On Monday morning, a notice appeared on the classroom door:
"Mrs. Flame is unwell. Your substitute dragon today will be Mr. Drizzle."
Mr. Drizzle arrived at 8:55, slightly damp, wearing a cardigan and a very apologetic expression.
"Right," he said. "Fire-breathing. Yes. I can... mostly do that."
He breathed in deeply. He breathed out. A small cloud of warm steam drifted across the classroom.
Someone's spelling homework went slightly soggy.
"I'm better at the other things," Mr. Drizzle admitted. "Riddles. Hoard management. Flying in low visibility."
He was, it turned out, extraordinarily good at riddles. And at explaining maths using gold coins as examples. And at reading aloud in a voice that made the room go perfectly quiet.
By the end of the day, everyone agreed he was the second-best dragon they'd ever had.
Mr. Drizzle looked genuinely delighted.
"Same time next week?" he asked hopefully.
"Only if Mrs. Flame is still sick," said the class monitor, quite rudely.
Mr. Drizzle's cloud of steam got a little larger.
He was working on his feelings.