Page 21 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Mr. Digweed settled on the opposite bench and smoothed his formidable mustache. “Will you attend the celebration this eve?”
He was a straightforward person, so I answered honestly. “Georgiana has tried to persuade me, but I do not enjoy dances.”
“It is a day of feast and community. We would be honored if you joined. Dancing is not required.” He swept his arm toward the festive clearing. “Beltane has many names around the world, but in all of them, it celebrates the nurturing Earth rounding her celestial path and lifting her face to the sun. It is a blessing for love and fecundity.” His gaze found the golden musical note necklace I wore, a twin to Georgiana’s. “Beltane eve is a time of commitment. Our ways are not restricted by the Church. We have had pairs of women or men handfast.”
“You and Miss Darcy could handfast,” Lucy suggested, as if that were a perfectly normal thing to say. Lizzy’s lady’s maid was growing into a proper pagan at Pemberley. It was a touching suggestion, though. Lizzy had handfasted Mr. Darcy, so in Lucy’s opinion, the ceremony was perfection.
Did Georgiana wish to handfast? I felt our commitment was sealed by our performance for the prince, but she grew up among the Britons’ culture. Might she be hesitant to ask? I sought a hint from memory, and a flood of recalled glances and spoken asides filled me, the emotions from those moments a torrent. How could I be so in love, so committed and trusting, yet still be tossed asea by such a question?
I listened to the pound of my heart and found the sensation joyful. But I could not resolve this when Georgiana was miles away. Could I hint when I next saw her?
“Areyougoing to dance?” I asked Lucy.
She blushed scarlet and bent her nose to her project, stuffing in draca breath at a prodigious rate. “If… if someone asks me.”
Matching color climbed the lad’s cheeks. It appeared that young romance beckoned. I should take Lucy for that walk soon.
An insect buzzed to the table, hovered, then darted lightning-swift among the piled draca breath blooms.
“Needledrac,” Lucy announced. She held her hands well away while it explored the flowers on her project. Then it rose to hover a few inches in front of my spectacles, so near my eyes crossed and I felt the wind of its blurred wings.
We inspected each other. Its dragonfly-like body was nacreous lapis and jade, two-legged, not an insect at all. After several seconds, it flew away.
Mr. Digweed straightened the flowers. “After your letter about the attacks in London, we boiled a large batch of essence. Very large. Every cook pot was overflowing. The hospitals should have their shipment by now.” I nodded my thanks, and he continued, “The rise of crawlers is not only in London. We have not had attacks here, but crawlers have been sighted more often, and they are larger. You know that Miss Darcy has seen visions of a blight. Could it be a blight of crawlers?”
“Her visions are difficult to interpret.” The blight reminded me ofla Demoiselle des Parfums. She had crawlers, and after we met, a patch of spring growth had putrefied to black ooze.
Mr. Digweed’s wizened gaze studied me. He lifted a finger in front of his eyes, mimicking the hovering needledrac. “You have your sister’s blood, MissBennet. Draca attend you. Your paramour is a great wyfe, but you have your own strength. I have known Miss Darcy since she was born. She is dear as a daughter to me, and unimaginably gifted. Her strength flows with the ease of her song. You, I think, are her complement. If she is melody, you are form. Structure and analysis. And, a Bennet.”
Ironically, I found I was analyzing his words. My compositions were founded in form, but I did not think of that as a complement to melody. Rather, form embraced melody.
Music aside, Bennets were certainly popular. Both the French court and Pemberley’s Britons were aficionados. I would be flattered if it had implied more than admiration for my famous sisters.
Lucy had finished adding flowers. Gingerly, she stood her Green Woman upright. The figure was exuberant with spring blossoms, although the juxtaposition of delicate petals and spikes was odd.
“I want to take it to Mrs. Darcy,” Lucy said. “To her memorial.”
“I will go with you,” I said as Thomas burst out, “May I accompany you?” Lucy looked back and forth, flummoxed by the pair of offers.
Mr. Digweed said, “Perhaps Miss Bennet would accompany you both.”
It was an easy downhill walk,about half an hour. Lucy and Thomas were clearly good friends, talking happily on a dozen topics, but occasionally falling into shy silences. When the three of us emerged from the forest shadow onto the stony shore of the lake, the weather hinted at summer. Hazy clouds scuttled across the blue, and the lake breeze was warmed by the late afternoon sun. The barge was moored half ashore, temporarily abandoned while Georgiana and her brother argued about it.
Lizzy’s memorial, or shrine, had grown. The Britons removed the wilted bouquets and old offerings of food, but they left the icons of the Green Woman. Their piled forms now spread six feet wide at the base and rose past the waist of Lizzy’s statue. The tangle of their brown branches was mixed with green-and-red holly, colorful even when dry. Some figures had vibrant paper skirts and bonnets, or ribbons.
An incongruous image clicked into my mind: a woodcut of Jeanne d’Arc atop a pyre awaiting her burning for witchcraft. But Lizzy, even carved, lookedjoyfully alive, the opposite of the insipid skyward longing that artists inflicted on martyred saints.
Lucy nestled her creation atop the heap beside other recent additions. A flint and several candles had been left near the base. She knelt and kindled tinder, then lit one of the candles, shielded inside a glass jar.
She rejoined Thomas and me, and he said, “You made a nice one.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said. She took a formal breath and addressed the statue. “Mrs. Darcy, if you would like to come back, I have a fresh dress all laid out, just as you like. I even sorted your bowl of bolts, though I have not learned to make one myself. I will, I promise.”
That was so heartfelt, it should have filled me with loss, but Lizzy’s lifelike image and the sparkling lake banished that. Instead, I felt a surge of sisterly closeness. A surety that my doubts about her welfare were foolish.
“Men are here,” Thomas said, looking behind us.
Three men were strolling toward us from the trees, peering at us and at Lizzy’s shrine. They were dusty from the knees down, travelers on foot. Despite an odd uniformity to their clothes, they were not well-dressed; their coats were stained, unbuttoned and flapping. They carried nothing, except the leading man held something wrapped in his palm.
