Darwin’s Dragons. And in my mind, I always thought of them as dragons. I was the only keeper of their secret identity. There was nobody I could even try to convince. If Mr. Darwin wouldn’t believe me, then no one else would either.

Mr. Darwin’s talk for the Royal Society had been very well received. He’d outlined his geological findings from the voyage, describing the singular animals of the Galapagos in great detail, and displayed our preserved specimens in their jars and glass cases. We moved to London in May, my master making me his secretary, with both room and board and an excellent wage for a boy of my age.

On the outside, fortune had smiled upon a simple fiddler’s son, an orphan who had run off to sea. From the lowest rank on board, I had risen to be manservant and now the secretary of a most distinguished gentleman, making a name for himself in the world of Science.

Yet I could not sleep at night and spent my days in what Scratch would have called “a maudlin.” I made mistakes in my work, and my belly knotted up like ship’s rigging.

The dragons’ home, the London Zoological Society, was the largest collection of wildlife in the world. Farthing and the others grew up playful and competitive, fighting but never injuring one another. They slept as they had when they were newly hatched, balled up together. Except Farthing, who always lay separately, facing them, watchful. She remained protective of them even when they caught up with her in size. They were unlike any other reptile the Zoological Society had encountered, curious about the other inhabitants, sociable, and with an impressive array of calls that delighted visiting Society members—the only persons admitted into the zoological park grounds.

Their hoots even attracted the attention of passersby outside the walls, who lingered at Dragon Corner to listen to their calls so often a stand was set up selling hot “dragon” pies.

The lizards responded to their keepers and answered to their names. Early studies suggested they were nearly as intelligent as the apes, and of much higher intelligence than their supposed cousins, the Komodo dragons.

The coach pulled up and we were quickly admitted through the gates, the pair of us familiar to the guards.

We passed the barred dome of the raven cage, flicks of the bright wings of macaws inside. Mr. Darwin took an unfamiliar turn through the rows of enclosures.

I stopped.

“Come, Covington. The Society has recently procured a new …”

The word “inmate” sprang into my mind.

“Guest. I know you are impatient to get to Farthing, but please indulge me.”

He led me to a low building and rapped on the door. It was opened by a keeper.

“Her name is Jenny,” said Mr. Darwin, “and we have seen nothing like her. She is an orangutan from the jungles of Borneo, and quite remarkable.”

I followed Mr. Darwin inside the small building. Along one wall was a barred area with a stone floor, scattered with hay. Jenny the orangutan was the size of a child of around four years old, had been clothed in a flowered dress, and had wispy reddish hair covering her long limbs. She lumbered over to the bars, knuckles almost reaching the floor, and gripped the metal with strong leathery fingers. Her heavy brow rose, a peak of red fluff stuck up from the top of her head, and beneath it her eyes shone, dark brown—sharp but soft at the same time. I was taken aback by the strange little creature, so like a person yet so different. I wondered if she had willingly worn the dress, as she clearly had no need for it. When I smiled at her, Jenny bared her large teeth with a clicking sound and then turned away.