12 – Dragonflew
“What the purple-bearded FUCK is that?” asked the Witch.
“A dragonflight,” said the girl.
“Yes, I can see that. Why, Hortense, is there a goddess-damned saddled dragon on my fucking lawn?”
“You asked for it,” explained Hortense, but her confidence was fading by the second. “You asked for it?” she tried.
“I most definitely did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did no– You know what? Tell me, when did I ask for a dragon?”
“Yesterday. For the potion. You said we needed a live dragonflight.”
“Dragonfly. FLY. Eff. Ell. Why… the FUCK was I given such a halfwit for an apprentice?”
The Witch scowled at Hortense, then scowled some more. The girl dropped her gaze and pouted, hoping that this was the appropriate response to such fierce chastisement. It did mollify the Witch, if only a smidgen.
“In fact, never mind the why. How did you get hold of a dragon on such short notice? You can’t afford a dragon. I’m quite sure I can’t afford a dragon, and never a trained one. So where and how and from whom did you purchase it?”
“Didn’t buy it. Bluebell just came along, willingly-like.”
“Bluebell? You named the dragon. How do you even know it’s a she?”
“It en’t a she. It’s a he.”
“Bluebell is a girl’s… how do you know it’s a he?”
Hortense made a rather vulgar hand gesture in imitation of male anatomy. The Witch looked over at the dragon, which was busy calmly tearing up the grass in search of insects. It was quite obviously a he-dragon. This was a sight for which the Witch was going to have to dip into the Elixir of Forgetting. She happily turned her attention back to her apprentice.
“Please don’t tell me you stole a dragonflight.”
“I told you, it came of its own accord. Wasn’t tied up or nothing.”
“Now that’s a lie if ever I heard one. Do you think whatever airline owns that beast would leave it untethered for a fool girl to pluck as she happens by?”
“No brand on ‘im.”
“Beg pardon?”
“No brand on the ‘indquarters – no airline property.”
“Oh really? And did you saddle him yourself?”
“No…” Hortense was realizing her mistake. “Well, if someone owns ‘im, they musta mistreated ‘im, or ‘e wouldn’t’a come with me without getting a tasty treat or summat like it.”
“Well, ‘Ortense” – this imitation was something the Witch only ever brought out before a particularly nasty rebuke, and Hortense had started shivering in anticipation. Her pointed hat slid down her brow to cover her eyes.
“Who the FUCK gives a FUCKING GOBLIN’S MOLDY LEFT ASSCHEEK how FUCKING often that FUCKING dragon gets his belly rubbed? You cannot just go about casually purloining someone’s dragon!”
“Sorry, ma’am,” said the girl, and she was sorry. But still, she felt obliged to put the record straight, so she righted her hat and looked her mentor in the eye. “Bluebell really wasn’t tethered though. I supposed they was trying, but they didn’t manage.”
“They? Who are they?”
“They are – they was – were – his handlers, I s’pose?”
“Expand on that, please.”
“Well, they were all torn and bloody and even ground up, some of them, lying in the paddock next to Bluebell. I guess they musta poked him one time too many.”
“Sweet darkness below, girl, is that a feral dragon you brought me?!”
They both turned to look at the dragon. It was absentmindedly munching on a clump of grass, as if doing an impression of a very not-feral sheep. The Witch and her apprentice were not convinced.
“Umm…” Hortense began. “I’ll take ‘im back then, shall I?”