XXIX
Miri entered Dean Rosehill’s office, where the Crafter dragon was waiting for her, coiled up in the center of the room, the floor to ceiling bookshelves sitting sagely behind him. The dragon had been burning incense—he did it to help him concentrate—and the room was thick with it.
She sighed. This was going to be the hardest moment of her life.
“Miss Charmwell,” Dean Rosehill said. “The governor just chewed me out because your report said nothing again. Why do I suspect you have absolutely no news for me?”
“I have news, Dean Rosehill.”
The dragon looked at her stuffily, his spectacles glinting.
“Do not delay.”
She handed him her binder of research from the bog. “In here you will find copies of all the reports I gave to the governor. I am sorry I did not get these to you sooner.
