B00CGOH3US EBOK

• CHAPTER 1
  
• CHAPTER 2
  
• CHAPTER 3
  
• CHAPTER 4
  
• CHAPTER 5
  
• CHAPTER 6
  
• CHAPTER 7
  
• CHAPTER 8
  
• CHAPTER 9
  
• CHAPTER 10
  
• CHAPTER 11
  
• CHAPTER 12
  
• CHAPTER 13
  
• CHAPTER 14
  
• CHAPTER 15
  
• CHAPTER 16
  
• CHAPTER 17
  
• CHAPTER 18
  
• CHAPTER 19
  
• CHAPTER 20
  
• CHAPTER 21
  
• CHAPTER 22
  
• CHAPTER 23
  
• CHAPTER 24
  
• CHAPTER 25
  
• CHAPTER 26
  
• CHAPTER 27
  
• CHAPTER 28
  
• CHAPTER 29
  
• CHAPTER 30
  
• CHAPTER 31
  
• CHAPTER 32
  
• CHAPTER 33
  
• CHAPTER 34
  
• CHAPTER 35
  
• CHAPTER 36
  
• CHAPTER 37
  
• CHAPTER 38
  
• About the Author
  

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organization, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Amari Press

Copyright © 2013 Lori Dillon

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Dedication

For my daughter, Rachel, who once loved dragons more than dolls. Thanks for giving me the inspiration for DRAGON.

And for my dad, Bob "not the singer" Dillon. You were the first hero in my life. I love you and miss you so much.

Acknowledgments

I'd like to thank my critique partners, Donna, Liz, and Mary Ann, who told me to stop sitting on DRAGON and publish the thing already.

I'd also like to thank Aemelia and Alyssa at The Authors Red Room for their editorial expertise in catching all my grammar goofs.

In addition, I'd like to acknowledge the encouraging and innovative authors at IndieRomanceInk who have held my hand as I waded into the deep end of the indie publishing pool. The wise and knowledgeable authors at Hearts Through History, who helped me research all those pesky medieval details—any historical screw-ups are all mine. And to Virginia Romance Writers, my home RWA chapter and an amazingly supportive group of writers. Thank you all.

Carytown
Richmond, Virginia

Desperation has a way of gripping most people in an ice-cold fist.

In Jill Donahue's case, it threatened to wrap around her ankles, tie itself into a hangman's knot, and trip her on her face as she half-jogged down the uneven sidewalk of Carytown.

Overhead, red, white, and blue banners waved on the street posts, remnants left over from the Fourth of July celebration. With a national holiday five days before her niece's birthday, she should've been able to recall the special occasion was coming up. But as she dodged around a wrought iron table parked outside a cozy sidewalk café, she conceded America's birthday hadn't helped her remember Zoe's impending sixth birthday one bit.

In the grand scheme of things, speed shopping was not one of Jill's greatest life skills. Yet here she was, peering in every shop window she passed, hoping for inspiration. But all she encountered were chic clothing boutiques catering to the country club elite, and antique shops full of heirloom furnishings from area estate sales. She even glanced in a jeweler's display window offering custom designed settings, but they were more wearable art than everyday adornments. Plenty of diverse stores selling everything imaginable, but nothing appropriate for a soon-to-be six-year-old girl.

Where the hell is that damn toy store?
She could've sworn there was one stuck in among all the eclectic shops. Jill tried to squash the niggling sense of panic creeping its way into her brain. Why hadn't she gone to Toys R Us like any sane person would've done? Why had she waited until the last minute to look for a gift?

Because 'procrastination' is your middle name, that's why.

Glancing at her watch, she groaned. She was so screwed. There was no time to drive to the mall across the river. If she didn't find something soon, she was going to have to write Zoe an IOU or give her cash in an envelope. But if she did that, her whole family would hold the gift faux pas over her head for years to come.

She could hear her mother now.
For heaven's sake, Jill. You're twenty-nine years old. Why can't you be more responsible? How can you expect to accomplish anything important in your life if you can't even manage to get a simple birthday present for a little girl?

