His answering growl was more of a pathetic moan.

“Trust me, Rory.” I set a hand on his big head.

The dragon’s silver eyes had ceased whirling and now, like mirrors, reflected all that lay before it. I saw myself bedraggled, with the basket over my shoulder and my locket and sword like dull lumps of stone. Rory had fluffed out his fur to make himself look bigger than he already was. Bee shone like a queen, as radiant as a lamp.

I met her gaze in the mirror of the dragon’s eyes. I nodded.

She exhaled. “Not every young woman gets to march into the gullet of Leviathan.” The crack in her voice betrayed her: She wasn’t quite as sure of herself as she meant to sound.

The dragon’s breath huffed over us, not rancid but sweet, like the aroma of coconut milk as it bakes through a rice pudding. It pushed out its tongue over the ridge of its lip to make a bridge.

Never let it be said my courage had failed me when put to the test.

I tightened my grip on the loose skin of Rory’s neck. Together we walked up the slope. The tongue was oddly firm and dry beneath our tread, not at all slimy. Rory again gave that moaning growl as the tongue shifted beneath us. To keep our balance Bee and I set down the chest and held on to it, and I grabbed Rory, as the creature pulled its tongue back inside.

We slid backward into the smoke. The jaw closed.

Darkness fell as a smothering blanket. Strange noises like drones and squeaks drifted at the edge of my hearing.

Bee and I sat on the chest, clutching each other. Rory leaned against us as if he wanted to climb inside either the chest or us. His trembling shuddered through me. I rubbed his head.

From my oldest, sleepiest memories I scoured out a song. It whispered in my mother’s raspy voice, scarred by war and pain. I sang in a low voice.

Sleep, sweet child, as the twilight falls

As the bright day takes its rest.

Let the Wild Hunt search, let the Wild Hunt cry,

I shall hide you at my breast.

“Cat, are you crying?” Bee whispered, pressing her cheek to mine. “What is that lullaby?”

“My mother used to sing it to me.”

The creature moved in a gentle undulation. The air stirred with a rhythmic pulse, in time to the slow drum of its heart, like the breath of secrets untold. Atop it floated a sound like a bell’s resonant ring drawn out as a thread is spun out of a mass of wool. I trembled, struck by such an upwelling of fear at being trapped inside a living beast that I took a slug from my flask of rum for fortitude. The only way to battle the fear was to talk.