When Jon-Tom woke the following morning, his first sight was of the rear canvas panel.  It had been neatly pinned up, and sunlight was streaming brilliantly inside.  Flor knelt and stared outward, her black hair waterfalling down her back.  She seemed to sparkle.

He sat up, threw off his covers.  It was eerie after so many days of violence not to hear the wind.  Also absent was the persistent drumming of raindrops overhead.  He leaned forward and peered out.  Only a few scattered storm clouds hung stubbornly in an otherwise clear sky.

He crawled up alongside her.  A gentle breeze ruffled the Swordsward, the emerald endlessness appearing as soft and delicate as the down on a young girl's legs.  The distant yellow puffballs of dandelion trees looked lonely against the otherwise unbroken horizon.
"Good morning, Jon-Tom."

"Buenos dias. Que pasa, beautiful?"

"Not much.  Just enjoying the view.  And the sunshine.  A week in that damn wagon."  She fluffed her hair out.  "It was getting a little squirrelly."

"Also smelly."  He breathed deeply of the fresh air inhaled the rich sweet smell of the rain-swept grasses. Then he stepped out onto the rear wagon seat.

Slowly he turned a circle.  There was nothing but green sward and blue sky in all directions.  Against that background even a distant Falameezar would have stood out like a truckload of coal in a snowbank.  But there was no sign of the dragon or of his quarry.
"Nobody.  Neither of 'em," he said disappointedly, turning back to look down into the wagon.  Talea had just raised her head from beneath a pile of blankets and blinked at him sleepily, her red curls framing her face like the scribbles of a playful artist.

"I am most concerned, " said Clothahump.  He was seated at the front end of the wagon, stirring a pot of hot tea.  The little copper kettle squatted on the portable stove and steamed merrily.  "It is possible that -"  He broke off, pointed toward Jon-Tom, and opened his mouth.  Jon-Tom heard only the first of his comment.