Izabelle rested her hand on his forehead. As she did so, a golden locket, attached to a golden chain, slipped out from around the lace at her throat and dangled above him.

The locket swung gently back and forth; gold glinted in the sunlight. Marcus watched it, and he saw the dragon’s plan. He saw the dragon army marching upon the palace. He saw his father give the order to fire the cannons. He saw the dragon work her magic, saw magical fire race from the powder kegs to the cannons. He saw the horrendous blast that obliterated the cannons and the walls and blew up castle and city. He saw thousand perished in an instant, blown apart. The blast was of such magnitude that when the smoke and flame and debris and dust cleared, all that was left of the city of Ramsgate and the castle and the king and his people was a gigantic crater.

He saw the dragon circle above the ruin to make certain that no one survived. Then she summoned her army, and, after that, every human kingdom faced with this awful threat heard the terrible history of the kingdom of Idylswylde and capitulated and, in time, nation after nation came under thrall to the dragons.

Marcus saw it all and he tried to speak, to shout, to summon the servants to fetch his father, but the knowledge slid out of his mind as the thread slid off the spool, the colors of death and terror and destruction running through the lady’s delicate fingers and sighing into the cloth.

Marcus lay back down among the pillows.

I must be feverish, he thought. I must be imagining this.

Lady Izabelle resumed her seat. Tucking the golden locket back into the lace at her throat, she picked up her work. Marcus watched the needle pierce the cloth, watched it draw the thread after it.

“Whose portrait?” he asked.

Reversing it, the lady showed it to him.

“Yours, Your Highness,” she said with a gentle smile.

A fortnight passed in peace and quiet for the people of Ramsgate. Some in the city were starting to say that the battle of Aston Castle, though first thought to be a defeat, had, in retrospect, been a resounding victory. The demon warriors had seen the power of God-fearing men and taken themselves back to the fiery regions from whence they’d sprung.

In the castle, King Edward and his army were left to simmer in the pot until they were so thoroughly overcooked that the meat was falling off the bone. Everyone was worn out from the tension. Nerves and tempers were stretched taut.

Marcus was up and about and seemed almost fully recovered, at least physically. Edward was concerned about his son’s mental state, however, for Marcus was lethargic, absent-minded, and given to daydreaming.

Ermintrude wasn’t worried.

“He’s falling in love, my dear,” she assured Edward.