Page 88 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
“Oh,” she said.
There was a moment of mutual embarrassment; she and I had hardly been speaking then. As hurt feelings can, it seemed foolish in hindsight. I took her hand, and she held tight.
“Why an amulet?” she asked.
“It was made with one of Yuánchi’s scales, and it can help heal what has gone wrong—the blight, perhaps the war. It was sent to the Witch of Woodhouse, so Mary thought it might be an heirloom, but Papa never mentioned it. The French tore Hartfield apart looking for it. All they accomplished was breaking things.” I remembered shards of ornaments spraying across the floor.
“So, it would be red,” Harriet mused, “and old fashioned. Is the setting jade? With a lot of…” She twirled her finger in little whorls very like the drawing the French officer had shown us.
There was a silence. I looked at Mr. Knightley and met his disbelieving stare.
Harriet was grinning now. “If it is so important, should we not collect it before we go?”
“Where is it?” I cried. “How do you know?”
“I know because…” Her smile faltered. “Do you remember, when I was a student at Mrs. Goddard’s, a tradesman visited pretending to be my father? The man who was hired by Mr. Wood—by our father.”
I remembered. “With whiskers and a bent hat…”
“He was a bad pretend father, but he gave a pretty speech about regretting leaving me alone. He said it very carefully, like it was memorized, and at the end, he gave me a gift. He called it an heirloom. An amulet of jade and shining red. Red that is exactly like Yuánchi’s scales.”
“Papa wished you were a Woodhouse,” I breathed. “He just was not brave enough to share his name.” A rush of relief made me giddy. “I cannot believe I did notaskyou!”
“Well, nobodyelsedid, either,” she said, casting a look at Mr. Knightley.
I grabbed her fingers. “Please tell me you did not throw it in a riveror—”
“Of course not!” she scoffed. “It was beautiful. And the chain isgold!”
“Where is it?”
She winced. “This is where it is difficult. It is at Mrs. Goddard’s school.”
In the center of French-occupied Hartfield.
27
PICTISH STORIES
LIZZY
This Scottish morningI woke far warmer, my back curled into the heat of Darcy’s chest, the woolen covers tucked over us both. Even pressed this close, I had perhaps a spare inch in the narrow bed.
Darcy’s forearm, wrist, and hand were outside the covers. I lay my arm beside his. His wrist was wider and thicker than mine, all thrusting bone and thick tendon, the build of a tall and athletic man. Mine looked positively delicate by comparison. I had even managed to regain a little feminine softness since I rose from the lake, but it was skin-deep; I knotted my fist, and lean, hard muscle rose in my arm.
I reached with my mind, probing for Yuánchi, and found him east of us, tens of miles out to sea. Clearly, he had recovered from the punishing flight and gorging on sheep. He and the two drakes were reveling in the stiff winds; through the firedrakes’ vision I saw their spirals and turns.
“Ermph,” Darcy murmured.
“Good morning,” I whispered. The curtain to our room did not afford much privacy, but it had been enough. After the villagers’ passion-laced performance of the Wyfe’s Hunt, Darcy and I stumbled to our tiny room, touching each other with every step—a held hand, a brushed hip, a kiss—and when we arrived, it was loudly evident that Mr. and Mistress MacLeod had their own distractions.
An intimate night had not been my plan when we came. But it changed nothing.
“Are you happy?” I whispered.
Darcy stirred fully awake. His torso flexed as he lifted his head and shoulders to see me. “An odd thing to ask. War is raging. We are on a desperate quest for a mythical artifact.” I waited, and he admitted, “Yes, I am happy.”
“I am, too.” My memory drifted to, of all moments, Charlotte laughing at me after Darcy asked me to dance at the Netherfield ball.
