ripe for the ta
ss
-sk we have for you.”

“Task?”

“Your mother will tell you more when we are ready.” Her finger caressed his cheek again. “I must tend to my hatchlings. You
ss
-should go.”

As Col got up to leave, he almost turned to take a last good look at her, but he caught himself just in time.

“Idiot,” he hissed. If he was going to help the gorgon, he couldn’t start by getting turned to stone.

7
Argand

C
onnie bent over her Latin grammar book and tried to make sense of the introductory lesson. So far, all she had noticed was the dog-eared state of the pages and the cramped writing; the words were sliding in and out of her mind making no impression. Idly, she flipped to the front and looked at the title page again: Sybil, crossed out; Robin, crossed out; Hugh, crossed out; Godiva, still plain to see. Her great-aunt obviously thought what was good enough for her and her brothers and sisters was good enough for Connie. Picking up her pen, Connie struck through her aunt’s name and added her own underneath. The latest in a long line of Lionheart Latin martyrs, she thought grimly.

“How are you doing, Connie?” asked Godiva. She was sitting at a table embroidering a cushion with
the Lionheart compass.

“Fine,” lied Connie. She turned back to the first chapter. Someone had underlined certain words in pale blue ink. She traced them through, skipping from page to page—horse, bear, tree. Whoever it was had picked out all the words to do with nature. Wolf, serpent, dragon.

Tap-tap.

Connie looked up, feeling a strange burning sensation in her stomach. Godiva raised her eyebrows, warning her great-niece to re-apply herself to her work.

Tap-tap.

This time, Connie sneaked a glance at the window—and almost dropped her book in surprise. There, dancing in the morning sunlight, was a small golden creature, wings glistening with all the colors of the rainbow like a dragonfly—but it wasn’t a fly. Seeing Connie watching, the dragonet Argand looped-the-loop with excitement.

A cold sweat broke out on Connie’s brow. Her companion was bobbing around only a few feet from Godiva’s head. What could she do?

She waved her hand at the window. “Go away!” she mouthed.

Argand waved her tail back with a friendly gesture.

Connie shook her head and repeated the hand signal.

“What are you doing, Connie?” barked Godiva, laying her sewing to one side.

“A wasp’s bothering me.”

“Well, really, don’t you know better than to wave your hands in that stupid fashion—you’ll only annoy it. Sit still and it’ll go away.”

But this particular “wasp” didn’t. Thwarted by the glass, Argand began to dive-bomb the barrier, trying to smash her way in. Connie gulped. Godiva appeared to be ignoring the thumping sound behind her. Connie had to do something—and quick!

“May I open the window, please?”

Godiva turned and took a long look outside. Surely she must see the little dragon now? She gazed back at Connie, her expression set.

“No, you may not. You will do five extra pages of exercises as punishment.”

“Punishment for what?”

“For inattention.”

This was so unfair! Godiva must have seen Argand, too—why was she pretending she hadn’t?

“You can see the dragon, can’t you?”

“Eight pages!”

“Her name’s Argand. She hatched last month.”

“Ten pages!”

“She’s my companion.”

Godiva leapt from her seat and thrust her face right up to Connie’s.

“Listen, there is
no
dragon—
no
companion. You are ill, Connie, very, very ill. If you carry on talking such drivel, I
will have to take drastic measures.”

At that moment, the glass shattered and Argand zoomed merrily into the room, heading straight for Connie. Godiva screamed.

“That damned parakeet!” She started throwing anything at hand toward the dragonet. “The abbey organist really must keep it under better”—Crash!—“control!” Thump. The last missile, Connie’s Latin book, struck Argand on the snout and burst into flames.

“Quick, quick! Put it out!” shrieked Godiva.

Connie stripped off her hooded top and smothered the book and the irate dragon underneath. Scooping them up, she ran out of the room, calling, “I’ll take it out into the garden,” over her shoulder.

Godiva was leaning against her desk, panting hard.

“Be back here in two minutes—or else!”

Connie ran down the path to the stone seat at the far end of the garden. Argand struggled in her arms, protesting at this rough treatment. Placing the bundle on the bench, Connie unwrapped the contents. Immediately the way was clear, a very angry dragon darted into the air, spitting sparks at Connie.

“Hey, hey!” said Connie soothingly. “It wasn’t me!”

Argand circled once and then flew into her chest with a thud, knocking her back. The dragon dug in her claws and clung to Connie’s T-shirt, shivering. Gently, Connie tried to extricate the most painful talons that
were pinching her skin.

“Calm down,” she crooned. “It’s all right now. The nasty lady has gone.”

Argand gave a low fluting sound of distress. Connie dipped into her mind, seeking the bond with her companion. She swiftly found her—Argand was still in a nightmare of loud noises and missiles. Stroking the creature along her scaly spine, Connie led Argand back to the daylight and to peace. Opening her eyes, she found the little dragon gazing adoringly at her, her tiny fire-bright eyes full of trust.

“There now, that’s better, isn’t it? What are you doing here? Does your mother know where you are?”

If dragons could look sheepish, Argand did now.

“No? Well, you’d better hurry home. Can you remember the way?”

Argand nodded.

“You can’t come here like this, you know. I’ll have to think of another way for us to see each other. Will you wait till I send word?”

