By Patricia C. Wrede
Publish 12 months note: First released in September 18th 1990
Cimorene is every little thing a princess is not speculated to be: headstrong, tomboyish, shrewdpermanent - and bored. So bored that she runs away to stay with a dragon - and unearths the kin and pleasure she's been taking a look for.
Cover illustrator: Peter de Sève
Rebecca Caudill younger Reader's booklet Award Nominee (1993)
Minnesota e-book Award for delusion & technological know-how Fiction (1991)
Read or Download Dealing with Dragons (Enchanted Forest Chronicles, Book 1) PDF
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Extra resources for Dealing with Dragons (Enchanted Forest Chronicles, Book 1)
Whitley tried to call out in alarm, but a thin, reedy croak was all that came forth as the scout desperately scooted back, hands scrabbling in the mulch. Ahead, some kind of monster advanced. The creature seemed almost human, walking on its hind legs. Its hair was dark, wild, and shaggy, hanging over its face and shoulders. Its hands twitched, long ﬁngers revealing wick 41 PA RT T WO : SPR I NG, T H E DY R E WO OD edly curved dirty claws that clicked against one another in an ticipation. Its face was invisible in the shadows but for the glow of its amber eyes and the glistening of its sharp teeth, which seemed to ﬂood its face with a cruel smile.
As the lungs grew, so did the rib cage, straining at ﬁrst before cracking and popping. His chest expanded as his ribs took a new shape. The pain was unbearable. He wanted to yell out loud against it, but nothing came other than a silent scream. He gritted his teeth as he felt a pressure grip his skull like a vise. The strain increased; Drew thought his eyes might burst from his sockets. He felt his gums beginning to tear as his teeth seemed to work themselves free. His arms came up 25 PA RT ON E : AU T U M N , C OL D C OA S T before him, but he could only stare in horror as his hands dis torted, stretched, and elongated, with his nails tearing from his ﬁngers into great long claws.
A leather jerkin was buttoned up to below his chin, a woolen scarf keeping the cold from his throat. Drew put his hand to his own throat. Bare. He ran his hand over his chest. Also bare. He looked down at the rest of his body. Not a scrap of clothing remained, bar a thong of leather over his shoulder that held the Wolfshead blade. He must have looked monstrous. He would apologize to the boy when he woke up. It then occurred to him that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d spo ken a word. He’d resorted to growling as a form of communi cation when warning wild animals away from his cave or his kills.