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had not jeopardized any of my good prospects—provided I did not give Mr. Camherst reason to gossip about me to anyone else.
    “I beg your pardon,” the gentleman said, focusing on me. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
    He hadn’t interrupted; I’d stopped myself before he could. The stopping, however, had left me tongue-tied, a state from which I was saved only by the arrival of my wayward sibling. “Of course not; that’s a brother’s job,” Andrew said, swooping in to offer his hand for Mr. Camherst to shake. “Andrew Hendemore. My father is Sir Daniel, of Norringale in Tamshire. This is my sister, Isabella.”
    My social graces were not the best in those days—nor are they the best now; they have been improved only by the greater dignity of years—but two years of practice had rescued them from complete disgrace; I managed a credible curtsy despite the mixture of panic and yearning unsettling my heart. Panic for the man, yearning for the dragons; most young ladies would feel the reverse. “Charmed,” I said, as Mr. Camherst took my hand and kissed the air above my fingers.
    He gave his name in reply, but then turned his attention away from me and back to Mr. Swargin. “The albino, sir?”
    “A Vystrani rock-wyrm,” the naturalist said. “They are naturally grey in coloration, of course, but you are correct; that one is a true albino, as you can see by the eyes.”
    Andrew was making comical faces behind Mr. Camherst’s back. I knew what he wanted; it would amuse him greatly to watch me babble on further about dragons. Mama would have fits merely knowing I had been here, though. Any report of my conduct must be above reproach. If I were wise, I would take my leave of Mr. Camherst and Mr. Swargin, before temptation became too much.
    I was not, of course, wise. Just as Manda Lewis’s impressions of the world had been informed by her reading—leading her to expect balls, duels, and conveniently timed thunderstorms out of life—so, too, had mine; but what I expected was intellectual commerce between equals. I had, you understand, read a great many works by men, who regularly experience such things, and had not realized the unlikelihood of such things for me. In my naive, sixteen-year-old way, I thought Jacob Camherst and I might be friends.
    Mr. Swargin closed the matter by including me in his reply to Mr. Camherst. “Miss Hendemore is correct; all three are runt specimens. The green is a Moulish swamp-wyrm, and the gold, a desert drake from the south of Akhia. His Majesty would very much like to have full-grown adults, but they could not possibly be kept within a menagerie. No doubt you’ve noticed the gratings that keep them apart from one another, and at that, we’ve had to keep a muzzle on the swamp-wyrm. He will persist in breathing at everything, and while the other two endure it better than we humans do, no one enjoys it very much.”
    “Extraordinary breath,” Mr. Camherst murmured, looking across at the motionless lump of the green dragon.
    I recognized the phrase from A Natural History of Dragons; it was the term Edgeworth had coined to describe the sixth and final characteristic he considered diagnostic of the true dragon. All such species could expel something additional with their breath, whether it was the legendary fire or otherwise.
    The general theory for young ladies at the time was that curiosity was considered more attractive to young men than knowledge. Armed with this dubious advice, I ventured a question to which I already knew the answer. “What does it breathe?”
    To my disappointment, Mr. Swargin answered in Mr. Camherst’s place. “A noxious fume, miss,” he said. “Very unpleasant, and harsh on the lungs. At feeding times, we lower large boards into the gaps you see, between the pens; that keeps the worst of it away from the other two when we unmuzzle the Moulish for his meal.”
    “I imagine the albino would have a hard time of it, in particular,” Mr. Camherst