Page 68 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
A smile released the tension in his cheek. “You are quite literally swaying on your feet.”
“We can be together here. Away from Fènnù.” I was not sure what that meant. In this room, with its tiny pane of cheap glass so faithfully washed? In Scotland, with its ruined castles and gray seas?
He stepped closer and, hesitant as a new groom, stroked his fingers over my shoulders. It was the first intimate touch we had shared unless I counted briefly holding his hand on the hilltop.
“By my count, you have not slept for two days,” he said. His fingers steered me gently onto the bed like a child. “You are blinking at me like a roused owl. Rest. I will wake you.”
I woke myself,sensing Darcy’s quiet movement in the room. The sun was casting low, orange beams through the window. Sunset came late this far north. I had slept long.
I lifted my head groggily, and Darcy said, “I did not mean to wake you. The MacLeods have retired for the evening.” He cocked an eyebrow in sympathy. “Fishermen rise early.”
He had spread a blanket on the floor. Preparing to sleep there.
I was curled atop the bed’s covering wearing everything but my boots. I did not even remember removing those. Darcy must have eased them off while I slept. The dagger was under my pillow, loosened in its sheath. That, I had done.
I sat up on the side of the narrow bed, no longer exhausted but still pleasantly sleepy and ready for a proper night’s rest. A breath later, that relaxation was replaced by the edgy, acute vigilance that had possessed me since I returned from the lake.
“I do not want to be a wyfe of war,” I said dismally, the balls of my feet braced on the floor as if an armed assailant might burst through the door at any moment.
Darcy sat on the bed beside me. “Then do not.” He left a foot of empty, rumpled covers between us. Understandably. I had done little but push him away since I returned.
A chorus of voices from the past whispered:The wyfe of war must have no husband.
“I wish I could not,” I said, “but those women’s lives—their wars—are woven into my heart. It has driven out all the pleasant things I used to enjoy. A pretty shawl. Laughing at a ridiculous person.”
“I am certain we will meet ridiculous people,” Darcy offered gamely.
I was not in the mood for jokes. “All that evil history existed before. The world did not change while I was submerged. All that changed is I am aware of it.” I laughed shortly. “Mary once accused me of complacency, and she was quite right. I miss my complacency. Awareness confers duty. Do you understand that?”
He nodded.
I blew an exaggerated sigh that puffed my cheeks. “What did you do while I slept?”
“Talked with the people. Asked about the village.”
“Something is wrong here. These homes are fresh built, but the people are starving.”
The planes of Darcy’s face flattened. “The homes are new, half of them unfinished. Mr. MacLeod was chinking gaps in the walls while you slept. They do not trust me enough to say what happened, not yet, but I have suspicions.”
He offered nothing more, and I knew he would not until he was certain, so I asked, “Is Yuánchi fed?”
That drew a chuckle. “He returned with his belly bulging and enough wool snagged on his scales to knit a pair of socks. The firedrakes ate, too. They fished for herring, diving like seabirds. The entire village watched that, except for Yuánchi, who was asleep atop the hill. He has claimed that as his roost. The villagers are in awe of him. And of you.”
“I am glad you are here,” I said, and remembered I had already said that. I must stop repeating it, or he would become suspicious.
I reached across the gap between us and laid my hand on his. Light glinted on my gold fede ring. Darcy had it crafted for me after our Beltane handfasting. The finespun gold depicted a woman’s and man’s linked hands, the muscles and tendons minutely sculpted to convey the strength of their grasp. It was the sole possession that survived my sleep in Pemberley lake—it and the dagger, if that artifact could be called a possession.
Darcy wore my father’s posy ring as his wedding ring. He had asked the jeweler to copy its message into my ring, but the old letters were too worn to decipher. For me though, the message of Papa’s ring was clear: on his deathbed, he had pressed it into my palm, granting his blessing—and his firm advice—to marry Mr. Darcy, the sole man he knew who could make me happy.
Again, the past voices whispered,The wyfe of war must have no husband.Portents filled my mind, memories I had not confessed to Darcy. Feeling guilty, I lifted my hand from his.
Darcy immediately stood. He shrugged his muscular shoulders out of his coat, folded it, then untied his neckcloth. Without meeting my eyes, he said, “We should sleep. Our hosts will rise early.” He lay down, arranging his long frame under the coarse blanket on the wooden floor.
I lay on the edge of the bed atop the wool throws, some edged with reused fabric scraps cut like draca wings. The sunset turned scarlet, then mauve, then indigo. Cold night air infiltrated cracks in the unfinished walls. Through all that, Darcy lay unnaturally still. Finally, I whispered his name, but he did not answer.
22
THE MEMORY
