When I finished the tune, the egg continued to vibrate between my ribs. The hatchling inside was still alive, and I was sure it could hear and feel me.

“Your husband mentioned you were a fine alto in your church choir, Mrs. Whitby?” said Darwin.

A hymn. That was it.

I played “Amazing Grace” again and the lady dropped in, her voice clear and steady. The melody did not echo like it had in the lava tube of the Galapagos, but it took me back there.

I looked down without halting the tune. A fine crack in the surface of the egg. I stopped playing and held the egg, which filled my cupped hands.

Ignoring Mrs. Whitby’s muttering, I did not ask Mr. Darwin’s permission before I gently eased apart the crack. The lizard inside reached out a tiny claw and then the egg split in two across my palms and I was holding another miniature Farthing, perfect, smaller than the others, her eyes unfocused but bright.

The tiny beast gazed at me, head wobbling on her spindly neck. She strained up, then lost her balance and tumbled backward into her broken shell.

This little one had a streak of silver shot through one of her copper eyes, shiny as a sixpence.

“Welcome to the world, little Sixpence,” I whispered. Farthing leaped onto the side of the chest and curled around the youngest of her siblings, as she had done with each newborn. There was a hesitation in her jump, a lack of energy that made my stomach churn. Farthing wasn’t herself lately, slower. Quieter. The wound on her side still hadn’t fully healed. In the last month the green of her scales had changed; they had a sheen almost like mother-of-pearl. I didn’t think even Werner had a name for that color.

Sixpence nibbled mashed fish from the spice spoon. I waited for Mrs. Whitby to leave and for Mr. Darwin to come back to the kitchen.

In between waiting and making sure the eggs safely hatched, I had been researching, thinking, and watching Farthing—the way, when she greeted me, her ruff was now slow to rise. She blinked more slowly. She seemed flatter somehow. But how to make Mr. Darwin understand that these animals didn’t belong here?

Because London was really not the place for dragons.

“Sir, may I discuss … an important matter with you?” I said, tripping over words more formal than I was used to.

“Of course. Here,” he said, passing me a small brandy. “To toast the safe birth of another little miracle.”

I took a sip and grimaced.

“You see, sir, it was the wings that put me off when I was on Narborough. Plus the fact that the mother dragon was intent on removing me, then burning me, so I didn’t get much chance to really look at her.” I was rambling—I tried to slow down. “But a lot of things make sense. The dragon had the same type of scales, the same shaped body and face as these creatures. And their eyes. Farthing’s are copper, and the dragon’s are gold, but they are both … extraordinary, in the same way. As for the difference in size and color, differences like that between a mother and its young aren’t unknown in the animal kingdom. Are they? Sir?”