The Return of the Dragon (5 page)

It yawned widely. “The scientific method, you know,” it said. The green eyes began to droop closed.

“We’d better be going,” Zachary said.

“So delightful to see you,” the dragon murmured. “Please return soon. My brother and sister will be most anxious for a visit.”

Its eyes closed. There was a suspicion of a snore.

“Good night, Fafnyr,” the children whispered. Zachary switched on the flashlight. Softly they turned and tiptoed quietly back toward the entrance of the cave. When they reached the ledge, they stood still for a moment, looking down at the blue ocean and the silent white boat.

“I’m confused,” Sarah Emily said. “I don’t think I understand Fafnyr’s story. Was there a monster or wasn’t there?”

Zachary was staring worriedly at the white yacht.

“I don’t know,” Hannah said. “It sounds like sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

When the children got back to the house, pink-cheeked and windblown from the hike from Drake’s Hill, an excited Mrs. Jones met them at the kitchen door. She had been watching for them. “You’ll never guess who’s in your auntie’s parlor,” she said. “Mr. J.P. King, that’s who. The man they call the Mystery Billionaire. He’s been waiting for you for nearly half an hour.”

“Who’s that?” asked Sarah Emily. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“
I
have,” Zachary said. “He’s really rich. He owns all these steel mills and things, and he’s made about a zillion dollars in computers. He’s in the newspapers all the time. Stories, no pictures. He won’t have his picture taken ever.”

“I’ve heard of him too,” said Hannah. “He never goes out in public, and he lives on this enormous estate surrounded by high walls and security guards.”

“He has houses all over the world,” Zachary said. “In Paris and London and New York. And he owns this big ranch in Montana.”

“Why is he
here
?” asked Hannah.

“He said he came to apologize,” said Mrs. Jones. “He was passing by in his yacht and thought that the island was uninhabited. We told him that the island belongs to your auntie, who never allows visitors without her permission. Then he wanted to know who lives on the island, and we told him that it was just the two of us, and you three children, visiting. He said he was fond of children and would like to meet you. It’s quite an honor. They say he never meets anybody.”

Mrs. Jones smoothed her apron and bustled toward the refrigerator. “Just leave your jackets there on the chair and run along. I’ll bring some tea — thank goodness Tobias bought lemons on his last trip to the mainland — and cocoa and fresh pound cake.”

The children paused, flabbergasted, in the hall.

“J.P. King,” Zachary whispered.
“Wow!”

Together they stepped through the parlor door. There, sitting on a needlepoint chair and playing idly with Aunt Mehitabel’s jade chess set, sat the man from the yacht. Now he was wearing khaki slacks and a blue sweater with a thin gold stripe across the chest. As the children entered the room, he got to his feet, smiled in a friendly manner, and held out his hand.

“The young explorers, I presume?” he asked. He shook hands with Hannah, then Zachary and Sarah Emily. “I am so pleased to meet you. My name is J.P. King. And you are? . . .”

“How do you do?” said Hannah politely. “I’m Hannah. This is my brother, Zachary, and my sister, Sarah Emily.”

J.P. King resumed his seat and waved his hand hospitably toward Aunt Mehitabel’s horsehair sofa.

“Do sit down and relax,” he said, as if he were the host and the children the visitors.

The children perched on the edge of the sofa. The horsehair was slippery and uncomfortable, and the seat was so high that their feet dangled uncomfortably above the floor. Sarah Emily gripped the arm of the sofa to keep from sliding off.

“What a gift,” Mr. King continued wistfully, “to live on this lovely and unusual island. While passing by in my yacht — perhaps you noticed my yacht, anchored offshore? — I was struck by its unspoiled natural beauty. I spend most of the year in the city — smog, traffic, litter, crowds. You have no idea how lucky you are.”

“It’s a perfectly beautiful boat,” Hannah said. “Why doesn’t it have a name?”

“Privacy, my dear,” Mr. King said. “When one is as rich as I am —” He stopped, looking embarrassed. “Though my wealth is nothing compared to the riches you have here,” he said quietly, gesturing at the window through which there was a view of rocky shoreline and blue bay.

