“It’s hibernating,” whispered Mary, dangling from the cliff above the cavern mouth, Peter’s strong hands wrapped securely around her ankles (“This is a terrible plan,” he had told her with that forbidding Most Royal Frown his siblings were going on about; “I have strong ankles,” she had replied, because confusion was the quickest way to change the MRF into a mere puzzled furrowed brow).

“Something about the thermal conductivity of the gold must help them maintain normothermia,” Eustace theorized from his awkward perch beside her (he had preferred a complicated system of ropes and grappling hooks that took considerably more time to set up, claiming he only felt safe at heights with wings or rigging supporting him).

“Now is not the time to take samples,” hissed Peter from above, and while Mary normally did not respond well to his habitual tone of command, this time she had to agree — there wasn’t nearly enough data on how long it took a dragon to wake from REM state for her to be comfortable probing its hoard.