the gatehouse.
“Erica,” said Brother Dave, “art thou still reading All About Sir Lancelot ?”
“For the sixteenth time,” said Erica. “May I renew it?”
“Certainly.” The little monk smiled.
“Brother Dave?” said Angus. “Breakfast this morning was awful. Do you happen to have any brittle in your basket?”
“I bringeth it as a treat for the new lasses,” said the monk. His order, Little Brothers of the Peanut Brittle, was famous for making sweet peanut candy. “But there is plenty for thee, too.” He reached into his basket and broke off bits of brittle. Wiglaf and Angus took theirs eagerly.
“No, thanks,” said Erica. “I never eat between meals.”
Angus bit in and said, “Mmmmm!”
Wiglaf did the same. “You are the best brittle baker, Brother Dave,” he said.
“No, no,” said Brother Dave. “My Little Brothers back at the monastery sendeth me this brittle. For I cannot baketh a fine sticky brittle. Mine turneth out hard as a rock.”
Brother Dave looked so sad that Wiglaf thought it best to change the subject.
“Has Worm come back yet, Brother Dave?” he asked.
Worm was a young dragon. Wiglaf and Angus had snuck his dragon egg into the Class I dorm, where he had hatched. Now he lived part-time up in the DSA library, flying in and out through its wide windows at will. Brother Dave was the only teacher who knew about Worm.
The monk shook his head. “Worm stayeth still in the Dark Forest with his dragon family,” he said.
“He has been gone a fortnight,” Wiglaf said. “I fear he has forgotten us.”
“No, no, my fine lads,” Brother Dave said. “He couldst never forget thee!”
A sudden blast of trumpets sounded outside the castle wall. Wiglaf heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on the drawbridge. He, Angus, and Erica ran to the gatehouse.
The gates swung open. Pairs of white horses pulled two golden carriages into the castle yard. Several lasses stepped down from each carriage. Last through the gate came a small lass riding a fine red pony. She wore a red gown and red slippers. A fancy red-and-white bag hung over her shoulder. Her hair was the color of ripe red apples.
Never in all Wiglaf’s days had he seen anyone with such bright red hair. It made his own carrot-colored hair seem almost pale.
The red-haired lass jumped down from her pony and sent it trotting off to the stables. The other lasses gathered around her.
“I once knew a lass with red hair like hers,” Erica whispered as the empty carriages turned around and left DSA. “But this cannot be she. That lass loved playing dress-up and having tea parties. She would never come to a dragon-slaying school.”
Erica turned to Class I. “All right!” she shouted. “Let’s welcome the new lasses!”
Together they cheered:
“Rooty-toot-ho! Rooty-toot-hey!
We’re Class I from DSA!
We stalk dragons, yes we do!
Big ones! Bony ones! Fat ones, too!
We stalk dragons, young and old!
We slay dragons, grab their gold!
Yay! Yay! For good old DSA—hey!”
“That is so cute!” said the redheaded lass. “Oh, I just know I’m going to love it here!”
Erica’s eyes grew wide. “St. Dominic’s dog!” she exclaimed. “Is that Gwendolyn?”
Chapter 3
“ W elcome, lasses!” Mordred called. “I am Mordred de Marvelous, Headmaster of Dragon Slayers’ Academy.” He galloped toward the gate, his purple cape billowing out behind. “And you are—”
“Princesses!” announced the redheaded lass.
“Never interrupt me !” Mordred snapped. Then one of his bushy eyebrows arched way up. “Did you say…princesses?”
“One and all,” said Gwendolyn. “I am Princess Gwendolyn of Gargglethorp.”
“Oh, woe is us!” Erica shook her head, but it made her bells jingle, so she stopped.
“Gargglethorp?” Mordred squeaked. “That is a big kingdom. Very big. And very rich.”
“Very,” said Gwendolyn. “We all went to Princess Prep. Now we want to go to DSA.”
