Page 74 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
“That is a polite description,” I said, forcing a smile. I still felt the effects. Miasma was pooling in the distant corners, but it was ephemeral, a stage illusion that could be dismissed with rational effort, not the terrible, gut-churning threat I felt when obsessions ruled my mind. “It is passing, though. Very quickly. I am not sure why…”
Was it the wyvern? Her presence had not helped me when we met at the London ball. Although Mr. Darcy had helped then by standing close to hide the visual madness…
Mr. Knightley was steadying my left elbow, so I turned to him and rested my other hand, ungloved, on his chest, almost like when we waltzed on the frozen ship.
Mr. Knightley was not as tall as Mr. Darcy—my eyes were a few inches below his, not staring into his neckcloth—but even if he were, his clothes would not have provided the solace of perfection. He had sprinted through wild forest carrying a full-grown woman. His coat was rumpled and strewn with burrs, his neckcloth undone, his hat lost. Tangled spirals of black hair hung to his shoulders. The disorder should have distressed me, but, as I felt a shaky breath lift his chest—apparently he was not as recovered from running as I thought—he looked dashing and disheveled, like a pirate captain in a play.
“I wondered if our touching was helping,” I explained, belatedly.
In answer, he rested his fingers on the back of my hand. I felt the calluses from his violin strings, so unusual on a gentleman. My touch and his made an intimate pose, but, after dodging death together more than once, it seemed excusable.
“I should see to Mrs. Elton,” he said after a minute. “If you are recovered?” I nodded, and he bowed before hurrying outside.
I was not sure exactly where we were, but it was one of the larger old cellars, as big as Hartfield’s drawing room. We were not buried, though. Shadowy sunlight trickled through slots in the roof. The light was fringed with green from foliage above, and I heard birdsong. Most of the Abbey cellars were overgrown like this; they looked like hillocks of meadow from outside. I had thought them grand secrets when I was a child, doubly so because exploring them was forbidden. A rule I frequently forgot, naturally.
With my senses and mind calm, I recalled walking here after we met Lady Catherine and her wyvern. Walking, not running. There had been no more need to run.
The wyvern’s scales shimmered in the scattered light and seemed to blaze as I approached her.
“Did you kill the men who chased us?” I asked.
i fought those who fought me. the hounds were wiser. they fled
Her four-inch claws glistened against the stone floor. I had seen theinhuman ferocity of a wyvern’s attack before at the London ball. Our pursuers, the slaver soldiers, had certainly been killed. I had trouble summoning regret.
John and Mr. Elton would be safe, though. They were likely congratulating each other on avoiding the tiresome effort of running, particularly after it turned deadly.
“You must not approach her,” Lady Catherine said reprovingly as she ducked through the doorway and saw my proximity to her wyvern.
“Your ladyship,” I said politely and moved a few steps away. The wyvern’s muscled, stout neck swiveled, following me.
Lady Catherine observed that with an uneasy frown, an emotion that seemed out of character. This woman had, without batting an eyelash, dispatched her wyvern to wreak bloody murder. That required both an uncommonly strong binding and ruthless confidence.
Miss Bates entered next, cradling her roseworm. Once inside, she staggered, closing her eyes, her face ashen.
I hurried to her. Her roseworm greeted me with an alertcheep. The draca, at least, had recovered from her fight with the crawler.
“May I take your hand?” I said to Miss Bates. Weakly, she opened her eyes, then let me press her palm between mine.
The crawler venom she drank still coursed through her body, pulsing vilely with every heartbeat. It was diminishing, though. I had sensed far worse when the slavers dosed Harriet to the brink of death. Then, I had been able to purge the venom, but only because I had borrowed strength—the mysterious gift Lady Anne Darcy left for me in the keeping of her wyvern. My own skills sensed injuries but were completely useless for actual healing.
“I have a terrific headache,” Miss Bates muttered. “But for a time, I felt… wonderful.”
“You must not take the venom again,” I warned. “It is addictive. A weaker wyfe would have been killed by the dose you drank.”
Her affinity was certainly strong. The unnatural boost from the venom had ended, but her binding shone a brilliant rose. It was no match for the blinding power of the Darcys’ binding, but by any other standard, it was impressive. I had spent much of my life dismissing Miss Bates as tiresome. Really, I must have been shockingly self-absorbed not to recognize her qualities.
Lady Catherine’s wyvern trotted over to nuzzle my skirts. I could not see her binding at all. That was odd. Were my skills not recovered after all?
I squeezed Miss Bates’s hand and smiled. “You were tremendously brave.”
“I was thoroughly terrified,” she said. “But the widowed wyves do not stand by while women are enslaved. This place”—her bloodshot gaze scanned the brick pillars—“is where the widowed wyves were founded. Widows were consigned to the Abbey as nuns, but in secret, some remained bound to their draca. They met here and swore to shield women from persecution. There are chapters in all the counties. Lady Catherine heads the Kent widowed wyves.” She frowned and busily adjusted her shawl. “I admit it is rather dank in here.”
A wavering light was approaching from an opening in the back wall. A short, rounded gentleman in a clergyman’s black suit and white collar emerged beside a lady bearing a candle.
“Mr. Collins,” Lady Catherine snapped with no hint of her earlier unease. “Wherever did you vanish to?”
“Your ladyship!” the gentleman exclaimed, scurrying forward and performing a frivolous bow that displayed prematurely thinning hair. “I took it upon myself to investigate this shadowed abode to ensure there was no lurking danger to your esteemed personage. But the longer passages proved exceptionally difficult to navigate…”
