The constable was perched on the coach step and swearing, his ruddycomplexion pale. At least ten crawlers the length of a lady’s finger scuttled over the cobblestones. At the alley’s edge, the verdant strip of grass and weeds had putrefied to a black, rotted smear.
“Did a woman in gray run past you?” I asked.
“A woman?” He grabbed the doorframe and leaned dangerously, peering both ways down the alley. “Not that I saw.”
Georgiana ducked out the door, beneath his arm, and jumped lightly to the ground. A startled crawler reared its paired stingers. Carefully, she crushed its head under her bootheel, then she rushed to the song draca I held. “What happened to them?”
“Stunned by venom scent.”
She caught my fingers in hers, cradling the draca between us, and sang a wordless tune. I felt the power of the great wyfe of song rise, shining like the spring sun, and the draca stirred and shuddered. Softly, she sang, “Be calm, little ones,” and they flapped and scrambled to perch on my wrists, flight feathers fluffing in annoyance.
The draca hopped from my wrists to the ground. The new arrival, a female, cocked her head like a robin hunting a worm, then ran to a small crawler. I feared she would eat it—surely that would be deadly—but instead she breathed a thin streak of blue fire from her jeweled muzzle, crisping the writhing crawler to a crackling mess. The two draca began chasing about, burning the crawlers, their nearly invisible flame flaring crimson where it seared moss and lichen from the stones.
“I wish they did that earlier,” I said.
“You smelled venom?” Georgiana asked. Behind her, a burned crawler shell popped like a roasted chestnut.
I nodded. “I do not know how. Small crawlers do not spray. They only sting. The Frenchwoman must have spread it.”
Her brows lifted. “What Frenchwoman?”
“A woman from the French court. She said Napoleon has divorced. He plans to remarry and bind.”
“Bind? That cannot be good. He will marry in the occupied south?”
That explanation had not occurred to me. Why were my thoughts so muddled? “The Frenchwoman is a perfumer. She has a court title,la Demoiselle des Parfums. Her scent…” I tried to recall it, but unlike words and images, I had no gift for scent memory. “Sweet and dark, like buckwheat honey…”
Georgiana’s eyebrows climbed higher. “Yousmelledher?”
“She was very close. It may have been on her lips.”
“Her lips!” Georgiana straightened.
I touched her shoulder and felt slender muscles as tense as wire. “Be patient with me. My mind is recovering from… an intoxication. A chemical effect. It is fading.”
“I see,” Georgiana said testily, but she relaxed.
“The Frenchwoman is Napoleon’s intimate. His lover. She aspires to be his Empress. She wants me to help her find one of the great items, a flute made from dragon claw.”
Georgiana gave an incredulous laugh. “And I thought Darcys were bold.”
“She offered a bribe. The books that Lydia stole. She said they would explain ‘the great song.’ Do you know what that is?”
“I have never heard that phrase. You should ask Fitz. But draca live in song. Their names, their thoughts… it is all music. Their song is around us, even now.”
I was reviewing my meeting. “The perfumer possesses an unrivaled library of draca knowledge, and yet she thinks I can find something she cannot. Because I am a Bennet.”
“MyBennet,” Georgiana said firmly. “I dislike this perfumed lady who offers bribes.”
“We are wasting time searching for books,” I decided.
Georgiana clutched a hand to her breast and gasped, “Youarepoisoned!”
“No—” I began, then realized it was a joke. “I have been searching for books because… because that is what I do. But scholarly histories do not matter. This Frenchwoman thinks I can find the flute because I am a Bennet. You said it too, in another way: I share blood with Lizzy.” Georgiana was serious, listening, and as my mind cleared, a memory clicked. “Ihaveheard of ‘the great song.’ If I can save Lizzy, it will be because the secret lies with my family.”
2
A VISIT HOME
