The Dragon of Lonely Island

For Josh and for Ethan,
but most especially for Caleb,
who loves dragons

Many thanks to all who have helped in the making of this book, among them Amanda, Briana, and Jared Bliss, preliminary readers; Caleb Rupp, who suggested the puzzle box; Ethan Rupp, who repeatedly fixed the computer; Joshua Rupp, who made endless pots of coffee; Joe Spieler and John Thornton, agents and supporters; and very special thanks always to Randy, who makes everything possible, and to Amy Ehrlich, editor, without whose patience, wisdom, and imagination there would be no Fafnyr.

The summer Hannah was twelve, Zachary ten, and Sarah Emily eight and a half, the Davis children went to stay at their aunt Mehitabel’s house, which stood nearly all by itself on Lonely Island, off the coast of Maine. Aunt Mehitabel did not live in the house. She had an apartment in Philadelphia, which she shared with a miniature bulldog named Henry and an elderly second cousin named Penelope.

Aunt Mehitabel had blue hair, a pince-nez, and a walking stick from Egypt, with an ivory handle carved in the shape of a jackal’s head. She was really Father’s great-aunt, which made her the children’s great-great-aunt.

“To be a great-
great
-aunt, she must be
very
old,” said Sarah Emily.

“She must be in her eighties,” said Mother, “but it’s hard to think of Aunt Mehitabel as old.”

Mother had asked Aunt Mehitabel about borrowing the house, because she needed a place where there was peace and quiet to write.

“No telephones,” said Mother, “and no neighbors.”

Mother wrote mystery novels, and the latest one —
The Secret of Silver House
— had to be finished by September. Mother’s novels were published once a year. They all had pictures of girls in long white nightgowns on the covers, running away from castles or through forests or along the edges of rocky cliffs. Hannah, who liked romance, read them at night under her blankets, by flashlight. Zachary, who liked computer games, rockets, and complicated machinery, read
Scientific American
and
Popular Mechanics,
and Sarah Emily, who was shy and overimaginative, read fairy tales.

Sarah Emily was small and pale and wore thick round spectacles with gold rims. Hannah was tall and dark and had naturally curly hair. Zachary was freckled and indeterminate, but Mother said he would look just like Father when he grew up. Father was a marine biologist. He was spending the summer on a ship in the North Atlantic, studying the migratory patterns of
Hyperoodon ampullatus,
the northern bottlenose whale.

Aunt Mehitabel wrote from Philadelphia and sent Mother a set of spare keys to the house. The letter was written in a spidery, old-fashioned script in raspberry pink ink.

“There are caretakers at the house,” said Mother, reading from the letter, “named Tobias and Martha Jones. Mr. Jones will take us out to the house in the boat and will fetch our groceries and the mail every day from the mainland. Mrs. Jones will help with the cooking and cleaning.” She peered at the children over the top of the page. “Aunt Mehitabel says that Mrs. Jones is not accustomed to children,” she said, “so you will have to be on your best behavior.”

Hannah made a face.

“Does she say anything else about us?” asked Sarah Emily.

“She sends her love,” said Mother, “and says that she’s enclosing a special message just for you. It must be in this envelope with your names on it. There’s something heavy in it.”

The envelope was sealed with green sealing wax.

“What’s that?” asked Sarah Emily, pointing.

“Sealing wax. People used to stick letters shut with it a long time ago,” said Hannah. “Before they had envelopes with glue on the flap. Sometimes they’d make a print in the sealing wax with a special seal ring to show who the letter was from. Don’t you learn anything from all those books you read?”

“Does Aunt Mehitabel have a seal ring?” asked Sarah Emily. “There’s a print in this sealing wax. It’s something with a long tail.”

“It looks like a lizard,” said Zachary. “Pass it over and I’ll open it.”

Zachary carefully slit the envelope open with his pocketknife, turned it upside down, and shook it gently. A folded slip of paper slid out, and a small iron key with an elaborately curlicued handle. A label was tied to the key. Hannah reached out and turned it over.

“To the Tower Room,” she read.

“The tower?” repeated Sarah Emily. “Is Aunt Mehitabel’s house a
castle
?”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Hannah, but Mother put her arm around Sarah Emily and explained that the house was Victorian, built in the 1800s by a sea captain. She showed them a photograph of the house and pointed out the tower. There was a weathervane on top of it in the shape of a clipper ship under full sail. An iron railing ran around the edge of the roof.

“That’s called a widow’s walk,” said Mother. “The women used to stand up there, watching for their husbands to come home from the sea.”

“What does the note say?” asked Zachary.

Hannah unfolded the narrow strip of paper. “‘If you should find time hanging on your hands,’” she read slowly, “‘try exploring Drake’s Hill.’”

“What’s Drake’s Hill?” asked Sarah Emily.

“I have no idea,” said Mother, folding the letter back into its envelope. “You’ll just have to wait and see. But if Aunt Mehitabel suggests it, it’s bound to be something interesting.”

Sarah Emily picked up the note and ran a finger over the raspberry pink ink. “Aunt Mehitabel isn’t just like everybody else, is she?” she said, but Hannah sighed and made another face.

“I think it all sounds boring,” she said. “I don’t want to be stuck all summer on some island looking after you two. I’d rather stay here and go rollerblading with Rosalie.”

