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silverware? He was absolutely certain she knew the name and that that was why she would like to meet Bergstrom. Andthat, in turn, could only mean one thing: There had to be a primeval connection between dragons and bears. But what? Was it something to do with Gawain and his fire tear? The mysterious hidden fire? Hidden where? In the Arctic? A teardrop, lost in a thousand miles of ice?
    The ceiling creaked like an ice floe groaning — Liz, moving around in the Dragons’ Den above. If she knew the answer, she would never let it out. But maybe he could hear it from another source? Twice he had dreamed that a polar bear was trying to speak to him. Could that have been Lorel, the Teller of Ways, come to give up the ancient legend? David closed his eyes and threw down a challenge.
If you are he,
he whispered,
show yourself. Tell me, now, about the fire….
    But the harder he tried, the more obstinate the gateway to the dream state seemed. To make matters worse, after half an hour or so, the door wafted open and Bonnington nudged his way into the room. He yattered something catty, then leaped up and sat on David’s chest. He was showing no further signs of anxiety, just the usual inclination to tread his paws againsta human rib cage before he settled down for the night. As the cat nodded off, so did David — on the bed, fully dressed. He slept fitfully and dreamed about Sophie’s dragon, Grace. She seemed to be whispering in Sophie’s ear. The next thing David knew he was being chased by elephants, a whole herd of them trumpeting,
Zanna? Who’s Zanna?
    He jerked awake, panting, but thankfully untrampled. It was morning. Dawn had broken, gray and wet. The ice bear had disappeared from the garden. What had been a double helping of snow was now no more than a shallow island, isolated in the middle of the lawn.
    Even so, Bonnington was still watching over it. He was sitting on the windowsill, paws tucked under him, suspended in some kind of sentinel’s catnap. David frowned and touched the cat’s whiskers, concerned that Bonnington had still not escaped whatever specter (Lorel or otherwise) was haunting him. Bonnington burbled and shook himself awake. He ducked the tenant’s hand and peered anxiously through the window.“It’s gone,” David told him, “all washed away. Come on, I’ll show you.” And gathering Bonnington into his arms he cradled him, chest-high, into the garden.
    Crossing the lawn was not a good idea. After only four paces, David’s feet were coated with a soggy band of mud. But once sludged there was no going back. He took Bonnington up to the ice. They circled it. They studied it. They did not try to cross it. When David put him down, the cat put his nose to the lip of the island, pulled back suddenly, then trotted away to the bottom of the garden.
    “Now what?” David asked, chasing after him. “Bonnington, the polar bear isn’t in there.” The cat was heading for a patch of wild ground, covered over with weeds and a crisscrossing den of rotting branches. “Come out,” David commanded as Bonnington wriggled into a hole. “You’ll get mucky, and I’ll get into trouble.” With a sigh, David dug his hand into the mound — and touched something prickly that wasn’t a cat. Carefully he lifted the branches. There, amid the bracken, was an old hairbrush.
    And a shoelace. And a key ring. And half a picture postcard (of the seafront in Maine). And a golf ball. And a coaster. And what looked like chicken bones. Two lollipop sticks. A clothespin. A potato peeler. And a Scrubbley Wildlife Hospital badge. There was even a felt-tipped pen that David remembered had once rolled under his bed.
    “Bonnington,” he muttered, crouching down, “how long has this been going on?”
    Brr-up,
went the cat, a picture of innocence.
    “You’re a robber,” David told him. “A furry feline felon. And what’s more, I’m having this back.” He picked up the pen and tapped the cat playfully on the nose. “I