“Where am I?” came a voice.

Rosa and Anton both jumped. Rising from the table, they hastened to the back part of the house. The girl was sitting up in the bed.

“You are in our home, child,” said Rosa, her voice softening. “I am Rosa and this is Anton.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and rested her hand on the girl’s forehead. “How do you feel?”

“My head hurts,” the girl replied. She had a grave and solemn face; large, dark eyes that were clear and bright and bold. She was not shy around strangers, seemingly.

“What is your name, child?”

“Dracon—” the girl began, then stopped.

“Drake?” Rosa questioned, not certain she’d heard right.

“Draca,” the girl corrected. “With an ‘a.’ I was named for my father. His name was ‘Drake.’ My parents were devoted to the dragon,” she added, seeming to feel the need for explanation.

Anton and Rosa exchanged glances.

“Where are your parents, Draca?” Rosa asked. “They must be worried about you. Anton will run fetch them and bring them here.”

“My parents are both dead,” Draca said in matter-of-fact tones. “They died when I was little.”

“The Abbey orphanage then. The holy sisters—”

At this, the girl threw off the blanket and started to climb out of bed. “You’ve been very kind. I don’t want to be any trouble. I’ll be going—”

She went very pale and her eyelids fluttered. Swaying on her feet, she put her hand to her head. “I feel sick.”

“Lie down, Draca,” Rosa insisted, alarmed. She rested her hands on the girl’s shoulders and eased her, unresisting, back on to the bed. “I know you’re afraid, but we won’t tell anyone you are here. We promise. Don’t we, Anton?”

He nodded, to assure her.

“We understand, you see,” Rosa added, smoothing back the hair from the girl’s face.

The girl regarded them both with a suspicious, wary expression, her eyes darting from one to the other. “What do you understand?”

“We know—or guess—what you are.”

“You do?” Draca was astonished.

“That you are a runaway,” said Rosa gently. “We won’t make you go back. Not until you’re ready.”

“Runaway,” Draca repeated. She sighed and sank down into the pillow. “My head hurts . . . Can you tell me what happened? I don’t remember.”

“Memory loss is not unusual with a head wound,” Rosa said softly, to her husband. “Tell her what you found.”

“There was an explosion. You were lying in the wreckage of an abandoned house,” Anton explained. “The whole building had collapsed—the roof, the walls, everything. You should have been killed. But you weren’t. You just got a bump on the head. When the beams fell down, they fell around you. Not on top of you.”

Draca stared at him, unblinking. “That was lucky.”