Christopher Forrester woke up to find a dragon chewing on his face.
The dragon was the size of a sparrow, small enough to fit on the top joint of his thumb, and a thing of ravishing silver-green beauty. His expression was haughty enough to burn a hole through a steel door.
The dragon spoke. ‘Christopher!’ he said. ‘You have not been easy to find.’
Christopher sat up. ‘Jacques?’ he said. His whole body began to shake: with shock, and with joy.
He pushed back his covers, looking around his bedroom. His jeans were on the floor; the window looked out over a London street. Everything was as before, and nothing was as before, because a tiny dragon was perched on his bedside table.