Page 117 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Mr. Elton seemed concerned. He backed up the cellar steps, pulling Augusta. He reached the top, bending to keep us in view, and waved the pistol threateningly at Mr. Knightley.
“Come out, then. You first. Or I will shoot you from here, and we shall see what happens.”
I was suddenly, profoundly unwilling to cower while Mr. Elton threatened my husband, so I walked to the exit and climbed the stairs. Mr. Elton scrabbled back to the cooking table. He seized a handful of Augusta’s hair, and she yelped as he shoved her into a seat. He moved the lamp to one side, then pressed her wrist into an iron shackle. It locked with aclack.
All that time the pistol pointed at me, lowered to the floor, rose back, wobbled aside, came back…
I placed my lamp on a shelf beside the sugar. Better to have my hands free. Then I watched him with distaste. “Do you really need a pistol to control a woman?” Perhaps he would set it down.
“It does not hurt,” he said, after a moment.
The pistol swung to Mr. Knightley as he came up from the cellar. The aim became far steadier.
Mr. Knightley still carried the ax.
Mr. Elton said, “Throw it in the cellar.”
“You have one shot,” Mr. Knightley replied. He did not put down the ax.
“What of it? You think Miss Woodhouse will overpower me while you lie dying?”
“She is Mrs. Knightley.”
Mr. Elton’s lips twisted through shock, then disbelief, then fury. “Proud Emma Woodhouse is rutting with some bastard born on a slave?” He barked a laugh. “She once accused me of having fond thoughts of a Negress.Ihad the good sense to be offended.”
“Perhaps you could shootme?” I suggested. “That would be less painful than your nonsense.”
Mr. Knightley waved a do-not-be-brave signal at me, but I was not beingbrave. Mr. Elton would never shoot me. That would leave him facing Mr. Knightley with an ax.
“Where are the slavers?” I asked.
“The soldiers will be here soon enough,” Mr. Elton answered. “I am to open casks for the celebration. I fear it will put quite a dent in Hartfield’s cellar. Your brother-in-law was to meet me—it ishisstock, really—but it seems he has run away.” He sighted the pistol carefully at Mr. Knightley. “I will not ask again.”
This time, it was I who signaled desperately at Mr. Knightley. His face hardened, but he tossed the ax down the cellar stairs.
“Better,” Mr. Elton said. Augusta began moaning. One handed, he grabbed her neck and pressed down, shoving her cheek against the table. His gaze continued to flicker between Mr. Knightley and me, back and forth, then settled on me. “I begin to understand. What choice had you? A ruined woman…”
“I was never ruined,” I said. “I was never evenaffected. You are a petty, pathetic man who will rot in hell.”
Mr. Elton, though, switched to addressing Mr. Knightley. “Did you know? Could youtell? Or are you not sophisticated enough to judge?”
I realized, suddenly, what was being revealed to my husband.
Mr. Knightley crouched, his body tense, his arms ready at his sides. I had seen this pose before when he unleashed lethal violence against the slaver who held Harriet hostage. Even then, he had not looked as vicious as he did now. His face was granite, his eyes lit with fury. But he had a room to cross and a pistol aimed at his heart. He might reach Mr. Elton, but he would die doing it.
“Do not let him goad you,” I said desperately. “He is beneath you—”
There was an unexpected, metallicclack.
Mr. Elton looked down in surprise. Augusta, her face jammed against the table, had managed to fasten the remaining shackle around his wrist.
He hissed angrily. His free hand kept the pistol aimed at Mr. Knightley while he twisted, working his shackled fingers into his coat pocket and dragging out a brass key. Augusta grabbed for it, and they wrestled, a bruising battle as the shackle chains jerked and banged. The key flew free, bounced off the table, and clinked into a dark corner.
There was a moment of silence. Then Mr. Elton jabbed the pistol toward me and snarled, “Fetch it, will you?”
I did not move. Shooting me would trap him.
“Shall I convince you?” he whispered and aimed the pistol back at Mr. Knightley. “Or shall we wait for the Overseer?”
