The book was heavy and seemed fragile. Somehow, it had survived time and being carried in the claws of a dragon.

“How old is it?” she said.

“Centuries.”

That didn’t sound ridiculous spoken in the growling voice of a dragon.

“It should be in a museum,” she murmured, running skittering fingers over the cover. Tiny dimples from the animal’s hair were still visible in the leather. She’d seen pictures of books like this in history class.

“Has been safe, dry, and cool, in dragon caves,” he said. “I brought it when I was sure you would understand. Look inside.”

His trust in her made her pause a moment, overcome. This was an honor, and she was flattered. After the lump in her throat faded, she opened the book to the middle.

Dense, black writing covered thick parchment pages. Vivid drawings looped around the borders of each page. Vines, multicolored flowers, large letters touched with gold. Figures stood here and there among the foliage: dragons—silver, red, mottled green and brown, black—their tails looping and tangling around themselves and other tails in knots, long necks stretching over letters, around corners, fire twining from pointed mouths. And with them, people. Women in tight-fitting gowns, men in brightly colored tunics. Sheltered by the bodies of those huge beasts, resting their hands on lowered snouts, touching the tip of a raised wing. Perched on their backs, even. People, riding dragons.

She couldn’t read the text. The writing was strange; so was the language. But she could make out the first word on the first page, an obvious title written large: Dracopolis.

She looked at Artegal and would have sworn he was smiling.

“People and dragons used to be friends,” she said. “Is that what this is saying?”

“Seems so,” he said smugly.

“Is this real?” she said. “This isn’t just made up?”

Artegal nodded. “My mentor told me stories, told to him by his mentor. He kept the book. Not many have seen it, he said. Not many want to believe it. Most have forgotten.”

“But I’ve never heard of any stories—the human side doesn’t tell stories.” Except for stories of Chinese luck…

“The tales faded in the time of hiding. Except for this.”

This showed a secret history that no one knew anything about. How could people have forgotten this? Why did only the stories of war get passed down?

“I can’t read it.”

“Latin,” he said. “I can read, a little. Dracopolis: City of dragons.”

“We can show this to people,” she said. “Then maybe we won’t have to sneak around. People won’t be afraid of dragons anymore.” She thought about the dragon-raid drills, and how wonderful it would be never to have another one.

He snorted. “Not so simple. The conflict is older than we are. Not as easily forgotten.”

“But we can try,” she said.

“Will they listen?”

Silent, she turned the pages, studying the haunting images. The drawings were stylized, flat, the poses awkward. But she could almost see emotion, the expressions on their faces, faint smiles, as the people and dragons looked at each other. It would be easy for someone to say it was all made up, to call it fiction. She had only Artegal’s word for it, that this was history. And the example of the two of them, talking together week after week. That made the book feel true. But it also felt a little like fighting a war of their own, against all the more familiar stories of people and dragons as enemies. Artegal was right—would anyone listen to a couple of kids?

She frowned. “Is this worth it?”

“This what?”

Hugging the book to her, she paced, wondering if he would even understand her explanation. “I’m keeping these meetings secret from everyone I know. My parents, my best friends—though there are actually a lot of reasons I can’t talk to Tam and Jon right now.” She sat on the rock and sighed.

“Tam and Jon—friends?”

“Yeah. It’s complicated. Ever since Tam started going out with Carson she’s been obsessed with him, and now Jon and I are sort of going out, and it doesn’t matter how much we say that it won’t change anything, it does change things. Half the time I don’t even know what to say to him. Never mind keeping this secret from him.”

“Confusing,” Artegal said, tilting his head. “Don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” She smiled weakly.

“Can I help?”

“I don’t know. I guess just talking about it helps.”

“Then you should talk. That’s why I came—talking is always good.”

“Even if I am breaking who knows how many laws—”

“Me as well,” he said, huffing through his nostrils. “Breaking dragon law.”

“What’ll they do to you if they find out?”

“Grounded.”

She almost said, Hey, me too, then realized he was talking about something different. “They’ll keep you from flying?”

“Yes,” he said.

Pursing her lips, she turned back to the illuminated page. Across the top of a page, a dragon soared, its wings spread over the upper third of the parchment. Straps looped across its chest, around its wings, over its back. They formed a kind of harness, and clinging to the dragon’s back, hands gripping the harness, was another of the tiny medieval people, a man with wide eyes and curling hair.

“Did you see this?” She held the book up over her head, tilting it so he could peer at it with his shining eye. He snorted an assent. In the cold air, the breath from his nostrils billowed.

“Did this really happen?” she asked. “Did people really fly with dragons? Or is this just a story? Imaginary.” She tried to remember the terms from English class. “Like some kind of symbolism?”

“My mentor had a harness,” he said, nodding at the book. “Broken, though. Very old. Like the straps there, see?” His predator eyes hadn’t missed a detail. Of course they’d have harnesses, so the riders wouldn’t fall. If this had been fiction or symbolism, would the artists have bothered showing that detail?

“So people really did this. Dragons carried them. They flew.” She was starting to get a really bad idea.

Artegal must have had the same really bad idea. He had that lilt to his brow, the same one he’d had the first time they met, when he’d said, “Because—not supposed to.”

She shook her head, even though she could feel the smile creeping on her own lips. “Maybe we could make one like it, if you wanted to.”

She climbed smooth rock faces with ropes and harness and didn’t fall. Already she was thinking of how to loop the ropes, how to knot them together to secure them and hook herself to his back.

“Am curious,” he said, his lips curving in a wry dragon smile.

This was like free-climbing a forbidden slope of granite. She wanted to see if she could. She just wanted to see.

“I think I have an idea,” she said.

Artegal gave her the book to take home and study. Opening it on her bed, she crouched over it and turned the pages, from beginning to end. Each page seemed fragile, like if she turned it too quickly it would disintegrate. Yet the parchment was soft. Pettable, almost, like a very fine leather. She resisted an urge to stroke the edges, because that kind of treatment couldn’t be good for it. Toward the end of the book, the images changed. They no longer showed the two species smiling at each other, working to move boulders from a field or build city walls. Instead, there was fire. Dragons sailed across the sky, raining down fire, and lines of human warriors carrying spears and swords approached dragons whose necks twisted back in anger. Something had happened, and a war had started.

Tucked between the last couple of pages of the book was a piece of paper—actual paper, not the thin parchment that made up the rest of the book. It was old, yellow, brittle—but not as old as the rest of the book. She was afraid to unfold it; it felt like it would crumble in her hands. She partially unfolded it, just enough to see. It was a map. It looked like an ocean, with large islands around the edges. A black dot on one of the spots of land was labeled Dracopolis, with numbers after it—latitude and longitude, maybe? The handwriting was different from the writing in the book, flowing and precise. The ink had turned to a pale brown. After copying the numbers—she was sure they were coordinates—she folded the page and returned it to the book.