Page 24 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Lizzy laughed—her old, delighted laughter, as if I had made a clever joke.
I ran to her. “Will you not come to Pemberley? To… to see everyone. Todress.” When she shook her head, social rules latched hold of me, and I said firmly, “You cannot leave unclothed.” Thomas had recovered enough to groan and touch his head, so I called to Lucy, “Can you help me?”
Lucy settled Thomas, then crept over and undid the back fastenings of my dress. I pulled it over my head, leaving me in petticoats, and dropped the wet cloth on Lizzy. She stood patiently while Lucy, falling into routine, fastened the dress. It hung a little loose and far too long. The black, an especially dark dye I preferred, was stark against her ivory skin. She pulled her mass of hair free of the collar and let it slap down the back, soaking the cloth darker still.
“It must be hemmed,” Lucy said in a tremulous voice. “You will trip, otherwise.” Wordlessly, Lizzy reversed the dagger and held it out. Lucy swallowed, took it, and cut six inches off the bottom, the blade slicing soundlessly. She returned it, having held an artifact coveted by Napoleon himself, and hurried back to Thomas.
The sound of galloping hooves was nearing. Horses burst from a hunting trail. Mr. Darcy led several Briton men, all armed with sword or gun. Relief filled me, then apprehension; Lizzy was so changed.
Mr. Darcy reined to a hard stop and leaped down. He swayed and grabbedthe saddle with whitened fingers. His other hand reached out as if to touch a phantasm. “Love.”
“What?” Lizzy said uneasily.
I actually laughed. It was the first time she had sounded like herself.
Mr. Darcy stepped forward. Lizzy stepped back. She raised the dagger, vertical like a fencer’s salute—a barrier, not a threat.
“I am your husband,” he said.
She eyed him. “Do you greet everyone with ‘Love’ and ‘I am your husband’?”
He gave an amazed smile. “Only you.”
“I can have no husband.” Her lips compressed. “Certainly not one so prettily dressed.”
His features furrowed, then twisted, then ended in an odd, disbelieving grin. “You have one, like it or not.”
“I do not,” Lizzy said. His grin vanished as she walked to Yuánchi. The dragon crouched, pressing his neck and wing to the earth. She stepped onto the knurl of his wing joint, walked easily up the heavy leading bone to his shoulder, then leaped to straddle the base of his neck. The dragon stood, lifting her a dozen feet over our heads.
“Elizabeth!” Mr. Darcy shouted as the great wings spanned the sky, then booming gusts scoured us with blinding sand and spray.
When I lowered my arm from my eyes, the dragon was passing the far end of the lake. The two cream-colored firedrakes circled a point in the forest, about as far as the two men could have run. Yuánchi reached them, a brilliant golden spark kindled, and I looked away as blinding radiance from his fire saturated the valley, dazzling my eyes and heating my skin. A second later, thunder slammed. It echoed round the lake, roaring and grumbling. That swath of forest was a raging, sun-bright inferno.
Yuánchi rose again, Lizzy visible on his back as they swung eastward. I could see the cream-colored Vs of the firedrakes’ wings, flying ahead, one on each side.
Mr. Darcy was gripping his stamping horse’s bridle in one hand while he stroked the animal with the other, softly talking it down. When it settled, blowing uneasily, he mounted. He watched Yuánchi vanish over the hilltops, then turned his horse left and right, studying the shores of the lake. Choosing a path.
“You cannot chase a dragon on horseback!” I cried.
“I assure you I can,” he replied.
“Lizzy is not herself. She killed three men!”
“She did not kill me.” His smile was terrible and joyous. “My wyfe is alive, Mary. Care for my sister. Care for Pemberley.”
He galloped away.
9
FITZWILLIAM DARCY
DARCY
Four days ago,Elizabeth rose. When her gaze met mine, it rocked both our souls. Whatever denials she uttered afterward, whatever foolishness a listening stranger might conclude, I had seen the truth. My wyfe knew me.
I twitched the reins, guiding Escalus onto a cart path that led to a farmhouse. His gray head wandered longingly as we passed a shady patch of grass. Four days of travel, even carefully paced, had tired him.
Riding in pursuit had been impulsive, but travel imposed discipline. The outline of a plan had formed as I rounded the lake, and the long miles since had honed it like the relentless questioning of a Socratic tutor.
