Page 50 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
—M”
Five minutes later,Elizabeth announced, “She is coming.”
I was tired of endlessly asking “How do you know?” so I simply nodded, as if one sister summoning another without lifting a finger were perfectly normal. That drew an assessing glance from Elizabeth, relieved or annoyed that her parlor tricks no longer merited surprise.
Mary exited the conservatory door carrying a lantern, her black satin almost lost in the onset of night. One of the small, feathered draca that followed her flew celebratory figure eights in the air—a messenger, presumably.
Mary entered the stable, noted her sister, nodded to me, and hung the lantern from a hook. The small draca fluttered to her shoulder, and she said, “He began pecking at the window. I thought it must be you. You are not here to stay, clearly.”
“I cannot,” Elizabeth said. Mary waited, and Elizabeth added, “The changes to me are harming Yuánchi. We must escape Fènnù, and the war, and the… temptation of violence.”
“So you will just leave,” Mary said tightly.
“I have no choice—”
“You have a choice!” Mary shouted, then seemed shocked that she had. She closed her eyes for a breath. “Lizzy, it is a miracle you are alive. You were passing through death’s door. With you returned, we can heal the song. Wemust. That is the cause of all these disasters. The foul crawlers. Fènnù’s madness. The madness that impinges on you and Yuánchi.”
“That madness is consuming me. Do you know what will happen if Fènnù claims me as her wyfe of war? She will lay waste to England, searching my own memories for targets, burying us in a yearslong winter. All while the black blight spreads.”
Mary shrank under her sister’s assault, arms clutching herself. But when shespoke, she straightened, and her tone was proud. “Idoknow. I have read accounts. When there are allusions to Fènnù rising, famine and war follow. Realms are erased. Even the historical record falls to fragments. But Lizzy, you must understand: Georgiana and I have achieved something miraculous! We sang Fènnù’s song. It is one voice of three that make up the great song. If we find the others, we can heal it.”
“You sang Fènnù’s song?” Elizabeth said in disbelief.
“Georgiana sang. I played. But Isawthe song.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “The great song is beyond us. You must not try.”
“I did not try. Ididit!” Mary retorted angrily, then she waved her hands in frantic apology. “I am saying this all wrong. Lizzy, I do not want you to go. You were gone for so long. It is hard without you.”
Elizabeth was silenced by that, and I used the pause to offer a calming hand. “There is no disagreement between you. No conflict. Elizabeth and I are leaving so we canfindthe flute and heal the song. Our goals are aligned.”
“Why did you not say so?” Mary said finally. “You know where to find the flute?”
Elizabeth seemed stymied by the question. Her gaze flicked between me and Mary before she answered, “Only a clue. It was in the north. Far in the north.”
Mary sagged. “The arctic?”
“What?” Elizabeth burst out laughing. “No! Scotland. I am sure I can write you a letter.”
Mary drew a relieved breath and smiled back. She turned to me, her spectacles circular gleams in the lamplight. “And you are going with her. I am glad for that. But what about Pemberley? You cannot imagine what was required to convince the other landholders to hunt for crawlers.”
“That sounds like you succeeded,” I noted. “Georgiana and you are worthy of Pemberley. Trust yourselves. Do what is right.”
I added no qualifier, no “until we return.” When a person accepts responsibility, it is churlish to trot out conditions and limits. But hearing my words, the phrasing felt right.
I understood the cause of the sisters’ argument. Fear. Fear that I shared.
England was being ripped asunder by war. In the face of that disaster, the English ideal was to pretend normalcy—to trust in calm and competence, to persevere, and to return to an unchanged life. But that ideal had been exposed as a myth. The American War of Independence shook the British Empire, and the weight of this war pressed deeper, not only because battle was being wagedwithin our own shores but because it was aided by rifts in our politics and society. The soldiers dead or maimed, the families fleeing or broken by hate—they had no unspoiled life to resume. To pretend that English constancy waited for Elizabeth and me was self-deception. To pretend our lives were safe was a lie. And I abhorred dishonesty.
Even now, while war raged, I was being dishonest, trying to ingratiate myself to this incredible, altered woman as if our old life were a play that she could be tricked into performing by parading the halls of Pemberley. In truth, I had no idea what life awaited us, only that it would be changed.
“It would be unwise to leave without supplies,” I said to Elizabeth. “I will fetch them. You need not come, but I must speak with Georgiana before we go.”
She watched me, her thoughts hidden, then nodded.
I left her with Mary and strode to the house, every seam of the stone path known to my boots even at night. The windows of the grand music room were dark, so I entered through the conservatory door that Mary had used and set out for Georgiana’s room.
Shimmering candlelight and clavichord notes came from her adjacent music salon. I knocked on the half-open door.
