Page 143 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
The boulder’s little pool was fresh and sparkling, the spring that fed it a happy trickle, but one side of the hillock was blighted, the plants black andstunted. We had traveled through the worst afflicted regions, and compared to those wastelands, this was a little stain, not a threat to a desperately needed crop or a revered stand of stately trees.
Mr. Knightley studied it with a professional air informed by much practice. “It no longer spreads. It has begun to heal itself.” He ran his gloved hand along the fresh green sprouting from a patch of blighted stems.
“The blight has passed its worst,” I agreed.
I removed a glove and rested my fingertips on the stained earth. The vigor of nature filled me, earthworms and grubs and the even smaller living things that pervaded healthy soil, so tiny I could not make them out with my eyes. Still, it was unpleasant that a pretty hillock looked so sad. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure we were alone, then the black ran down the stems and vanished into the earth. The healing spread, outward and upward along the slope, until the foliage was green, if a little the worse for wear.
“Where shall we visit next?” Mr. Knightley asked. When I hesitated, he offered quietly, “Hartfield?” and I nodded.
We strolled up Broadway, passing Mrs. Goddard’s school. After the invaders surrendered, Mrs. Goddard was discovered locked in her pantry and very furious. She immediately gathered her frightened students and resumed daily instruction in posture, polite conversation, and such accomplishments of literature and music as were suited for country ladies, assuming quite correctly that this was a path to healing.
Two older students, about sixteen years old, emerged as we passed, and they recognized me. “Miss Woodhouse!” one cried, and the other corrected her, “Mrs.Knightley.”
“It is me, yes,” I said cheerfully. I pretended to struggle to recognize such stylish ladies—they were very grownup since we last met—then we shared news of the village. They nudged each other while we conversed, and there was a great deal of concealed, feminine examination of my husband.
One finally blurted, “You are both in a book.”
“I know,” I said. “Have you read it?”
They nodded. One said superiorly, “It is inaccurate.”
“It is not supposed to be accurate,” the other protested. “It is social satire.”
We bade our farewells and left them debating the matter.
My steps slowed as we approached Hartfield, and Mr. Knightley tightened his hold on my arm. The grounds came into view. The gardens far from the house were overgrown, in some spots wild, in others blighted to bare earth. OfHartfield itself there were only low ruins: a perimeter of loose Caen stone from the cladding and collapsed chimneys shorter than my shoulders, each surrounded by sprays of bricks. Not a stem had sprouted within the boundaries of the house proper; even fallen leaves that drifted there had been consumed by blight and the residue of the slavers’ poisons.
My brother-in-law’s scheme to steal Hartfield ended when he fled. He had made enemies of Britain, France, and the Southern Confederacy. The latest rumor was that he was shivering in a log cabin in Missouri Territory.
“We could rebuild it,” Mr. Knightley said.
“And miss enjoying your little loft?” I said.
This had become our game. I had watched Mary and Georgiana exchange knowing glances whenever Chelsea was mentioned, and I had seen the ease with which Mr. Knightley hired coaches, tailors, and accommodations during our long tour of England. There was more to my husband’s fortune than the uncertain income of a performing musician. The details, however, he kept to himself other than a few teasing smiles.
“In fact, I have decided to gift Hartfield to Harriet,” I said. “That and the amulet. Papa did intend it for her.” This seemed like the right time to end our game; it would not be fair to let it impact my sister, so I asked, “Could we rebuild it for her? It does not have to be as grand as it was before, but empty dirt and overgrown gardens are not much of a gift.”
Mr. Knightley nodded, accepting the adjustment to our rules. “I think that very suitable. Although Harriet seems happy in London.” As headmistress, she had reopened the Martin school, and she was extraordinarily busy the last time we met.
“She is happy, but I think she will miss the countryside eventually, and Mrs. Goddard cannot run the local school forever. Or Harriet could offer Hartfield to let. A lady benefits from diverse income. Either way, I will need a project after this.” I touched the breast of my gown; the amulet was tucked within. “Harriet can tell me what she wishes for her house, and I will hire craftsmen and pester them until they send me on pretend errands to have some peace.”
Mr. Knightley smiled at me and ran a gloved fingertip along the amulet’s chain, exposed above my collar; a pleasant shiver climbed my spine.
“You think it is time to part with it?” he asked.
I drew the amulet out, cradling the jade and the familiar roughness of Yuánchi’s scale. The vital energy of the dragon of healing filled me, and in the woods, a few lingering, hidden cocoons stirred and opened. Shining creaturesmet in dancing flight above Hartfield’s grounds. In the last months, the cocooned crawlers had erupted in a dizzying variety of forms. These had humming, dragonfly-like wings with patterns as colorful as butterflies. They lit on the ruins here and there, and the black blight receded. Hartfield was transformed, no longer stained but filled with potential.
They finished and flew into the woods, and I tucked the amulet away. “I will need it once more.”
Donwell Abbey was fully submerged now.The valley’s flood began slowly but inexorably, fed by subterranean springs released when Hé Sheng rose. After that, the pace quickened as the ancient drainage works failed. Some had been damaged by the earthquake. Others, mysteriously, became plugged with rocks and wood debris, often on moonless nights when the deepening lake shivered with swift ripples and strange splashes.
I missed the scattered fruit trees, seeded wild from the orchards, but the lake brought its own beauty. The young shoreline was a mess of submerged brush and the odd rotting tree, but ducks nested and dove with industry, fish jumped, and a few swans drifted elegantly.
Yuánchi’s spread wings became visible in the west. He had been far in that direction for weeks, somewhere he called “the sunset rock.” I thought that was likely Ireland, although I could not be sure. Draca did not share humans’ obsession with names and borders.
He circled the lake, the pair of ivory firedrakes scouting ahead, then landed in a flat, grassy patch. We walked to him, enjoying the warming morning while he half-spread his wings in the sun.
Emma Knightley Woodhouse, he greeted me, then added,Musician, to Mr. Knightley. That was high recognition from a being who was old when the Vikings rowed their ships to our shores, old when Christ was born, old even when the first druid chanted a song to nature’s wonder.