And her sister Ann certainly wouldn't be far behind in the not-so-subtle reprimand department.
Messed up again, eh sis? It figures. You only have one niece and her birthday comes the same day every year. How could you screw that up?

Apparently, she could. Royally.

Distracted by the imaginary Jill-bashing party going on in her head, she was caught off guard when she was suddenly shoved from behind. Stumbling forward, she slammed into the plate glass window of a storefront, hitting the pane so hard she was surprised it didn't shatter into a thousand tiny pieces and rain down on her in jagged, pain-inflicting shards.

Stunned, she massaged her throbbing forehead as she scowled at the moving horde. Not even an apology or murmured 'excuse me' from the human ramrod who continued blindly on his or her way.

Strong hands grabbed her from behind and yanked her off the busy sidewalk and into a small covered alcove.

"Oh, my dear. Are you all right?"

She turned to find a tiny woman who could've been an extra in the "Wizard of Oz" staring at her through thick-lensed glasses. Still dazed from the impact, she couldn't quite grasp the munchkin lady's presence as the woman took Jill by the arm and ushered her into the shop.

"Come in here and let's get you out of harm's way."

The cheerful tinkling of a bell over the door announced their entrance and she motioned for Jill to sit in an old Victorian-style chair near the front window, the red velvet cushion crushed to a glossy sheen from years of use.

"Thank you," she said to the lady before turning to acknowledge the other person seated across the tiny, lace-covered table. "Hel—whoa!"

The woman had no nose.

Jill wondered briefly if she'd hit her head harder than she thought. Then she realized it was an old mannequin, garbed in a fringed flapper's dress and feathered hat, serving non-existent tea in dainty china cups, their yellowed glaze crackled with age.

"Oh, don't mind Fannie. She has that effect on people all the time. But she's pleasant enough company. A real good listener, but not much of a talker." The shopkeeper giggled at her own joke, her kind face creased with a web of wrinkles. "I'm Clo, by the way. Owner, operator and sole employee of Clotho's Bygone Treasures."

"Nice to meet you," Jill replied as she glanced around, trying to get her bearings. The cramped shop was filled with vintage clothing, some modeled by equally vintage mannequins like her current tea party companion. Scented candles did little to mask the pungent smell of mothballs, decades-old dust, and musty wool emanating from the aging garments.

Odd, but she passed this way every day on her way to work and had never noticed this tiny shop wedged between The Yarn Lounge and Le Visage Makeup Boutique. How had she not seen it? By the look of the worn floorboards and sagging shelves, it had been here for quite a while, probably as long as the 1920s Byrd Theatre down the street.

She moved to stand, but Clo kept her in place with a firm hand to her shoulder. "You should probably sit here for a bit to make certain you're okay."

"I'm fine. Really."

"No, you're not." Clo
tsked
. "From the sound of that crash, I'd say you're going to have a rather large knot on your forehead in a few minutes."

Jill cupped her palm over the throbbing spot, feeling a tender lump already forming. "Great. That's all I need. A concussion on top of everything else."

Clo patted her shoulder, concern evident on her weathered face. "Oh, you poor dear. You look so upset. Is there anything I can do?"

Jill snorted. "Unless you have a birthday present for a six-year-old girl hidden among all these old clothes, I doubt it."

She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. The lady's small stature perked up and her eyes gleamed with dollar signs.

"Oh, I'm certain I have something."

Caught, Jill groped for an excuse, any flimsy reason to beat a hasty retreat. But the woman's wistful eyes—enlarged twice their normal size behind the thick lenses—froze Jill in her tracks. She glanced back at the face of her battered drinking partner, thinking they could both use something stronger than make-believe tea.

"Thanks anyway, but somehow I doubt it."

"Does she like to play dress up? We have children's clothing in the back—pinafores, crinolines, tiny gowns perfect for little girls to play princess in."

Jill snorted. "Oh, I don't think so. Her idea of dress up is to put on a fake fur pelt and pretend to be a Siberian snow leopard. I doubt Zoe's ever played at being a princess in her life."