There was a clatter of china in the hallway, and Mrs. Jones scurried in with a loaded tray of food. There was a steaming teapot, mugs of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream, a sliced pound cake, and a plate of oatmeal cookies. She set the tray on a low table in front of the sofa.

“Now, you children see to your guest,” she said. “I’ll make sure there’s more hot water when you need some.” She hurried away, staring back over her shoulder at Mr. King.

“Thank you,” Mr. King said, accepting a cup of tea and a plate with a slice of pound cake. He took a bite. “Delicious.”

“Mrs. Jones is a wonderful cook,” Hannah said.

Mr. King leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea. He crossed his legs in his elegantly creased khaki slacks.

“I understand,” he continued, “that the entire island is owned by your aunt?”

He set his teacup down, picked up one of the jade chess pieces, and began to turn it over and over in his fingers.

“Lovely,” he said.

“Our great-great-aunt,” Zachary said.

“She lives in Philadelphia,” put in Hannah. “She doesn’t allow visitors here.”

Mr. King clamped his hand shut around the chess piece and gave an exclamation of dismay. “I didn’t realize,” he said. “I fear that — believing that the island was deserted, of course — I allowed some of my party to set up a small camp on the beach.”

“I don’t think Aunt Mehitabel would like that,” Sarah Emily said. “She’s a very private person.”

Mr. King sighed. “I can understand wanting to keep this lovely place all to oneself,” he said. “But perhaps when I see her —”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Hannah said. “She was planning to meet us on the island, but it turned out that she couldn’t. She had a fall and broke her ankle.”

“Indeed?” Mr. King said in a startled voice. “So there’s no chance of our meeting?” Deliberately he replaced the chess piece on the board and lifted his cup for another sip of tea. He sounded oddly relieved.

“No,” said Sarah Emily baldly.

“I believe I saw you children playing today,” Mr. King said. “On the hill at the far end of the island. Mrs. Jones tells me it is called Drake’s Hill? What an unusual name.”

The children were silent.

“Do you spend much time there?” Mr. King continued. “It must have a marvelous view.”

“We don’t really go there very often,” said Hannah.

“It’s one of our favorite places,” Sarah Emily said, at the same time.

Zachary hastily made a spluttering noise in his cocoa.

Mr. King appeared not to notice. He leaned forward and set down his teacup.

“There’s an amazing population of wildlife on this island,” he said. “Simply amazing. Why, just a few days ago I saw the most incredible sight. . . . Just take a guess. . . .”

Sarah Emily gave a tiny gasp.

Mr. King turned toward her inquiringly.

Hastily she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Puffins!” Mr. King cried. “A flock of puffins! I wouldn’t be surprised if they were nesting on the island.”

“I’ve never seen any,” Zachary said.

“Ah, well,” Mr. King said.

He patted his lips with a napkin, folded it, and laid it carefully on his plate. “Simply delicious,” he said. Then he got to his feet.

“I do hope we shall meet again soon,” he said, giving the children another friendly smile. “I plan to write to your aunt to inform her of my presence here and will keep my yacht at anchor until I have a reply. Perhaps you three would like to come onboard for a visit?”

“On your
yacht
?” Hannah said excitedly.

Mr. King pulled a small leather notebook and a gold pencil from his pocket, scribbled something on a sheet of paper, tore it out, and handed it to Hannah.

“My personal telephone number,” he said. “If you have time to arrange a visit, I can be reached here.”

“It’s been very nice meeting you,” Hannah said.

Mr. King paused on the front porch, turning his head north and south, gazing the length of the island. He took a deep breath.

“Sea air,” he said. “Open spaces. One gets the feeling that almost anything could happen here. Almost a magical place.”

He gave a friendly nod, turned, and went down the porch steps. Beside the dock in the little cove, the children could see a small white motorboat floating.

“So that’s how he gets to and from his yacht,” Zachary muttered to Sarah Emily.