The dragon shook her head.

“Please?”

A pause, then Argand nodded.

“Right, off you go!” Throwing Argand up into the air like a ball, Connie watched the dragon flit away over the wall, her wings flashing with rapid strokes.

Knowing her two minutes had been up long ago,
Connie picked up her scorched top and the smoldering remains of the Latin book.

It seems she was the last in a long line of Lionhearts to use it, Connie thought as the pages drifted away in black flakes. A noble end for a family heirloom.

Col was waiting in his grandmother’s boat,
Water Sprite
, for his father to arrive. Mack was late—of course. Seagulls mewed overhead, etching figure eights like ice skaters in the sky. Bored with watching tourists mill around the gift shops, Col busied himself coiling ropes, involuntarily thinking of them as snakes and wondering what his mother and the gorgon were up to.

“Hi, Col!” He looked up, shading his eyes against the slanting rays of the sun. Anneena, dressed in fuchsia pink, was standing on the gangplank; Jane hovered shyly behind her.

“Oh, hi,” Col said brightly. “Come on board. I haven’t seen you all week. What’ve you been doing?”

“Busy working on these,” said Anneena, gesturing to a bundle of posters Jane was carrying. The girls leapt lightly down into the boat.

“What are the posters for?” He took them from Jane and put them on a dry spot on the engine hatch.

“We’re appealing for teams to take part in the carnival procession,” Jane said, patting the scrolls proudly.

“Oh, yeah?” Col had seen the pageant in previous years.
It was not his kind of thing. A bunch of people dressed up in ridiculous costumes for “Michaelmas,” one of the old quarter days in honor of the Archangel Michael and the traditional start of the festival. He was always more interested in the music that followed.

Anneena took over. “This year we want to make it really good because my sister—you know Rupa’s landed a job with
The Times
in London?—well, she’s going to do an article about it for the weekend magazine—they’re running a story about the festival. It’s all part of the publicity about the new road.”

“Really?” Col replied with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“Yes,” Anneena continued, undisturbed by his reaction. “You ride, don’t you, Col? You’d be great—all you need is a costume.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Col said firmly. “You are absolutely not going to rope me into it.”

“Think about it—please!”

“I don’t need to think about it.”

Anneena’s face was a picture of disappointment. Col felt a bit bad letting her down, but the last thing in the world he wanted to do was to team up with the aging amateur dramatic society who ran the pageant and make a fool of himself in some stupid costume. He couldn’t think of any circumstances under which he would willingly take part.

Jane nudged Anneena to stop her from arguing about it
any further today. “Go on, tell him,” Jane muttered. Evidently, they had not dropped by the boat by accident.

Anneena said: “It’s about Connie.”

“What about her?”

“We saw her again yesterday. She really wants to see you.”

“And I want to see her. But how can I? Her aunt won’t let her near anyone from our Society.”

Jane smiled sadly. “Yeah, she thinks you’re all a bunch of tree-hugging nuts.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Col laughed.

“I dunno,” said Jane, shrugging. “Poor old Connie. She’s really hating it in Chartmouth.”

“Did she say if she can get out of there?”

Anneena nodded. “She’s had an idea. She wants you to meet her in the abbey tomorrow at noon—she’s got a favor to ask.”

“What kind of favor?”

“No idea—she was very mysterious about it.

It must be about the Society then, thought Col. “Sure, I’ll go to the abbey.”

“She said to hide in case she’s with her aunt.”

“Fine—I can do that.”

“So, Col, I see you’ve got company!” Mack had arrived and was looking down at the threesome with an unnecessarily broad grin. “Shall I come back later?”

The girls both glanced at Col, not knowing what to
make of the arrival of one of Hescombe’s famous characters. Col wished that the earth would swallow him up but he had to say something.

“Anneena—Jane—this is my dad,” he said heavily.

Mack jumped into the boat. He then reached up to the quayside to lift down his diving gear, knocking Jane’s posters into a puddle of water. He swore and shook them out.

“Sorry, darling. What’s all this then—a pageant?” he asked, catching sight of what was written on them. “You’re looking for volunteers? You should come up to the woods and ask the protestors—they’ve got plenty of time on their hands. Getting dressed up in weird costumes would be right up their alley. I expect you’d think that some of them wouldn’t even need to change.” He gave Jane aconspiratorial wink. Col felt a pang of pity for her and wished he could whisk his father away. Then it got worse: Mack peeled off his jacket and shirt to put on his wetsuit, revealing a tattoo of a great tentacled creature on his back. Jane did not know where to look. “Up for an expedition, girls?”

“Er…no thanks, Mr. Clamworthy,” Anneena excused them hastily.

“Mack, darling, call me Mack.”

Col noted dismally that everything he hated about his father seemed magnified in the presence of girls.

Anneena looked flustered. “Thanks, Mr.…er…Mack, but we’ve really got to get these posters up.” Jane
was already abandoning ship with the scrolls stuffed haphazardly under her arm. “Some other time, perhaps.” The girls hurried off, shouting their good-byes before the invitation could be pressed any further.

“So,” said Mack, leaning on the wheelhouse and assessing his son, “you haven’t started to make progress with the girls then? Give it a few more years.”