Page 75 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
“My husband’s candle blew out,” the lady beside him explained with equanimity. “I went to fetch him.” She was a straightforward looking woman a few years older than me, tastefully but not extravagantly dressed.
In tones of profound disappointment, Lady Catherine introduced the gentleman as Mr. Collins, rector of Rosings Park. More positively, she added, “Rosings Park, naturally, is mine. And this woman is Mrs. Collins.”
“Please call me Charlotte,” the lady said, and I introduced myself. I had lost my gloves, so she removed hers to shake hands. Our touch revealed nothing. Had she not bound when she married?
This absence of bindings was becoming a puzzle. I stretched out my awareness, and the gloomy parts of the cellar gained a pretty, blue glow—that was new—but I saw only Miss Bates’s binding, nothing for Charlotte or Lady Catherine. Surely that was wrong.
Once, the loss of my affinity would have seemed a blessing. Seeing bindings was occasionally interesting but more often distracting and dangerous. However, if it broke the vile connection forced on Augusta, my affinity seemed to have a use after all.
As if she heard my thoughts, the wyvern’s voice chimed:
the one you call lady anne had the gift of healing flesh. yours isthe gift of healing spirit
Lady Catherine was scowling at me with narrowed eyes, so I tried a trick of Lizzy’s and replied silently in my head,Does healing spirit mean healing bindings?
spirit, binding, song. all are one. lady anne saw the rise of the three wyves and knew her gift could not heal the song. she passed her duty to you. you must bind for strength
The ghost of Lady Anne’s wyvern had said something similar:you are as she thought you would be. the heiress to her skills, but stronger. Lady Anne’s history seemed woven with mine: Mr. Darcy had taught me her lessons, and I carried the red lanyard from her journal. Despite that, I had never learned what happened to her, only that she sent her wyvern away and died, and that my symptoms—and my skills—appeared soon after.
And then there was that last part,you must bind for strength. That was a tiresome refrain with wyverns. But if there were more captives like Augusta, they might be right. The effort of dissolving that vile connection had drained me.
Mr. Knightley returned with a small crowd: Mr. Weston and Anne, who was carrying their young child; Augusta Elton, who gave me an unsettled look but was standing on her own two feet; and the Otways, wide-eyed in the dim cellar. Augusta’s face and hair were tidied, although her gown was still garish. I suppose I could not blame the slavers for that.
The required introductions proceeded, complicated by Mr. Collins’s silly flourishes and repetitions. Anne finally stepped in to introduce Mr. Knightley and me to the Collinses. I had already met them, so I was preparing a clever comment when she proudly named us “Mr. and Mrs. Knightley.”
I had forgotten that. Again.
Charlotte, calmly, offered her hand for a second time, but she cocked an intrigued eyebrow—I had introduced myself as Miss Woodhouse five minutes before. Mr. Knightley cast me a questioning look while Mr. Collins’s hand fluttered, ignored, in mid-air.
I suppose we could not just continue pretending to be married. Eventually, it would be ridiculous.
“In fact, we are not married,” I announced brightly, as if it had all been a tremendous lark. Anne uttered a long, understandingOhh; she had witnessed the threats from the Overseer. But she looked disappointed, so I hastened to add, “We are…”
Then, I could not imagine how to finish the sentence. Friends? Thatchoice wrenched something within me. I looked questioningly at Mr. Knightley, as if trying to invent a new fanciful story together, and found he had a very serious expression.
“Pardon us,” he said, and offered his arm. As the only option for privacy were the brick columns, we took a few steps and stood behind one of those. There was not much room, so we huddled close.
I was still trying to express what we were to each other. “I never thought I would enjoy being married, but I… it felt nice to pretend, did it not?” His face tightened, and the air thudded from my lungs. I had blundered. I bit my lip until I could speak. “Your pardon. I forgot my situation is changed.” Gentlemen did not marry penniless ladies.
He took my forearms in his hands. “You mean your lost fortune?”
“I understand perfectly,” I said bravely. My fingers stroked the buttons on his sleeve, so neatly sewn. “You need to buy your beautiful coats…”
“Your fortune means nothing to me,” he said dismissively.
His tone stirred my pride, but pride belonged to lost, rich Miss Woodhouse.Nothingwas a very accurate word. “I really do understand.”
“You are not even listening,” he exclaimed. “Emma, you do not need a fortune for me to wish to marry you.”
With our arms intertwined, we were so close I could have shifted one toe and leaned against him. That closeness had grown on our trip, flourishing in the stories we shared and our quiet walks while resting the horses.
“Well, then why do we…” I started again. “We seem to be endlessly dancing around each other.”
With some emphasis, he said, “Because you said you did not wish to marry!”
“I only said that because youaskedme to marry you,” I pointed out. “Or you almost did.” That was not a very reasonable response, so I tried a different one. “You have not truly asked me, you know. Not properly.”
He drew a deep breath and, in a plain, gentlemanlike manner, said, “Miss Woodhouse, you are the most extraordinary, beautiful, and wonderful woman I have ever met. Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wyfe?”
