Page 83 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Fènnù roared, not the weapon of her frozen breath, just deafening noise. She crouched, then leaped. With one downsweep of her wings, she passed over our heads, scattering the song draca. I turned to watch her climb and shrink in the distance.
The colonel was moaning, curled on the ground like a child in a nightmare. I was trembling as well… no, I was shaking from cold. There was hoarfrost on my gloves. The ground was slick with steaming ice. A whorl of half-submerged leaves stood up from the surface, trapped in mid-spiral.
I knelt and shook the colonel’s arms, knocking ice off his coat. “We must move out of this cold.”
His moans quieted, and his wide eyes latched onto mine. “How are we alive?”
“Fènnù resumed her search for my sister. She tried to force her whereabouts from me, but I… refused.” It occurred to me that she had no reason to let me live after that. Perhaps the delusions that confused her had saved us in the end.
We slipped and slid off the ice. The road was still empty, but muddy heads were popping up behind distant bushes and rocks.
“We should walk,” I said. “Make haste while the road is open.”
“Haste,” the colonel echoed tonelessly, but he followed as I started south. Motion felt good, restoring sensation to my freezing toes and loosening my myriad stiffening bruises.
The song draca returned, twenty or so, swooping and circling. They looked uncanny, so I pulled the hood of my black cloak forward to hide my face. For once, superstition might be useful. “Perhaps the crowd will make way for a witch.”
Colonel Fremantle’s officer’s bearing returned. He had campaigned in the Peninsular wars after all, a far bloodier field than this. He caught up, striding apace with me, and his hands inventoried sword, pistol, powder. His methodical check reminded me to inspect my reticule. The syringes with draca essence remained, their brass tubes securely sealed.
It was some time before he spoke. “I thought you had no power.”
“That was nothing. You should see my sister.”
Still, he had a point. I had faced Fènnù again, heard her voice, and for the first time, without a great wyfe beside me. And Georgiana swore I had power.
“I may have some peculiar talent,” I admitted.
26
TO BIND
EMMA
“I will find a ripe one,”Harriet insisted, bent to the ground.
I peered doubtfully at the half-wild vines. “It is early for strawberries.”
“They ripen first at the Abbey, and this is a southern slope…”
Our party had left the underground cellars and, staying on neglected paths, reached what Harriet and I called Berry Hill. It was a remote, brambly part of the Abbey grounds and highly unlikely to interest an invading army. Mr. Knightley excused himself on some mysterious wedding errand, and the Otway and Weston families were wandering the slope, recovering from fear and flight, so that left a few ladies—Augusta, Harriet and her mother, and me—to plan the ceremony with what odds and ends were on hand.
Considering my own wedding was being prepared with a few hours’ notice, I was surprisingly idle. Mostly, I watched Harriet bustle. But I was happy, a ferocious joy that sang in my ribs despite my treacherous brother-in-law and his violent allies.
Harriet plucked a berry from the vines. “Here! Not perfect, but mostly ripe. There will be good bites.” Shyly, she showed it to her admiring mother, then laid it on my palm. It was luscious red except for a white fringe around the stem.
“I am amazed!” I said. “But may I give it to Mr. Knightley? I have nowedding present for him. I cannot imagine what would be better than the first strawberry of the season.”
“Certainly! But then I must find the second strawberry for you.” Harriet resumed her hunt.
That left me and her mother facing each other. We managed awkward smiles, then found other things to watch. I was still unsure what to make of our family connection. It seemed Mrs. Prince was, too.
Augusta Elton had ignored the entire exchange. Her face was pallid and her eyes haunted. While we walked here, she had silently and savagely ripped off every ruffle and gilded bead on her overdecorated gown. That made me regret my prior scorn. Perhaps the fashion had been to appease her husband’s fixation on status. If so, it failed. Mr. Elton had handed her to the slavers like chattel, expensive dress and all.
When life returned to normal, we would visit a dressmaker together, and if she chose something even more gaudy, I would applaud. It would be for herself, at least.
I touched her hand, but she did not stir. I had lost my gloves during our escape, and she had none. When our skin touched, I saw an ash-like shadow, a scar of the false binding I had broken between her and that crawler.
“You have escaped Mr. Elton,” I said. Her half-lidded eyes swung, wary as a woodland creature, but she listened as I continued, “He betrayed your trust. He hurt you. He has broken every vow of your marriage. You are your own woman now, a free wyfe.”