Rosalie was Hannah’s best friend. She wore black turtleneck sweaters, took violin and modern-dance lessons, and spent every other weekend in New York City visiting her father and her stepmother. She hardly ever spoke to Zachary or Sarah Emily.

“It will be nice for you to spend some time with your brother and sister,” said Mother firmly, “and the island is a beautiful place. You’ll see.”

Zachary had retreated to the corner of the couch and had buried his head in
Astronomy
magazine. “I think it sounds fun,” he said. “There might even be a telescope.”

“It’s a very old house,” said Mother. “There may be all kinds of interesting things.”

Sarah Emily repeated dreamily, “Drake’s Hill . . .”

They arrived at Lonely Island on a glorious day in early July. Mr. Jones met them at the harbor in Chadwick, where they stood on the wharf surrounded by luggage. They had suitcases, knapsacks, and a green canvas duffle bag. There were two sacks of groceries. Sarah Emily wore a backpack. From the unzipped top pocket protruded the fuzzy head of Oberon, the stuffed yellow elephant with one ear who had slept with Sarah Emily since she was two years old. Oberon’s single ear flapped in the stiff sea breeze.

Mr. Jones was large, cheerful, and bald. He had a thick gray beard and was wearing a bright orange jacket with a hood. He grinned at Mother and the children and doubtfully eyed the mountain of luggage.

“Miz Davis?”

“And you must be Mr. Jones,” Mother said, putting out her hand. Mr. Jones shook it. “And these are my children, Hannah, Zachary, and Sarah Emily.”

Mr. Jones shook hands all around. “Very pleased to meet you,” he said, “very pleased indeed. It’s not often Mrs. Jones and I can look forward to company for the summer.”

He gave another glance at the pile of luggage. “This all yours?”

“It certainly is,” said Mother.

“The boat’s over yonder,” said Mr. Jones, pointing with his chin as he bent down to hoist the two nearest suitcases. “You make yourselves comfortable. I’ll load your gear.”

They all helped load their belongings onto the boat, which was named the
Martha
—“After Mrs. Jones,” Zachary whispered to Sarah Emily — and was painted green. Then they piled into it, Mother and Hannah on the seat in the middle, Zachary and Sarah Emily in the bow.

“Do you know anything about boats?” Mr. Jones asked the children.

“Not much,” answered Zachary cautiously. Hannah and Sarah Emily shook their heads.

“Not to worry,” said Mr. Jones comfortably, “you will before the summer’s over. When you cast off, you unwind the line from this cleat”— he unwound —“and give her a shove.” The
Martha,
shoved, bobbled up and down in the water and headed out to sea.

“I could do that,” said Zachary.

Mr. Jones chuckled. “Sure you could,” he said, “and next time you will.”

The boat chugged slowly out of the harbor. The ocean was deep blue, spotted with whitecaps, and a cold salty wind blew the children’s hair. Gulls circled and cried overhead. The children huddled in their windbreakers. Hannah, leaning her head against Mother’s shoulder, had turned pale. “I wish you’d let me stay home,” she said. “This boat is making me sick.”

Zachary and Sarah Emily leaned forward, eagerly peering over the waves for the first sight of the island. Suddenly, Sarah Emily gave an excited shout.

“Look!” she cried, pointing. “Is that it?”

Mr. Jones looked pleased. “That’s her,” he said. “Lonely Island. And that’s your house there, dead ahead.”

Aunt Mehitabel’s house was painted gray, the same color as the rocks on the shore. It was the house of Mother’s photograph: There was the tower, topped by the whirling weathervane. Beyond it stood a small cottage, also painted gray, with rows of window boxes planted with bright red geraniums.

“Who lives there?” asked Hannah.

Mr. Jones beamed at her. “I do,” he said. “Me and Mrs. Jones and our cat, Buster. We just look after the big place for your auntie.”

“Your house is very pretty,” said Sarah Emily politely.

The boat pulled up beside a wooden dock, built out from a small rocky beach in a cove below the big house. From the beach, a flight of wooden steps climbed steeply to an iron gate, which opened, squeakily, onto a flagstone path bordered with red-and-black poppies. The path led straight to the house, to the veranda and the front door. The front door was old heavy wood, inset with little panes of stained glass in blue and gold. It was ajar. Mother and the children pushed it open and, followed by Mr. Jones, stepped over the threshold. The house was warm and shining with wax and polish. It smelled deliciously of lemon oil and of cookies baking. Zachary put down his satchel and a bag of groceries and peered into the parlor.

“Look at that!” he said. “There’s a stool made out of an elephant’s foot!”

“That’s horrible,” said Hannah, without looking.

Sarah Emily tugged at Zachary’s sleeve. “Zachary,” she exclaimed, “there’s a
telescope!
”

The telescope stood on a tripod next to a towering glass-fronted bookcase filled with old leather-bound books. Zachary gazed at it longingly. “I could track satellites with that,” he said. “Or find comets. Or see the Ring Nebula even.”

One by one, they tiptoed, fascinated, into Aunt Mehitabel’s parlor. The room was vast and dim. The windows were hung with green velvet drapes tied back with tasseled gold cords. Against one wall stood a great Chinese lacquer cabinet with gold trees painted on the doors. There was a brass birdcage, a ship in a bottle, an abacus, and a chess set carved from colored stone.