“Covington, please. You know I can’t have the lizard—”

A smart knock on the door. Without waiting for an answer, the housekeeper we shared with the other apartments, Mrs. Harvey, stepped in. Her cheeks were pink, and tendrils of pale hair escaped her cap. Farthing yelped and she jumped out of the way, and then the lizard flew out of the door. Mrs. Harvey gasped and gave a small curtsy, her reddened hands clutching her apron.

“Farthing!” I called.

“Mr. Darwin,” said Mrs. Harvey with forced calm, “I simply cannot contend with more unexpected vermin. That … newt thingummy”—she waved in the direction Farthing had just ran—“is bad enough. But I nearly killed this new little one with my broom.”

Mr. Darwin looked up from his work, frowning at Mrs. Harvey, who was normally so steady and cheerful. She seemed awful out of sorts. What was this “new little one” she was talking about?

“We have vermin? Please lay the poison, Mrs. Harvey, and quickly,” snapped Mr. Darwin. “I cannot have pests about. We are working with delicate specimens.” He went back to his papers, frowning.

Mrs. Harvey straightened her back and I saw by the tremor in her lips she was genuinely shocked. “It’s your specimens that are the problem, sir. The kitchen is simply not the place … Such blazing eyes … Mercy me, I thought it were a devil.”

I blinked at her. Little one? Blazing eyes? In the kitchen? Mr. Darwin and I stood at the same time, scraping back our chairs, and I didn’t wait for him. I raced down the narrow stairs.

The kitchen was warm and scented with fresh bread. Farthing had already reached the gap beside the stove and was standing on her hind legs, nose beneath the cloth that covered the open chest. The fabric was moving, and from inside came a rustling. My heart leaped into my throat and my hand shook as I went to remove the cloth, but I could not quite bring myself to do it.

Could this really be happening?

If all the eggs hatched there would be eight … eight dragons. I remembered their mother, her power and size.

Mr. Darwin leaned over me and lifted the cloth just enough to see. The bright eyes seemed too large for its wobbling head. The hatchling stopped shifting over its broken shell and stared directly up at us. I blinked and shook my head. I knew those eyes. I knew that intelligent, curious stare. It opened its mouth and the inside was pink, the edges rough, and I knew one day it would be rimmed with tiny teeth. It released a mewling sound like a cat begging for fish scraps. It was the size of a newborn kitten.

But it was far from a kitten. And not gold like its mother.

It was green. Pistachio Green.

The hatchling wasn’t a dragon. It was a … Farthing.