I announced at the dinner table. “Mongolia?” Gwyn echoed. “Back?” Donovan muttered. I nodded to him. “We went through Mongolia when I got Petunia after her herd had been—“ I glanced toward Thomas, not sure how I should end that sentence. “Exterminated?” he suggested. “You know, I’m eight years old, Goldie—not three. I know what poachers do. It’s despicable.” Gwyn stifled a chuckle in her napkin. I wasn’t sure if it was aimed toward my flummoxed expression or toward her precocious offspring. That boy was definitely too grown up for his age. I was going to have to get him involved in soccer or jousting—something more appropriate for a boy his age. I wondered what my dad had done with my old armor when I was that age. I shook my head to clear it. “We’re going to Mongolia,” I clarified, “because there are two artifacts that are reported to be there that might help us on our noble quest.” I struck a dramatic pose. When that didn’t garner any applause, I sighed and went on.
