Page 59 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
I doubted it.
John squeezed past the Overseer to face the French officer. “How many times must I repeat that sheisa Woodhouse. I expect your government to honor our agreement. I have invested substantial effort—”
The officer silenced him with a lift of his hand, then he crossed the room to us and bowed. “I am Capitaine Louis Fournier. You are prisoners of the French army.” Mr. Knightley bristled. The captain waited with professional detachment until he quieted, then he addressed me. “Answer truthfully. Are you who that man says?”
“Of course,” I said. “I am Emma Woodhouse. You are standing inmyhome.”
“You see!” John cried out behind him. “Summon the perfumer. She will—”
The French officer turned on him. “You metla Demoiselle des Parfumsonce. Are you such a fool that you wish to meet her again?”
That punctured John’s confidence. He tugged at his collar, his ruddy cheeks draining of color. Sullenly, he said, “I wish to be paid and to have this matter resolved. It is unpleasant enough already. That is my wife’s sister, after all.”
The French officer looked appalled. One of the French soldiers muttered darkly, “L’anglais.”
On this subject, Mr. Knightley apparently agreed. He was watching John and clenching his hands rhythmically. I could hear his knuckles creaking.
“This is your house?” the officer asked me. “This… infernal place?”
That was insulting, but at the edges of my vision, fouled tendrils were slipping through the walls. What obscenity had they hidden at Hartfield?
“I have just returned,” I said. “It was stolen from me.”
The officer unfolded a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. “We know this is here. Tell us where, and you will save yourself.”
The page held a precise, almost scientific drawing of an amulet. The center was an oval labeledrouge brillant. The setting was elaborately carved jade, every whorl painstakingly rendered.
“What safety can you offer her?” Mr. Knightley said suddenly.
“On my honor, I will send you both on your way. You can run north. I have seen too many women taken already. And too many ofles Noirs,men like you.This war they wage”—he jerked his head disdainfully toward the frowning Overseer—“it is notla guerre française.”
“I believe him,” Mr. Knightley said to me. “Tell him.”
“It is not here,” I said. Mr. Knightley gave me a sharp look, but I shrugged. “I have seen nothing like this in my entire life. I would know if it were at Hartfield. I sorted everything after Papa’s death.”
The French captain held the paper higher, waiting for me to study it more carefully. Or to reconsider. I shook my head. He bowed stiffly and left the room. The Overseer and John followed, bickering.
Boots began tromping through the hallways and stairs. Thumps and crashes sounded. They were searching the house, less gently than before.
“Is the amulet here?” Mr. Knightley whispered to me.
“No. I told the truth.”
What if I had known? Would I have kept it secret? I was not even sure the amulet mattered anymore. The dagger Gramr had woken Fènnù from her sleep, but the amulet was paired to Yuánchi, and Yuánchi had risen on his own.
Would the amulet let the French control Yuánchi? I wished I knew if Lizzy had returned. Her binding to Yuánchi was unimaginably strong. I could not imagine anyone overcoming that.
Mr. Knightley resumed whispering. “You must escape. Or we must bargain for your release. They do not know you are a great wyfe. If they discover that, they will take you south.”
“I do not think I matter that much.” I said it lightly, but I meant it. My life at Hartfield was lost unless the French advance was turned back, and Lord Wellington’s comments at Pemberley were not optimistic. And I had not the slightest idea where the amulet could be. This entire trip seemed a dismal failure and extraordinarily dangerous, particularly to Mr. Knightley.
The search reached our parlor. A pair of French soldiers methodically dumped out every drawer. Treasured letters and keepsakes spilled across the floor. A porcelain inkstand smashed to wet, staining shards. A tiny crystal draca gifted to me by Papa shattered, one little leg skittering past my boot.
Anne’s crying shrank to silent fear, her arms tight around her child. I sent her hopeful looks and wondered if they would shoot me if I crossed the room to speak with her.
A sensation plucked my awareness.
The Westons had bound a broccworm when they married, quite a prestigious binding as it was Mr. Weston’s second marriage; remarried husbandsoften failed to bind at all. At least husbands could try, though. The Church did not even perform the binding ceremony for remarried wyves.
