Did she mean the dagger? That was lost with Lizzy. I tried to list other possibilities, but my mind felt fuzzy. Sticky, as if honey-laden. “There is no purpose to riddles. Of what do you speak?”
“The great flute made from dragon claw. The flute is of music, and you”—her finger stabbed at me—“you compose music.”
Fang, scale, and claw. Then death, they saw. Those were the three fabled items of the great wyves. The fang was the dagger Gramr, sunk in Pemberley lake. The scale was mounted in an amulet; the last historical reference to that was centuries ago.
About the claw I knew nothing. I had not even known it was a flute. “You are mad if you think I will discuss this with you.”
“Non. Not mad. You search London for books. Were books taken from you?”
My heart leaped into my throat. I swallowed to force my voice flat. “Lydia stole books from the Pemberley library.”
“Oui. Have you a need for these? You seek the great song.”
The Darcy library of draca lore had been unequalled in all Britain. Regaining that knowledge might save my sister. But…
“What is the great song?” I asked.
She pursed her lips. “If you ask that, you know nothing.”
I forced a shake of my head. “I do not have the flute.”
From the alley, the constable’s voice rose. “Is that you, Miss Bennet?”
The Frenchwoman heard. She cocked an eyebrow. “A Bennet can find the flute. It is a relic of the third dragon. Of music. So, I come to greet you and make this offer. Find the flute—or learn where it is—and I shall return your books.” As if in punctuation, her finger brushed her lips again.
Some part of my brain had been fiddling with a puzzle, and now a piece slid into place. “You poisoned those women to draw me here.”
“Oh! You are clever.” Her eyes widened in a mockery ofconcern. “Will this one live?”
Until now, distrust had made me wary. Anger severed that restraint. I strode forward, uncomfortably close. I was taller, so she lifted her chin to meet my gaze, her smile deepening.
It was her eyes that I studied. Lydia, my dead, traitorous, and little-mourned sister could command foul crawlers by consuming their venom. But this woman’s pupils were normal—tiny dots in the morning light. She was not dosed with crawler venom.
The ridges of her cheekbones glittered as if dusted with sugar crystals. Her lips glistened with an oily sheen.
“Will she live?” the woman repeated.
“The first did not,” I said. “This one will.”
“Bien joué.” She tapped a finger to her bonnet in playful respect. “You earn your name, Great Wyfe. My name is also earned. I amla Demoiselle des Parfums.”
Lady of Perfumes. She spoke it as a title. I became aware of the bloom of scent around her, musk heavy and citrus-sweet. Insidious and potent.
“A constable is here,” I said. “You will be arrested for murder.”
Her laugh was scornful and very French. “You think amanfrightens the Emperor’s lover?”
A soft scrabble like tapping pins passed my feet. I looked down and saw an armored, segmented worm the length of my hand vanish toward the alley, dozens of legs flicking.
I lurched back and shouted, “Stay away! She has crawlers!”
The scent of crawler venom, bitter almond and sour orange, flooded the air, burning my nostrils. The tiny draca on my shoulder screeched and tumbled. I reached for him, a fumbled reflex that half-broke his fall before he struck the stones, wings taut and convulsing. The other song draca landed a few feet away with a pathetic thud, twitching.
Distantly, I heard, “Au revoir.” Our aisle of flapping cloth was deserted. I yanked a sheet off the line. The next aisle was empty as well.
I knelt and gathered the song draca. They twitched in my hands, small handfuls but dense, not fragile like holding a bird. I could feel the bumps of scales on their throats and the racing hearts in their chests.
I shouldered through sodden rows of cloth. A two-inch, segmented shape skittered by. The gleaming olive-brown head of another crawler squirmed up between the stones. I ducked under more cloth and reached the alley.
