Page 39 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
Why here, though? Why Derbyshire?
I remembered my desperate winter flight with Lizzy to recover the dagger. I had confronted Fènnù on a London hill. When black ichor dripped from her diseased wings, crawlers rose from the earth.
Fènnù had haunted Derbyshire for months while Lizzy lay beneath the lake. Somehow, that was the cause. History had no mention of foul crawlers before the black dragon was driven mad. Before the dragons’ song was broken.
For once, recalling my meetings with dragons did not make me feel insignificant. Georgiana had said, “You are powerful.” The strength of our song filled me, and at last, I believed her.
Still, I had not solved the puzzle that led us to sing Fènnù’s song. My memory of the flute remained a nagging flutter beyond conscious reach.
A muffled, irritated buzz sounded from the bookshelf. I had no appetite for discoveries, but, wearily, I walked over.
The untreated bean pod had split. An ugly crawler circled futilely in the jar, delicate wings fraying. The sight brought an acid distaste to my throat, and I considered how best to kill it.
In the other jar, the bean pod I treated with draca essence flexed. Morbidly curious, I watched until, with eerie exactness, it split. No, it was cut, as if by a miniature razor from within.
Gleaming with nacreous lapis and jade, a dragonfly-like needledrac emerged. She perched on the cut pod, airing her wings, a beautiful, perfect little draca.
14
PASSING CHELSEA
EMMA
I lookedout the coach’s open door. Mr. Knightley was conferring with our driver. Gusts plucked their coat collars. Watery sunlight and gloom alternated as layered clouds crossed the sky.
The driver nodded and climbed back up to his seat, his boots thumping the coach wall behind my head. Mr. Knightley returned to sit across from me. He gave an ironic shrug. “We agree that it will soon rain and that the inn is ahead, somewhere. Whether it is a mile or five is hard to say.”
Before we left Pemberley, Mr. Knightley had arranged rooms at an inn in Berkhamsted. That would lodge us only twelve miles from Netherfield, the Bingleys’ home. So, I had started two letters to Harriet, crumpled them half-written, and finally sent a short note explaining our plan and suggesting we call on her.
But we were arriving two days later than I had said, delayed by peculiar weather and detours around Blackcoat bandits. When the scheduled date passed, I began inventing unpleasant outcomes. Harriet had replied and suggested we shop in Meryton, then stormed off after waiting for hours. Or worse, she sent a cutting missive refusing any contact.
Muffled voices sounded as the driver and the Pemberley footman, who served multiple duties as coachman, security, and chaperone, dug out their rain gear. The driver whistled, and the horses sped to a brisk trot.
Another gust rattled the coach, and the windows dimmed alarmingly. I straightened a seam on my glove, aligning the embroidered stitches in a neat row.
“You are counting threads again,” Mr. Knightley said. He smiled. “I have noticed that you dislike night travel.”
Having my secret discovered made me want to deny it, but his expression was so sympathetic that I admitted, “You are right. I am not fond of dark coaches. But it is an old concern. One I have overcome.” I held out my hand, and he reached across to take my fingers. “You see? Steady as stone.”
“Impressive.” Politely, he released my hand, just a touch between friends. We had such easy friendship now. I fixed a suitably friendly smile on my lips to hide the warmth that his touches stirred in my belly.
Thinking about dark coaches cooled that quickly enough. Nighttime rides were vehicles for memories of Mr. Elton. When we reached Highbury, I would encounter him; that must be why the dimmed windows bothered me. It had been a coach like this where he shouted claims of courting me, as if a few weeks of unnecessarily gallant manners and abundant sighs justified the violence that followed.
Mr. Knightley had also courted me, but invisibly, as if courting could be as simple as two people muddling together through an upended, frightening world. I ended that when I rejected his understated, gentlemanlike inquiry. At the time, I fancied that rejecting him was self-sacrifice, a noble decision for his own good. Now, it seemed self-absorbed. I had been insensible of his merits, insolent enough to presume that my defects were beyond redemption merely because I alone had not had the strength to overcome them.
But a repented choice is still a choice. Repented consequences do not vanish.
“What are you contemplating so intently?” Mr. Knightley asked, his eyes catching gleams of lamplight through his black lashes.
“Choice and consequence,” I said lightly. “Which reminds me, you must prod me to find the amulet when we arrive. My projects at Hartfield will certainly drive it out of my head.”
“You do not fool me. You talk about the amulet every day. I will remind you of Hartfield, instead. Reclaiming your life matters also.”
That seemed friendly, so I reused my suitably friendly smile.
Uneven plinks sounded on the roof. Raindrops. The wind swirled, rocking the cab on its springs. Mr. Knightley lit a thin wooden spill from the heater coals and held it to the lamp wick. He trimmed the lamp and shrugged apologetically, as if he were the one afraid of dark coaches.
“Strange weather,” he said. “An English spring.”
