I rolled my shoulders back and forced myself to think about Farthing, and how she had been when I had last seen her a week ago. Patrolling the same track back and forth in front of the bars, wearing a path into the soft chalk. All the dragons had taken up some form of repeating movement. Magma and Granite paced a complete circuit of the cave, avoiding Farthing. Basalt scratched repeatedly at the base of his tail and the scales had cracked and fallen away, leaving the skin raw. Sixpence had worn away the scales on one side of her ruff by rubbing the same part over and over against the hot brazier.

At first the dragons had thrived, as our queen had insisted they would. She continued to visit her favorites regularly, which I guessed felt like a fine adventure to her, away from palace life. The mine became more comfortable with each of her visits, the chalk walls whitewashed and set with oil lamps, and rush matting placed underfoot along the tunnels. For nearly half a year the lizards had improved and all grew to the size of Great Danes, but then this new behavioral sickness had started, and it had happened quickly. The Queen refused to accept it, still believing that she had found the answer in her mine enclosure. When Basalt’s wound at the base of his tail began to weep, she became angry, blaming the keepers for not attending to him.

That was the last time Queen Victoria had visited. The mines became dull and deserted, with only one keeper, and a guard at the gates.

Her Majesty still corresponded with Mr. Darwin, and I persuaded him to let me write to her myself, suggesting once again that the dragons be relocated back to the Galapagos on the next survey ship. He wearily agreed. By this time, Mr. Darwin had begun courting his cousin Emma Wedgwood and was likely to soon be admitted to the esteemed Geological Society. He was working on his Journal of the Beagle Voyage, which would be published the following year, and gave regular talks in the top levels of scientific society. He was making the name for himself that he needed to publish his ongoing work, what he called his Big Idea, which seemed to make him awful jittery in a way I wasn’t sure was good for his health. I was curious about this secretive project, and gathered his writings were to do with differences between animals, relating to where they lived, and why some animals survived but others did not. He continued to correspond regularly with Mrs. Whitby about her silkworms and visited other animal breeders. The stuffed Galapagos finches now took pride of place on his desk, and he looked at them often as he frantically scribbled.

More than anything, I feared Farthing and the others would end up as nothing more than a footnote in his studies.

The Queen replied to my letter.

Dear Mr. Covington,