Page 61 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
I looked around our little group, then realized that was me.
“Andwhen?” Anne asked breathlessly.
“Ah,” Mr. Knightley began expansively. He seemed to have gotten into the swing of things. “It was three—”
“—weeks ago,” I finished firmly. I was afraid he would say months. That would have been terribly rude of me, as I should have told Anne immediately. “I am sorry I did not write to you. I thought it would be amusing to appear inperson. And then there was the war.” I pouted, and Capitaine Fournier had the decency to appear abashed.
Anne plucked my sleeve, pulling me aside for a private conversation. “You said you would never marry! What happened?”
“We danced on a ship that was frozen in the Thames.” Really, that was romantic.
“He is very handsome. Does he have money?”
“Not a penny!” I answered cheerfully. She giggled—I was being very improper—but I meant it… although,howdid I mean it? It was true, or true enough by the standards of rich Miss Woodhouse. But I was rich no longer. How would we survive? We were notactuallymarried, of course, but it was an irritating thought. “He performs,” I added. “Music.” Could we live off that?
Mrs. Otway joined our ladies’ discussion, and wedding topics proceeded. The giddy rush of my invented marriage dimmed. I answered with smiles; suddenly, fabricating details tasted sour. The discussion drifted to recollections of other weddings, and my mood turned pensive.
We were still prisoners, even if the French soldiers were amused. The Overseer had stalked off after my announcement. That, at least, worked as I planned. A bound woman did not interest the slavers. Nor, for that matter, a woman who was not gentry. And I doubted the French captain would rip Mr. Knightley from the arms of his weeping bride, so he was safe as well.
The French captain, though, had left the parlor to speak angrily with the Overseer in the front hall. John was there too, glowering at me through the parlor doorway. He had heard the happy news.
John shouted, “Everyone must proceed outside!” That meant everyone; the French captain barked a command, and the French soldiers left before us at a trot. A pair of Confederate soldiers forced us out with rude prods and pushes.
Outside, the cheery mid-afternoon sun clashed with the scent of gunpowder on the breeze. At the top step, Mrs. Otway broke away and ran to where her daughter Caroline, only sixteen, stood shivering and frightened, held by a gray-clad soldier.
“I am sorry,” Caroline burst out, “I tried to see where they took you…” Her mother wrapped her in a silent hug.
There was one other new arrival. A middle-aged lady in a frowsy blue-and-white dress and a slightly tired cotton-lace cap was chattering at the soldier from his other side. The roseworm, who had loyally followed me outside, perked up, watching her.
Miss Bates.
I concentrated and saw the rose-hued binding between her and the roseworm. Of course, the draca would be hers. There was no other bound roseworm in twenty miles. I had only discounted that because her roseworm was so secret. She never let her be seen in public, let alone visit people’s houses.
Meanwhile, Miss Bates, a committed conversationalist, was proceeding full blast to her captive audience. “—and I always say that a soldier is a fine sight, for you know I can hardly tell the difference between soldiers, what is a blue or a red jacket after all, with the navy in blue anyway, and now gray ones too, so really how can one expect a simple woman to know? Although if I may say, gray is a very dull choice. Do they let you pick?”
The soldier was displaying the same glazed expression I had worn myself on occasion, so I took advantage of his stunned silence to call, “Miss Bates!”
She beamed at me. “Miss Woodhouse! What a delight. Only two days ago I was reading a letter from my niece and thinking, if only Miss Woodhouse were here to enjoy it with me!”
“Shut yer face,” the soldier said as he pushed her, Mrs. Otway, and Caroline into a clump with Anne and me.
“Miss Woodhouse is Mrs. Knightley now,” Anne said to Miss Bates, nodding toward Mr. Knightley, who had been placed with the gentlemen. I was glad he had not been singled out, but he looked dangerously angry.
Miss Bates, who had ended her patter with an affronted “Well!” shot a highly perceptive glance at me that flicked to her roseworm by my feet. I had seen this side of her before—the real Miss Bates, far more intelligent and serious than the bumbling persona she presented in society. And far more knowledgeable of draca and their lore.
Miss Bates put her head by mine and whispered, “We are preparing a rescue. I am here to give the signal.”
My heart leaped. “Whois preparing a rescue?” I whispered back.
“The widowed wyves. But we must wait for Kent.”
Her short sentences were as baffling as her long ones. Were there more bound, widowed wyves? And who was Kent?
The six French soldiers had assembled in a two-by-three column. Their captain approached me.
“The amulet?” he asked bluntly.
“I do not know.”
