It was supposed to be a routine day. No doubt it would have had some significant developments to deal with, but they would have been normal developments.

Having the expected “courier” from Northridge Fields turn out to be none other than Damion Northridge himself upset that routine in a hurry.

Servants bustled around, dusting, washing, mopping, in general tidying in a great hurry. The kitchen staff were called in early and immediately launched into frenzied activity. The butler took stock of available options and assembled a platter of refreshments and wine, which he personally bore at the Mistress’s side as the Northridge carriage came to a halt at the front portico.

Northridge had inherited young, and still cultivated the appearance of youth. He was a short, slender, dark-skinned man, mahogany hair running loose down his back; some suspected he used cosmetics to look younger, but if he did they were subtly applied. Hanging on the arm of his hulking bodyguard, he looked like a frightened child, not the savvy businessman who’d turned his farm from a small local supplier to the source of some of the most-coveted bloodstock in the land.

Mistress Arietta Downing bowed, stepping forward to offer her hand. “Master Northridge, this is an unexpected pleasure! What brings you to see us today?”

“All business, I’m afraid, Milady Downing.” Northridge released his bodyguard and took her hand instead, lifting it to brush a kiss over its back, then turning to walk beside her. His other hand patted his breast pocket. “I’ve my farm’s side of our bargain here; I thought I might get a look at your studs before I make the final decision on which I want from yours.”

“But of course, we’ll go right there.” Refreshments in tow, the grey-haired woman led her guest away from the house and toward the barn.

Neither of them believed in just sitting back and letting the staff make the important decisions; as they passed specimens in their enclosures, they exchanged remark about how the scale pattern of one might look with horns like one of Northridge’s, or how this fire-breather could benefit from that nimble frame.

At one stall, Northridge paused, tapping his lips. “What about this one?” he asked. “Is he healthy?”

“Why, yes,” Downing replied, tilting her head. “But he didn’t seem to be what you were after from your letters.”

“Inspiration, Milady. Have him brought here; I want a closer look.”

Handlers moved into the paddock, coaxing the beast closer with a few hard-boiled eggs and leashing him. For Northridge’s inspection, they had the drake stretch out in profile, and sit on his haunches, and bring his head down for a closer look at his horns, teeth, and eyes. They tugged one of the iridescent wings to its impressive, if still not useful, extension.

Northridge sipped his wine, then set the glass on its tray and nodded. “He’ll do,” he declared, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a glass vial of thick, white fluid. “If you can have a sample collected, I’ll be on my way.”

“Oh, but won’t you stay for a meal, Master Northridge?”

The man laughed. “I’m sure I couldn’t refuse such earnest hospitality.” He gestured toward the drake in his enclosure. “But do carry on; I’d like to see their procedure.”

Somewhat nonplussed, Downing lifted her eyebrows fractionally. But all she said was, “Of course, Master Northridge. A pleasure to do business with you as always.”