Page 126 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
I brushed my finger along her wrist. “Are you angry with me?” When she shook her head, I said, “Thentellme what is wrong. You do not fear a hidden dragon, but you fear something.”
She turned to me, tears in her eyes, and whispered, “Isang, but my song was wrong. I knew before I began.” She intermeshed her fingers, squeezing until the knuckles blanched. “I have seen visions of the blight since my mother died. I thought they were a summons. A part I was destined to play. I even imagined that Mamma was helping me somehow, guiding me. But now, when the need is desperate, I am failing. What if that is because of what I am? Because of whatweare to each other?”
I understood her, but I was too surprised to answer.
She rushed on. “You mean more to me than life. I regret no choice I made. Ihadno choice. But draca bind wyves whomarry.” She shoved her arm out, pointing at the meadow. “Emma married, and she senses a dragon. But when I sang—Mary, Isang. I held nothing back, and the answer was silence.” She grasped my hands, her pianist’s grip almost painful. “What if I cannot bind? What if what we have is… wrong, or inferior?”
“That is impossible.” I lifted our joined hands, holding hers as tightly as she held mine. “Draca bind for our emotions. They seek out our passions. They have done so in hundreds of cultures for thousands of years. Human customs, our rulers, our religions… all that is ephemera to them. They certainly do not read marriage announcements inThe Times.”
Georgiana gave a crazed laugh at that.
I pulled us closer. “When I was young, my knowledge of binding was what society taught: A virginal lady of good family may bind, and only on her wedding night, and only by gifting extravagant wedding gold to the Church. We have seen all of those claims proven false. You know this. The Britons handfast any who love, even woman to woman. Do those wyves bind?”
“Yes,” she admitted, and her desperate grip eased.
“Society’s rules for binding are lies to protect the privileged. Ignore them. Draca exist outside of human prejudice and pride. What draca treasure is love.”
Her shoulders rose roughly, then fell gracefully. “I know we have that.” She rested her forehead on our linked hands, then brushed her lips to my fingers. “Very well. I am less panicked. Butsomethingis wrong.”
“You just have not found the way yet. Be patient.”
“You have relieved my mind on one thing. When handfasted wyves bind, they bind once as a couple. I was afraid Fitz was imagining you would bind Fènnù alone. But however these bindings are chosen, you and I will be together.”
“Yes,” I agreed with a helpless smile. “And, I have an idea about raising the dragon. Fènnù was summoned by the song on her dagger. There were markings on the flute’s mouthpiece. I think they are musical notation.”
“Could you read them?” she asked.
“No, but I memorized them. The dagger has markings, and the amulet may, too. If we compare them, we may decipher the notation. Then we would know the flute’s song.”
Her smile dazzled. “Brilliant. The perfect challenge for my great wyfe of song.”
“Do not call me that,” I protested. “When you sang, thepower was—”
She stopped me with a fingertip on my lips. “A pipe organ with the stops pulled, or an orchestrafortissimo—those are power, but they are instruments. Youcomposemusic. How is that not a wyfe of song?” When I tried to answer, she pressed her finger firmly and continued, “And it is pointless to argue about who is or is not a great wyfe because when draca bind, they bind the couple. So, you decipher the song, I sing it, and webothbind. No, we should sing it together, of course…” She was supremely confident now and looked so lovely that I abandoned argument and kissed her finger. She smiled… then frowned. “Look at the song draca.”
There were a half dozen fluttering, and they seemed to have found a direction at last, swirling excitedly ahead where the wooded patch curved around a rocky outcrop, the base of one of the hills bordering the valley.
“Perhaps theyareharbingers,” Georgiana said, amused. “I just wanted to escape Fitz.” She started toward them.
One draca had not joined the cluster. The song draca on my shoulder sank his claws into my dress, flapping and pulling the opposite way. Then I saw the blight-blackened patch of heather beside the path.
I ran and caught Georgiana’s arm. “Look.” A foul crawler lolled in the rotted heather. It was normal sized, no monster, but very much alive.
A few feet away, a larger one, almost six inches, slunk into view around a small, carnivorous sundew plant. Larger yet and concealed on a birch branch, a winged crawler slowly spread its four wings like a huge dragonfly, studying us.
That variety I had seen only once before.
“We are in trouble,” I whispered.
La Demoiselle des Parfumsstrode around the outcrop, trailing her fingers along the stone. We almost collided before she stopped in surprise.
A stale, musky scent surrounded her. Her stylish bonnet was gone, her hair messily fallen. A fresh bruise was purpling her left temple. Her clothes were stained where Rebecca had sprayed draca essence, but her kohl-lined eyes and red lip paint had been carefully reapplied.
The rest of the scene clicked into place as if I was solving a puzzle piece by piece. Her monstrous, saddled crawler waited in the shadows under a distant tree. There were flying crawlers everywhere, camouflaged in the grassy heath or among the birch leaves.
The perfumer blew an irritated sigh. This time, she offered no taunting greetings. She just shoved back her tumbled hair and declared, “I met yoursister. The one you said would burn me.” Mockingly, she spread her arms—see, I am alive.
“I am glad she did not,” I said. “For both of you.”
