Dragonhaven by Robin McKinley Page B

weird alternative radio station), so we were going ahead with it. Of course in the short term this meant money we badly needed elsewhere was getting spent on making the caves touristproof…and tourists coming to the caves was going to mean more staff to keep an eye on them and more upkeep because tourists are incredibly destructive even when they’re behaving themselves, but the grown-ups (including a lot of bozo outside consultants—for cheez sake, what does some pointy head from Baltimore or Manhattan know about a place like Smokehill?) all seemed to think it was going to be worth it in the end, if we lived that long. Dad had told me that the caves were going to fund him hiring another graduate student, maybe even full-time, because he didn’t think he was ever going to get one otherwise. I was sure hiring anybody was a bad idea because it would mean we could , and everybody would cut our grants accordingly.
    Billy was sitting by one of the little pools near the entrance. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the dark—the construction crews had gone home for the day, and turned off all the lights—I could see both his lantern and its reflection in the water. I went up to him as quietly as I could, but the caves are totally quiet except for the drip of water (and the bats) and on the pebbly path with the inevitable echo I sounded like someone falling through a series of windows CRASH CRUNCH CRASH only without the screaming.
    If you’ll pardon the expression from someone who wants to grow up to be a scientist, there’s something almost magical about our caves, even the little boring ones near the park entrance. Maybe all caves are like this and I just don’t know the analytical squashed-flat-and-labeled word for it. But there’s a real feeling of another world, another world that needs some other sense or senses to get at it very well, in our caves. I suppose you could say it’s something about underground, lack of sunlight, nothing grows here but a few creepy blind things and sometimes even creepier rock formations, but that doesn’t explain it. Cellars aren’t magical. The old underground bomb shelter that’s now a really boring museum in Wilsonville isn’t magical. Our caves are magical.
    It could have been the weird shadows that lantern light throws but the moment Billy looked up I knew he was worried about something besides more tourists. I was used to Dad worrying. He’d been worried about something since Mom disappeared, and once she died it’s like his worry metastasized and now he worried about everything—and I worried about the holes it made in him , all the gnawing worry. If I lost any more family there wouldn’t be any left. As I looked at Billy I wondered what I was missing. Like that the world’s total Draco australiensis numbers were still falling and there had been only a few hundred left when they died out in the wild. Like that even with the zoo Smokehill was barely surviving. I knew both of these things. But dragons are so hard to count maybe they were wrong about there being fewer of them. Maybe they were just getting even harder to count. And Smokehill had always barely survived, from Old Pete on. But Dad’s a worrier. Billy isn’t.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I said.
    Billy shook his head. He was a good grown-up, but he was still a grown-up, and grown-ups rarely talk about grown-up trouble to kids. Eric took the question “What’s wrong?” from a kid as a personal attack, even when it was something like a zoo-food shipment not arriving when it should and it was perfectly reasonable to be worried. I’d often wished Dad would talk about missing Mom to me more. Not only because then I could talk to him back. We could barely mention her at all.
    At least Billy didn’t lie to me. “Nothing you can do anything about. Nothing I can do anything about either. That’s what’s wrong.” He shook