The other princesses
“Erica,” said Brother Dave, “art thou still reading All About Sir Lancelot ?”
“For the sixteenth time,” said Erica. “May I renew it?”
“Certainly.” The little monk smiled.
“Brother Dave?” said Angus. “Breakfast this morning was awful. Do you happen to have any brittle in your basket?”
“I bringeth it as a treat for the new lasses,” said the monk. His order, Little Brothers of the Peanut Brittle, was famous for making sweet peanut candy. “But there is plenty for thee, too.” He reached into his basket and broke off bits of brittle. Wiglaf and Angus took theirs eagerly.
“No, thanks,” said Erica. “I never eat between meals.”
Angus bit in and said, “Mmmmm!”
Wiglaf did the same. “You are the best brittle baker, Brother Dave,” he said.
“No, no,” said Brother Dave. “My Little Brothers back at the monastery sendeth me this brittle. For I cannot baketh a fine sticky brittle. Mine turneth out hard as a rock.”
Brother Dave looked so sad that Wiglaf thought it best to change the subject.
“Has Worm come back yet, Brother Dave?” he asked.
Worm was a young dragon. Wiglaf and Angus had snuck his dragon egg into the Class I dorm, where he had hatched. Now he lived part-time up in the DSA library, flying in and out through its wide windows at will. Brother Dave was the only teacher who knew about Worm.
The monk shook his head. “Worm stayeth still in the Dark Forest with his dragon family,” he said.
“He has been gone a fortnight,” Wiglaf said. “I fear he has forgotten us.”
“No, no, my fine lads,” Brother Dave said. “He couldst never forget thee!”
A sudden blast of trumpets sounded outside the castle wall. Wiglaf heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on the drawbridge. He, Angus, and Erica ran to the gatehouse.
The gates swung open. Pairs of white horses pulled two golden carriages into the castle yard. Several lasses stepped down from each carriage. Last through the gate came a small lass riding a fine red pony. She wore a red gown and red slippers. A fancy red-and-white bag hung over her shoulder. Her hair was the color of ripe red apples.
Never in all Wiglaf’s days had he seen anyone with such bright red hair. It made his own carrot-colored hair seem almost pale.
The red-haired lass jumped down from her pony and sent it trotting off to the stables. The other lasses gathered around her.
“I once knew a lass with red hair like hers,” Erica whispered as the empty carriages turned around and left DSA. “But this cannot be she. That lass loved playing dress-up and having tea parties. She would never come to a dragon-slaying school.”
Erica turned to Class I. “All right!” she shouted. “Let’s welcome the new lasses!”
Together they cheered:
“Rooty-toot-ho! Rooty-toot-hey!
We’re Class I from DSA!
We stalk dragons, yes we do!
Big ones! Bony ones! Fat ones, too!
We stalk dragons, young and old!
We slay dragons, grab their gold!
Yay! Yay! For good old DSA—hey!”
“That is so cute!” said the redheaded lass. “Oh, I just know I’m going to love it here!”
Erica’s eyes grew wide. “St. Dominic’s dog!” she exclaimed. “Is that Gwendolyn?”
Chapter 3
“ W elcome, lasses!” Mordred called. “I am Mordred de Marvelous, Headmaster of Dragon Slayers’ Academy.” He galloped toward the gate, his purple cape billowing out behind. “And you are—”
“Princesses!” announced the redheaded lass.
“Never interrupt me !” Mordred snapped. Then one of his bushy eyebrows arched way up. “Did you say…princesses?”
“One and all,” said Gwendolyn. “I am Princess Gwendolyn of Gargglethorp.”
“Oh, woe is us!” Erica shook her head, but it made her bells jingle, so she stopped.
“Gargglethorp?” Mordred squeaked. “That is a big kingdom. Very big. And very rich.”
“Very,” said Gwendolyn. “We all went to Princess Prep. Now we want to go to DSA.”
The other princesses
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