Page 144 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
His scales were almost fully scarlet now, the discolored ones gradually shed and replaced. The new ones emerged brighter red and slightly flexible, then hardened to a rich, deep color and diamond edge. His beautiful eyes, though, were beyond simple healing. They remained weeping pits of ragged scales. A more profound slumber was needed for that.
He moved his huge muzzle close, and I scratched hard under his chin, atrick I learned from Lizzy. One had to scratch the right direction though, or the scales cut. He rumbled affectionately, a purr that made my skirt hems tremble.
“There was a wyfe of healing before me,” I said to him. “Lady Anne.” To help with the name, I imagined her sculpture at Pemberley, young and strong, her wyvern at her side.
Yuánchi’s head tilted while he thought, a mannerism shared by humans and draca.I felt her while I slept.
“She made a sacrifice so the song could be healed. You remember your bound wyves. I wish she could be in your next song.”
Yuánchi snorted.We did not bind. I do not know her.
“The wyverns hold the lore,” I reminded him. With the amulet in hand, I reached out to those sparks of wisdom scattered across Britain. Collected memories returned, a portrait of a great wyfe, of a caring healer, of a woman who foresaw the blight. Of a Darcy, faithful and bold.
Yuánchi studied the memories, curious like all his kind. He would not be swayed by maudlin sympathy, so I was in suspense until he concluded,Moral right. Sacrifice. Loyalty. I shall weave her into my song.
He sighed, or it seemed like a sigh. It almost knocked off my bonnet.
I must go into the deep, he thought.
“Do you wish to say farewell to Lizzy?”
I have.
Awkwardly, for he was very large, I hugged him for a full minute. Then Mr. Knightley handed me the plaited red lanyard, and I tied it around one of Yuánchi’s claws. It would not hold for long—the claw was too sharp—but it completed a path, one healer’s wisdom aiding another. And it was a token of two weddings as well.
Mr. Knightley and I backed away, and dabbing tears, I watched the scarlet dragon fly high and descend into the water, frightening the ducks.
Mr. Knightley put his arm around my shoulders, and we watched the world. A hundred years might pass before the scarlet dragon rose, or a thousand, but when he did, he would be freshly named, and the great song would advance, an ever-changing chorus. For life is change.
“Where next?” Mr. Knightley said at last.
“Pemberley.”
42
FAREWELLS
LIZZY
I stoodin Darcy’s and my bedroom. Pemberley truly felt like home now, and I was leaving.
“I will finish packing,” Lucy assured me, “and do it better than you. You forget the little things.” As illustration, she held up the silver comb she preferred when doing up my hair.
I thanked her, not mentioning that I had tucked a simpler shell comb in a side pocket, then gave her an impetuous hug. Lucy was a young lady now, refined of speech and certain of opinion, and she was often off sharing a meal with the Digweeds or walking with young Thomas. I had a strong suspicion where that was headed, and I would not be surprised if my arms held a future headwoman of the Britons.
I walked the halls of Pemberley, moving slowly to cherish it, but past lives whispered when I was alone, so I picked up my feet. I spotted activity in the library and stuck my head in to see.
“Lizzy,” Mary noted, her spectacles catching the light as she looked up. Pemberley’s restored Venetian glass chandelier hung behind her, the fixtures reshaped to celebrate the myriad forms of new-hatched draca. Even unlit, it was beautiful in the morning light.
Mary had an array of hoary old books spread on one of the library tables, the bindings battered and frayed.
“Are you sorting?” I asked. Mary was an inveterate sorter. That thought, like so many, plucked absurd emotional strings, which made me laugh at myself. Sorting was not a profound thing.
Mary considered my laugh with mild frustration, unsure why I was amused, then she explained, “Returning books, not sorting.” She swept her hand above them, and I saw the titles were references on draca and histories of Pemberley and the Darcys. The most ancient, in French and Latin, were three ragged volumes onL’Enfant du Lac, the Child of the Lake.
“These are the books Lydia and Wickham stole,” I exclaimed. “How did you retrieve them?”
“I have a covert acquaintance in the Paris court.”
