Page 85 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
I had turned to leave, but that stopped me. I presented a smile. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do not pretend, woman. My late sister, Lady Anne Darcy, could summon draca. That headstrong girl, Elizabeth, was capable as well, when she was not chattering about bolts. Heaven and earth, there weredragonsflying above Pemberley.” Lady Catherine held out her hand, but the gesture was imploring—desperate, not commanding. “I know that you can. I saw you at the ball. I merely wish… to see it once more. To know that great wyves exist. That my sister was one, and that she was… extraordinary.”
I had only ever called draca that I could see, but Lady Catherine’s wyvern shone so brightly that I sensed her, high in a tree a few minutes’ walk away. It was her ability to bind I sensed; without the distraction of sight, that potential, pristine within her, was vivid.
The wyvern was not bound. She had never been bound.
My shock must have shown. Lady Catherine drew herself into a pose of dignified acceptance. She had expected it.
“Call her,” she whispered. “Call her the way my sister summoned her when I failed to bind.”
Spring breezes whispered in the elms’ young foliage. For twenty heartbeats we watched each other, then the bronze wyvern glided to a landing between us.
healer,she acknowledged me, then her head swiveled, pinning Lady Catherine with her scintillating gaze. Lady Catherine backed an involuntary step. Her hands clenched and unclenched.
“What a lie I have lived,” she said at last.
“She is loyal to you,” I said. “She protects you as few draca do their bound wyves. What does it matter if you are bound?”
“Binding is a force of women.” Lady Catherine’s voice was hoarse. “And I was unworthy.”
“Your sister believed you were worthy.” I untied the lanyard from my reticule and offered it. “You should have this.”
She closed my fingers over it. “Keep it. Present it to your husband at your wedding. My sister wove it as a symbol of her handfasting, a great joy of her life.” Her voice firmed. “And when you do, tell Mr. Knightley he may stop hiding from me. I have no intention of lecturing him. The man is a professionalmusician and resides in London. We may assume he is properly educated in love.”
Wondering about that, I tucked the lanyard away.
As we headed back down the path, Lady Catherine said, “There is only one reason a single lady must comprehend the consequences of the marriage bed.”
I did not answer, but after such a revelation about her life, I did not deny it either.
Somewhat farther, she asked, “Was it by your choice?”
I remembered the dark coach, the falling snow as smothering as ash, and Mr. Elton shouting how I had encouraged him, how he would die if I refused him. Then he seized the bodice of my gown in his fist, and the cloth tore, and I realized that refusal was not an option.
“No,” I answered, because it felt good to say it.
“Then it does not matter. It is choice that matters. That, and love.”
Harriet was weavingstrawberry runners dotted with green berries and white flowers into my hair. She tucked a few sprigs into my feathered bonnet, stepped back to judge the effect, and smiled.
“You must wear gloves,” she added, retrieving hers from her dress pocket and placing them in my hand.
I thanked her. They fit well, and the white brightened my steel-gray gown. For better or worse, my clothes were what I had worn on our visit to reclaim Hartfield. The ensemble was darker than a typical wedding outfit, but it was dramatic and had a striking bonnet.
Mr. Knightley returned and bowed with solemnity and a nice air of admiration. I returned a curtsy, and the first hint of nervousness quickened my heart.
“You were gone a long time,” I said, striving for a light tone.
“I needed to fetch some things. I visited our coach at Mrs. Hewitt’s orchard.”
“That was dangerous!”
“I was careful. The line of battle has moved north, perhaps even to London. French troops are patrolling the town, but I saw none in the countryside. They can hardly guard every inch of Surrey.”
I folded my arms, illogically frightened even though he was standing infront of me, unharmed. But he had crossed enemy lines many times before. I suppose that would be my husband’s peculiar hobby, the way other men collected butterflies or snuff boxes.
“Is Mrs. Hewitt safe?” I asked.
