Trouble had been growing into his wings for some months now, and it could only ever be a matter of time before he discovered his ability to fly. Abelard always believed he would, while Tomas and Morgan never wasted an opportunity to remind him, and warn. Most dragons grew into their wings, though not all; a few grew into dragonets, flightless and smokeless, and these could be spoiled like big cats, for their exotic beauty. For a long time, Abelard had hoped Trouble would grow into a dragonet, but there had always been something about him -- perhaps his eyes? -- that warned he'd grow big, find his wings, and a lot more.
He sighed. As Tomas said too often, once Trouble found his flying skills, his days of living in this house would be short. Soon after he was off and flying, they could expect to see the first puffs of smoke from his nostrils. Soon, Abelard thought, he must go home to a place he’d never been -- the inevitable journey into the distant, dangerous west, across the mountains, where the big dragons lived, and where magic still worked the way it should.
Abelard muttered several very ancient curses, watching Trouble fly laps of the laboratory and miss the chandelier by a hand's breadth. The journey couldn’t be far in the future, though Trouble didn’t know it; or they’d be standing by with a fire extinguisher, to save the curtains and sofa.
“Young man,” he called a second time, louder, “come down from there this minute!”
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