“Mr. Darwin, Covington, it’s started!” called Mrs. Harvey from the kitchen. By now she’d taken quite a shine to the “giant newts.”

We looked up from our desks at the same time.

“Take a note to Mrs. Whitby, please, Mrs. Harvey,” said Mr. Darwin. “I saw her only last night at the British Association presentation, and she is staying nearby. She was so desperate to witness a hatching.”

Mrs. Mary Anne Whitby was one of Mr. Darwin’s regular correspondents and an experimenter in silkworm breeding. She arrived in a cloud of violet-scented gray skirts and a sensible black bonnet, and she spoke with the master in quiet yet enthusiastic tones. The last egg was vibrating and shivering. Farthing peered over at it but rested her snout against the rim of the chest and did not move. The movement and tapping of the egg slowed.

Mr. Darwin had already directed me not to interfere with any of the hatchings.

Farthing whined.

“Go on, then, Farthing. Give it a nudge or something?” I whispered. Farthing twitched her head to one side but did not move.

“There’s a runt in every litter, and it will soon die,” said Mrs. Whitby, a monocle clamped to her eye, “and good fortune for you, Mr. Darwin—a specimen to dissect. Sooner rather than later, mind, as it will quickly spoil.”

Mr. Darwin rubbed two fingers against his forehead. “It is true that the young creature inside may not be fit enough to survive, and that has a strong reason in nature …”

I pictured Mr. Darwin in sleeve protectors, his scalpels and tools lined up in front of him. I’d seen it often enough, a thing that had been living reduced to a carcass, pinned and labeled, then a series of sketches and observations, and finally just mess for me to clear.

The master caught me staring at him, stopped talking, and swallowed.

The last dragon egg gave a sorry little shiver.

I shifted so I was positioned between Mrs. Whitby and the treasure-chest nest. What to do? I looked at Farthing and remembered back on Narborough when she’d followed, hiding from me. I had played Scratch and she’d listened.

“Please, a bit more time,” I said.

“No rush, Covington,” said Mr. Darwin.

I darted into the other room to collect my new fiddle. Settled by the stove, I played a rum jig, one that had never failed to rouse the sleepiest of old seamen into activity on ship.

Mr. Darwin gave me an encouraging nod.

“These creatures are incredibly important to Science; they may be the only ones left of their kind if the volcano engulfed the island. It could be that the vibrations of the violin assist with the hatching, and a living specimen is far more valuable,” he said.

Mrs. Whitby gave a delicate snort but didn’t argue.

I thought on what Mr. Darwin had said. When I played, the lowest notes produced the most detectable vibration, right in the center of my chest. I buttoned up my open waistcoat almost to the top and then lifted the last egg from the nest and rested it, tucked into the open buttons, against my heart. Its warmth passed through my shirt and vest. I lifted my fiddle and played a slow ballad.