The Search for the Red Dragon Read Free Page B

at the waist and across the shoulders, was tattered and torn. Her wings were spread out behind her in a manner that was more awkward than graceful, and they were bare in patches where the feathers had detached themselves in an apparently difficult landing.
    “More of a cherub, really, don’t you think, John?” said Charles.
    “And you would know this how?” asked John. “When have you ever seen a cherub?”
    “Look,” said Charles, “when he said ‘angel,’ I was expecting something a little more grown-up. This cherub can’t be more than five years old.”
    “I’m eight, I’ll have you know,” the girl piped up. “Next Thursday, anyway. And I’m not a cherub or an angel, whatever those are. I’m Laura Glue, and Laura Glue is me.”
    “Your name is Glue?” asked Charles.
    “Laura Glue,” the girl protested. “There is a difference, you know.”
    She stood up and dusted off her clothes, all the while keeping a wary eye on her accidental hosts.
    “How did you get here?” Warnie asked, looking around. “Areyou with your parents, or on a school outing, perhaps? This is a private garden, not a picnic spot.”
    Laura Glue looked at him like he was speaking Swahili. “I flew here, I’ll have you know. What d’you think the wings are for, anyways?”
    Jack began examining Laura Glue’s wings, and quickly discovered they were not naturally hers, but were in fact artificial. Delicately made, of extraordinarily inventive design, but constructs nevertheless.
    “Hey!” Laura Glue cried, stepping back defensively. “You should ask permission b’fore poking someone’s wings, y’know.”
    “My apologies,” said Jack with a deferential bow.
    “’S okay,” Laura Glue said. “Longbeards never ask.”
    “I would not have been able to tell,” said Charles. “From a distance they looked like they were quite real.”
    “Uncle Daedalus makes ’em for all the Lost Boys,” the girl said proudly, “but ol’ Laura Glue’s the only one what can fly with ’em. This far, anyways.”
    “Uncle Daedalus?” John exclaimed. “You don’t mean to tell me these wings were made by the Greek Daedalus of myth? The one who lost his son Icarus when the boy flew too close to the sun?”
    “What, are you daft?” said Laura Glue. “He’d have to be a thousand years old.”
    “Exactly,” Charles agreed.
    “You’re thinkin’ of Daedalus the Elder,” explained Laura Glue. “The one what built my wings is Daedalus the Younger.”
    “A descendant?” John asked, teasing. “Or Icarus’s brother, perhaps?”
    “Pr’cisely,” said Laura Glue. “An’ the reason he don’t use wax anymore when he makes the wings.”
    “All right,” stated John. “So where were you flying to? Or do you mean to tell us that you planned to crash in Jack’s garden?”
    “Planned to crash, no,” said the girl, “but this is where I’m supposed to be. I’m looking for the Caretaker. I got an important message from th’ Archipelago.”
    John, Jack, and Charles exchanged terse looks with one another at the mention of the title. It could apply to any or all of them, but it most likely meant John. Warnie, of course, had no idea what she meant.
    “I told you,” he repeated, “this is a private garden. There is no caretaker.”
    “I’m not looking for a gardener ,” the girl retorted. “I’m looking for the Caretaker of the Imaginarium Geographica .”
    She rummaged around in her tunic and drew out a delicate flower that seemed to be made of parchment, on which three symbols had been carefully rendered. The flower also seemed to be glowing faintly.
    John recognized the first symbol as the seal of the Cartographer of Lost Places—the man who had created the Imaginarium Geographica . The second was the seal of the High King of the Archipelago. “What’s this third mark?” he asked.
    “That’s what makes it work,” replied Laura Glue. “This is a Compass Rose. The seal of the king gets it through the frontier, the