Page 1 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
1
FEEDING A DRAKE
It isa truth universally acknowledged that a hungry firedrake is an irritating beast.
I dangled a strip of raw steak between my outstretched fingers, then gave it a tempting wiggle. The entrance of our draca house, a three-foot-high stone kennel, remained stubbornly empty.
I hmphed. “If you wish to be fed, you shall have to endure my presence.” Our firedrake’s response was a ticking hiss like a heating and annoyed kettle.
I squatted down on my heels, and my skirt and petticoats piled onto the damp earth. It was a clear morning, but not cold enough for frost. In the garden behind me, drops of chilled dew sparkled on purple hollyhocks and crimson Portland roses.
Serene steps approached on the garden path, and Jane, my eldest sister, arrived. “Has he hid?”
“Of course.” Our drake always hid when I was near.
Jane bent to peer into the kennel—but gathered a handful of her skirts so they did not brush the ground.
Our draca house was fireproof and placed well away from the manor for safety. An iron perch topped the waist-high slate roof. The walls were mortared puddingstone, a local Hertfordshire rock riddled with gravel and shells that gave the entrance a toothed look.
Inside, a glint of bronze shifted restlessly.
“I cannot imagine why he dislikes being fed by you,” Jane said. She took the plate of raw meat, then held out a piece thick with enticing fat.
Jane was wearing a simple white dress and a bonnet tied with ivory ribbon. With a few escaped yellow curls shining in the early sun, she looked a portrait of country morning rendered slightly wild by her ungloved hand proffering bloody steak.
There was a stir in the shadows. When nothing more happened, Jane gave me an apologetic glance. I sighed and backed away.
Our firedrake emerged. He was sinuous and bronze, a winged male the size of a large goose. But a firedrake is scaly and muscular, much slimmer than a goose, with wings that unfold wider than any bird’s and far more neck and tail. Two-legged, he was lithe as a cat, each step poised before his talons gripped the earth.
His chisel-shaped head stretched toward Jane’s hand. Obsidian-dark teeth gleamed as he snatched the piece of meat.
“It is not beingfedby me he dislikes,” I said. “It ismehe dislikes.”
“Draca are not affectionate creatures,” Jane said. Illustrating her point, our drake turned his glistening black eyes to me and hissed.
Annoyed, I mouthed, “Boo!” In a slither of bronze scales, the drake vanished into the stone kennel.
Jane’s brow wrinkled. “Lizzy. Now how shall I feed him?”
“Perhaps I should try again. Mamma will be annoyed otherwise.” I heaved another sigh. “Will it amuse the neighbors if I marry and fail to bind a draca? I expect that is worth several weeks of gossip.”
“I am sure you will bind.” Jane dangled another strip of meat. “I do worry, though. About Papa, I mean. I saw you help him this morning.”
My father had come to breakfast late, his lips pressing thinner with each step until his hand froze on the back of a chair, arresting his progress to the head of the table. I saw the tremble of his fingers, so I took his other arm, pretending to tell some trifle of gossip. When we reached his chair, he squeezed my fingers in gratitude.
That silent admission of weakness had torn a deeper hole in my heart than any outward sign of his infirmity. I ate in silence for half of breakfast, afraid concern would choke my voice and embarrass him.
Remembering that touch, my fears slipped down an unwanted path.
If Papa died, we faced more than the pain of that loss. Our firedrake was bound to my parents, so if either died, our drake would leave. But our estate,Longbourn, was entailed—only bound gentry could hold the property. When our firedrake left, we would be cast out, a household of women with no livelihood and no home.
Our firedrake reemerged, crawling on the elbows of his folded wings. He cast a baleful glance at me. His talons—wicked things, two inches long—twitched, then sank their full length into the hard ground.
Our gazes fixed together, the drake’s eyes impenetrable as two wet river stones. A shiver climbed my spine. Foreboding? Or standing too long in the chill.
My vision juddered.
A second vision overlaid mine, a flickering image of a woman with hair as dark and curly as mine. She shone with golden light, brilliant as the sun.
