Named of the Dragon by Susanna Kearsley

others across the front lawn to the East House. It blended nicely with the older buildings, though I could tell it had been added in this century. And when Christopher gave a brief knock at the door and then opened it, calling "hello" with the casual air of a man who was sure of his welcome, we entered a porch full of bright coloured tile and floral stained glass, pure Art Deco. The large and gracious entry hall beyond it made our hostess, when she finally appeared, look somewhat small and lost.
    But then, she was small to begin with.
    I doubted Elen Vaughan would reach my chin. She had that lovely, fragile look some women keep past girlhood, and I felt half-afraid that I would break her hand by grasping it too hard. Owen had been right about her "flower child" look, only I would have called it "New Ager"— the silver-ringed fingers and long crystal pendant and masses of fair curls tied back with a lavender scarf. Her peasant-style blouse was not unlike the ones I'd worn in my own childhood—fashion came right round again, my mother always said—and the crinkled cotton skirt that brushed her ankles had a row of tiny bells that dangled from the waistband, making music when she moved. She couldn't, I thought, have been much more than twenty. Over our handshake her blue eyes studied me as frankly as a child's, and when she smiled I thought I knew what made Gareth Gwyn Morgan and Owen and Christopher feel so compelled to take care of her.
    James alone seemed immune. "And of course," he said, continuing the introductions, "you remember Bridget."
    "Yes." The doll-like blue gaze drifted past me, and the smile wavered. "How are you?"
    It was not, I thought, the most enthusiastic greeting, but Bridget didn't seem to take offence. "Fine," she said, and looked round. "The baby's not up, then, I take it?" She seemed rather pleased by the fact.
    Elen lost what remained of her smile, growing wary. "He's sleeping."
    A deep voice spoke out of the dimness behind her. "And the person that wakes him will have me to deal with. It took me an hour to settle him down." Gareth Gwyn Morgan strolled forward to join us, relaxed in dark trousers and' polo-neck, holding a drink in one hand. He looked slightly less threatening, here, than he had on the coast path that morning, but I still couldn't class him as friendly. One of the cats had come with him and he gave it a nudge with his foot that sent it scurrying back down the corridor. He nodded at James, and at Christopher; let his gaze linger on Bridget...
    "Why, Gareth," she said, "what a pleasure to see you again. I believe you've already met Lyn."
    He looked at me, expressionless. "We haven't had a proper introduction."
    "Lyn Ravenshaw." Accepting the challenge, I met his eyes squarely and held out my hand. "I work for Simon Holland."
    I fancied his gaze altered over our handshake, but the change was imperceptible. "I should have known."
    "I'm sorry?"
    "Your executive director's a persistent bugger, I will give him that. I've told him time and time again that I don't want to sign, but he won't give up."
    The ego of the man, I thought. First he'd thought me a reporter, chasing for an interview, and now he apparently thought I'd been sent to seduce him to join Simon Holland. I smiled my sweetest smile, and set him straight. "I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Morgan, but I didn't come down here because of you."
    James draped an arm round my shoulders, defending my honour. "She came because of me. Although she's Bridget's agent, actually. Is that a drink?"
    "Your agent? Is she really?" Gareth slanted a laconic look at Bridget, seeking confirmation. "You want to take much better care of her then, and not let her go walking the coast path alone."
    "Oh, Lyn can take care of herself," Bridget told him. "I could tell you some stories ..."
    I cut her off smartly. "You do and I'll raise your commission."
    "You see?" Bridget laughed. "Tough as nails."
    James, still with his arm round me, eyed Gareth's glass. "What