The chapter cover is not my art, it is stock I purchase to go with the story; I'm a writer, the story is the art. Thanks for dropping by. A Rowan Breakfast The boys tumbled into the sunlit breakfast room of Rowan House, their footsteps echoing off the polished pine floor. Ezio, the youngest at seven, lunged for his chair. He gripped the carved oak backrest, hoisted himself up by his elbows, and folded his legs beneath him in a squat. He flattened his hands on the smooth tabletop and leaned forward, his eyes darkening at the empty platter before him. “Where’s the milk?” he demanded, his voice pitched somewhere between a purr and a squeak. Lorenzo, fourteen, with shoulders already broad under his shirt, slid around the table like a practiced general assuming command. He tapped the glass in front of Ezio and nudged it toward him. “I saw the Post Office dancing in the street again; Mrs. Johnson will be late with the milk. Don’t worry, it’ll show up any second.” He flashed his brother a patient half-smile. “And, Ezio, you do know you can drink milk from a glass; you’re a cat mage, not a real cat.” Ezio’s ears—from his cat glamour—twitched beneath a fringe of pale hair. He grinned, revealing a gap where his front tooth had been. “Meow,” he replied, and then, bolder: “Meow.” “You’re impossible,” Lorenzo muttered, but his eyes were soft. At the far end of the table, twelve-year-old Luca pushed a swirl of syrup around on his plate with one finger. He glanced at Lorenzo. “Give him a break. Everyone tries a glamour when they’re seven.” Lorenzo squared his jaw. “I didn’t.” “I remember. You gave me your old glamour the day I turned seven.” His brother froze. Then: “Oh. Right, but that was different.” -Tap. Tap. Tap.- All three boys fell silent. The shutters quivered. Lorenzo flicked his wrist. A penny winked into existence between his thumb and forefinger. Without even turning, he flicked it over his shoulder. The copper coin arced across the room and pinged the shutter with a silent puff of gray smoke; with a soft creak, the window swung inward. A snout edged through the gap first—scales glinting emerald and bronze in the dawn—and two tiny horns poked around the top. Then a pair of luminous gold eyes swept the table. The Post Office had leaned across Cherrybrook Lane, allowing Express to crawl from his room at the top of the Post Office and into the breakfast room at Rowan House. Ezio beamed. “Morning, Express.” “Morning, Ezio,” replied the little dragon, then crawled forward on all fours, claws clicking on the sill. He shook his scaled head, sending a sparkle of dew across the windowsill. “Your glamour’s spot on today,” said Ezio. Express gave a proud nod. “Grandpa Dragon polished it all evening—see how it shines in the light?” He turned, so the rising sun gleamed off each scale. “Come on in,” Lorenzo urged. “Pancakes are dwindling.” Express braced one scaled hoof on the edge of the window and slid forward—then yowled as a horn snagged. He pulled free, only to lose his grip a moment later. For a single heartbeat, gravity seemed to hesitate, puzzled whether to stick with horizontal Post Office or vertical house. Finally, it chose wrong. Express tumbled in a slow arc, foot outstretched, until one slender shoe-tipped toe caught on the chandelier chain. He dangled upside-down over the table, tail swishing. “Hi, everyone,” he chirped, giggling. “Pass me a pancake?” Lorenzo opened his mouth. Before he could answer, Maze Rowan strolled in, three cool bottles of milk tucked under his arm. Condensation beaded on the glass. “Milk’s here,” he announced, setting them down. Then he looked up at the upside-down dragon-boy. “Stuck again?” “Yes, sir.” Maze crossed the table in two strides, gripped Express by the seat of his breeches, and eased him off the chandelier chain. With a gentle shake, he set the boy on his feet. Express pounced to his chair, scooped up two pancakes, and swiped the butter dish from Luca. Within seconds, he was spreading a golden smear across his breakfast with eager strokes. Maze sighed contentedly. “I’ve got to ride out to the burrows. Madam Madara at the Apothecary nearly fainted—claimed a hex mouse scurried through last night. I searched her shop and found the mouse.” He turned to Lorenzo. “Stop by the Bakery on your way to school. Sometimes hex mice travel in pairs.” “Yes, Father.” Lorenzo picked up his satchel, slipping straps over his shoulders. “Be good, boys. Enjoy school.” Outside, a chestnut gelding stamped beside the walkway, whisking its tail as though shooing away sleep. Maze slipped into the saddle so lightly the horse barely dipped its neck. He touched the reins once—just a suggestion—then Captain picked his way along the drive toward the West Gate and the edge of the Enchanted Forest. Back inside, Luca hopped to his feet, knocking his chair back against the wall. “Where’s my backpack?” he muttered. The floorboards creaked behind him, and the house spoke in its warm, echoing voice: “Beside the front door, where you flung it yesterday.” “Oh. Right.” Luca fetched his bag. Four silver quarters sat on the table near the door; left by Maze for the boys’ lunch milk money. “I’m holding on to Ezio’s and Express’s quarters,” he declared, dropping the coins into his palm. Express and Ezio looked up through their eyelashes. “Hey!” Luca shrugged. “You’ve been feeding them to the wishing duck at the fountain. You owe Mrs. Johnson two fifty.” Express’s mouth fell open around a half-chewed pancake. “She told you?” Luca tucked two coins into his pocket. “I’ll keep them safe till lunch.” Lorenzo glanced up at the ceiling. “House, I’ll need two fifty to settle up with Mrs. Johnson. I’ll talk with Father tonight about why I had to take money from the emergency fund.” Express lost interest in his breakfast and looked up, his expression pleading. “Don’t tell dad, please.” “Dad gives you those quarters for milk money, not for a brass duck quacking a scam,” replied Lorenzo. Ezio pursed his lips. “You’ll be sorry when I get my wish.” Lorenzo pushed himself away from the table. “That duck doesn’t grant wishes.” “The Snake Maid says it does.” “You mean the Snake Mage’s granddaughter? You can’t trust her.” “That’s mean, she’s nice.” Luca rolled his eyes. “Let’s go, we’re going to be late.” The boys collected their schoolbags and lined up by the door. “Express?” the house called. Express paused. “Yeah?” “Did your grandmother pack your lunch?” He shook his head. “She forgot—she had early mail.” From somewhere above the doorframe came a soft thump, and a brown-paper sack landed at Express’s feet. EXPRESS was scrawled across the front in bold, careful letters. “I packed peanut butter and blackberry jam,” the house announced. “And two cookies.” Express scooped up the bag. “Thanks!” The door swung open, boots clattered, and the four boys tumbled out onto Cherrybrook Lane, bound for another day of school.