Mr. King lifted a hand in farewell. Then he walked quickly across the beach, stepped onto the dock, climbed into his motorboat, and sped away.

Zachary shut the front door and leaned against it.

“Whew,” he said.

“I thought he was sort of nice,” Hannah said. “I think you’re just imagining things. He’s really
famous,
Zachary.”

“I wish he’d just go away,” said Sarah Emily. “Him and his puffins.”

“Well, he’s not leaving,” said Hannah. “You heard him. He’s keeping his boat anchored here until he hears from Aunt Mehitabel. And I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt. Weigh the evidence, like Fafnyr said.”

“I think we should warn Fafnyr,” Sarah Emily said.

“F,”
Zachary said.

Sarah Emily was having a wonderful dream. She was flying, swooping and soaring high above the ocean in glorious loops and dips and glides. The air smelled clean and salty — she could smell it even in her dream — and there was a distant squawky sound of seagulls. Far below her the sea was a beautiful shade of cobalt blue, dotted with lacy froths of white where the waves were whipped by wind. She was over the island, she realized suddenly. There it was, Lonely Island, a crescent-shaped sliver of gray and green, surrounded by glittering sea. The sun glinted off the weathervane on the rooftop of Aunt Mehitabel’s house, and then there was an answering glint from somewhere else, to the north, beyond the craggy tumble of rock that formed the hill. She flew toward it, curious. It came again, a silvery flash, as if someone were signaling with a mirror. She dived, dipping a powerful wing, and the sun blazed off her scales, blindingly golden . . .

She sat up, her heart beating fast. The sun was shining in her eyes and someone was pounding on her bedroom door.

“S.E.! Are you up?” It was Hannah’s voice. “Zachary says he’s found something. In the Tower Room.”

The children thought that the Tower Room was the most wonderful room in Aunt Mehitabel’s house. Its door was always kept locked, but last summer Aunt Mehitabel had sent them its strange little iron key.

Hannah opened Sarah Emily’s bedroom door and peeked inside. She was barefoot and wearing lavender flannel pajamas.

“Come on,” she said. “Don’t bother to get dressed. Zachary said to hurry.”

Together the girls scampered to the end of the hall and, one by one, climbed the narrow staircase that led to the third floor. At the top of the stairs, the door to the Tower Room stood ajar, the key, with its odd little curlicued handle, still in the lock. Behind the door was an iron ladder at the top of which was a trapdoor, now open. They climbed, one after the other, and scrambled out onto the tower floor.

They were in a small octagonal room, surrounded by round windows that looked like portholes. Zachary always felt that those windows must have made the sea captain who built the house feel as if he were back in his ship’s cabin. Sarah Emily stood up and slowly looked around, breathing deeply through her nose. She loved the way the Tower Room smelled: like gingerbread and cedar chips, with a crinkly hint of mothballs and iodine. It made her think of hidden treasures and mysterious trunks stuffed with old satin ball gowns, peacock-feather fans, frock coats with gold buttons, and beaded dancing shoes.

The room was filled with a peculiar jumble of things. There were shelves of old books, their cracked leather bindings stamped in gold, a collection of rainbow-colored shells and odd-shaped stones, children’s toys from long ago — some of them had once been Aunt Mehitabel’s — and, on a carved stand, a brass gong with a little red wooden hammer hanging by a silk cord from its side.

Zachary was bending over something on the sea captain’s desk, which was open, revealing all its rows of tiny drawers and pigeonholes. Zachary wanted to have a desk just like it when he grew up, with secret compartments and a glass inkwell, though Sarah Emily thought that, knowing Zachary, he’d need a place to put a computer too.

“What did you find?” Sarah Emily asked.

“It was in the bookcase,” Zachary said. “I pulled out a book and it just fell out.”

The book was still on the floor. Hannah picked it up.

“A Historie of Magical Beastes,”
Hannah read. “
With Tales of Griffyns, Basilisks, Mermaids, Dragons, and an Account of the Marvelous Vegetable Lamb.
Published by Marlowe & Perkins, Ltd., London, 1727.”