Page 13 of Scales and Sensibility
Elinor, however, barely noticed the mountain of food or even the teapot that steamed enticingly at the center of the table. She was too busy staring in horror at the empty chair beside Benedict Hawkins.
“Mr. Aubrey hasn’t left already, has he?”
The other two men had already pushed their own chairs back from the table to rise and bow to her; Mr. Hawkins paused halfway from his seat, frowning. “You know Aubrey?”
“Who’s Aubrey?” Sir John’s voice was muffled by his own waistcoat as he bowed with a subservient flourish she’d never seen from him before.
Elinor swallowed hard as she searched for the right answers to give them both. Of course, there would be no reason for Mrs. De Lacey, of all people, to know of a young dragon scholar at Cambridge, no matter how brilliant. And as Sir Jessamyn seemed to have somehow turned her into an impossible vision of Mrs. De Lacey…
Panic fluttered against her chest. She fought the urge to turn and flee.
Sir Jessamyn craned his neck towards the table. His mouth hung open. His glittering golden eyes fixed on the chicken.
If she tried to leave now, he might well commit mutiny.
“Are you feeling quite well, Mrs. De Lacey?” Sir John started forward, holding out his arm. “Allow me to—”
“No!” She jerked away—then tried to mask her reaction by reaching up to adjust Sir Jessamyn on her shoulder. “Thank you for the offer, but....” She smiled weakly. “I don’t require any assistance, Sir John.”
The very last thing that she required, in fact, was for her uncle to touch her arm—which was far thinner than it currently appeared as the deliciously curved arm of Mrs. De Lacey—and feel the difference between illusion and reality.
Benedict Hawkins was watching her with a thoughtful frown. When she met his gaze, though, he only walked around the table to pull out a chair—the same one that she had sat in last night. “Mrs. De Lacey.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hawkins.” She sat, holding her chin high and making sure not to brush against him by so much as a hair.
She’d only dared this breakfast meeting in the first place for the sake of seeking Mr. Aubrey’s advice...but now that she was here, it made sense to take advantage of the (terrifyingly impossible,magical) illusion and eat one final hearty meal. If she did somehow manage to escape afterwards, she would very likely go hungry for quite some time; and if, instead, Sir John realized who she was, he would certainly order her hauled off to prison on charges of dragon theft immediately afterwards.
Elinor didn’t think she could face either prospect without a bracing cup of tea.
Both men were frowning now at Sir Jessamyn as he leaned precariously over her shoulder, gazing at her still-empty plate with glittering golden eyes. Elinor shook her head at the sight, relieved to finally be back within a realm she understood.
“Yes, I know. You haven’t eaten for hours, and you’re going to starve to death if you wait any longer. Just give me a moment, will you?” She reached for a pair of serving tongs.
Sir John reached them first. “Allow me, Mrs. De Lacey.” He was still frowning at Sir Jessamyn, though, even as he piled heaps of meat and eggs onto her plate without waiting for her reaction. “Apologies for not arranging the proper service, ma’am, but I didn’t want any of those witless inn maids overhearing our conversation. They will talk, y’know, no matter how well you pay ’em, and as you may have gathered, there’s been a bit of an uproar within the family.”
Elinor raised her eyebrows and set one hand on Sir Jessamyn’s warm scales, as if to hold him in place. It was a good excuse to keep her hand well out of her uncle’s reach. “Uproar, Sir John?”
He sighed heavily. “I wouldn’t bother you with it if you weren’t such an old friend of my wife, but…”
Benedict Hawkins interrupted. “May I ask how you long you’ve had your dragon, Mrs. De Lacey?”
“Mydragon?” Elinor widened her eyes, feeling her breathing shorten. “Do you take a particular interest in dragons, Mr. Hawkins?”
“Not...generally,” he said. “But that one looks remarkably similar to one I saw just last night. The resemblance is striking.”
“Exactly what I’ve been thinking!” Sir John waved his arm so vigorously in agreement, he sent a pile of eggs flying from the serving tongs onto the bare wooden table.
Sir Jessamyn cheeped in protest at the lost food. His head snaked out to anxiously mirror the path of the waving serving tongs as Sir John continued, “That blue and green face, and those wings—”
“The golden markings onmydragon’s face,” Elinor said sharply, “are said to be entirely unique. Surelytheycannot be found on any other, less superior dragons you may have seen!”
Sir Jessamyn wriggled in protest as her fingers tightened around him. As Elinor dropped her hand, she found Benedict Hawkins watching her steadily.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re quite right. That is the one point of difference I can see.” He paused, then added, “Theonlyone.”
“Hmm. The only difference, you say?” Sir John leaned closer to peer suspiciously at Sir Jessamyn.
With a squeak of dismay, the little dragon scuttled back, burying his bright face behind Elinor’s hair. He had always been terribly nervous around Sir John, from the very first day he’d come home from the breeder.
