Page 62 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
“Then we search elsewhere.”
My relief from my wedding ploy turned to a sodden mass in my belly. “You cannot leave us with that slaver. Please do not!”
His gaze mixed frustration and regret. “I do not wish to,madame. I am a husband. I have a daughter. But my orders are from the Emperor himself.” He bowed, his regalia gleaming, and marched his soldiers away from the house.
At the same time, a two-horse coach was rattling up the other side of Hartfield’s circular carriage drive. A coach I recognized. The sodden mass in my belly turned to lead.
“Oh,” Miss Bates gasped like she had been struck. “He is early.Whereis Kent?”
The coach was met by more soldiers, and a narrow-shouldered, overly pretty young man stepped out wearing a clergyman’s white collar with a belted black coat. He greeted the Overseer with a smug smile and familiar handshake.
Mr. Elton. My apprehensions lurched to life.
A woman wobbled down the coach’s step behind him. Her head was lowered, her features concealed by an oppressively deep-brimmed poke bonnet, but her dress was English and extremely overdecorated with cheap ruffles and draped beads. That unfortunate style could be only one person—Mrs. Augusta Elton, the vicar’s wyfe, married a year ago. She had been touted as an impressive match, having a substantial fortune, but then failed to bind, a grating embarrassment to the vicar which I had privately celebrated.
An unpleasant clicking drew my gaze to her feet. A grossly oversized foul crawler had slithered out of the coach, following her like a sullen housecat. It was three feet long, flowing in a rattle of shell-wrapped segments.
Mr. Elton finished shaking hands with slavers and strode toward us. Augusta shuffled in his wake. A short length of rope was tied around her wrist, and one of the soldiers picked it up, tugging her when she drifted the wrong way.
“I hoped it was not true,” Miss Bates whispered, her breath harsh with outrage. “He has made his wyfe one of their horrors.” She clamped her eyes shut, hiding the scene. No. She was drawing sharp, focused breaths, building her resolve. “We cannot wait any longer.”
Her hand drew something small and glittering from her skirt pocket—a glass vial. The cork fell into the lawn. Hiding the vial in her palm, she tossed the contents in her mouth and swallowed with a choked cough.
The roseworm at our feet hissed as a sour, bitter odor stung the back of my nose. I knew that scent. When an American slaver had forced Harriet to use theblack dagger, he drugged her with that to strengthen her control. Crawler venom.
“Are you mad?” I whispered to Miss Bates.
She was unnaturally still and silent.
“Emma,” Mr. Elton announced in surprise, halting a few steps from us.
I said coolly, “Mr. Elton.”
I had dreaded meeting him, expecting to be frightened. Instead, the fear that had filled me receded. He looked far less consequential than I remembered, rather skinny and superficial.
John hurried to shake Mr. Elton’s hand, bobbing like an ingratiating fool. “Welcome, welcome. Is all proceeding to plan?
“The True Church rises in Highbury,” Mr. Elton replied. His eyes were locked on me.
John noticed his attention. “Ah, yes. I managed to bring Emma after all.”
“That is very excellent,” Mr. Elton said. “All together, again.”
“And I do not believe this marriage nonsense for an instant,” John scoffed.
“Marriage?” Mr. Elton echoed. He stepped closer, examining me and the roseworm. “You cannot marry.”
I felt an irrational edge of pride. “You are mistaken.” Defiantly, I picked up the roseworm. Roseworms are small but solid, with a draca’s gem-like scales, dense bones, and musculature. She curled into the crook of my arm like a warm brass sculpture.
“You certainly cannot bind,” Mr. Elton said with a lopsided smirk.
John, though, was staring at the roseworm in my arms. Others were also; Mrs. Otway was wide-eyed. A wyfe with strong affinity might handle her bound tykeworm—they were unusually tame—but holding a roseworm was exceptional, almost myth. A roseworm was dangerous. One tended to forget that after meeting dragons.
“The truth will out,” Mr. Elton said idly. “The Emperor has cleansed the English Church of centuries of corruption. God’s Truth is revealed so that our hands may wield His strength for the Empire.”
That sounded highly un-English to me. Also, very unlike Mr. Elton’s usual preaching. In services, his rare moments of rhapsody had been to praise donations to the vicarage roof repair fund.
He clicked his fingers, a hunter summoning a dog, and the gray-clad soldier dragged his wyfe forward. John and the others gave the crawler behind her a wide berth.
