[Arry]

‘Uncle Gil! Look what we’ve got!’

Woody and Hanson came running toward Gil as he and his companions were talking about the next tune to play. Gil was leaning toward just a jig or reel. His throat was dry and a bit raspy, and he wanted to rest it for a bit.

The band’s eyes all turned to Gil’s two nephews as they came tinkling up merrily to the little stage. Words came tumbling from the boy’s lips helter-skelter. An Elf nearly taken off and eaten; a dragon in the dark beneath the table; magic bells; the open window; the escape and the rescue. A few moments of gentle redirection and questioning and the whole story came through in a more sensible way. That is, as sensible as a dragon in the Inn could get.

Behind Hanson and Woody stood Emlin, his face drawn into a serious pose, eyes twinkling. He was nodding his head at the story the two lads told. ‘Saved me, they did,’ he declared, putting hand to heart in a dramatic gesture.

And behind him stood Rowan, a tin whistle held lightly in her hand, her brown eyes gleaming merrily.