Page 114 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
I went inside and dug out one of the jars from Pemberley lake. They had revealed no benefit—or any effect at all—on Jane. But I had a case full of them, so I could try something new. Maybe the wyvern thought Jane had bound an ill draca.
I carried the sealed jar outside. The drake’s head darted while I broke the wax seal. I pried out the cork and offered the brimming jar.
With a screech and frenzied flapping, he shot skyward. He landed on the tip of the manor’s roof, squawking down at me like an annoyed jay.
I looked up in frustrated disbelief and jammed my palm against my forehead. I shouted up, “I do not require more mysteries!”
By wash day,our world was collapsing.
When I woke, Jane was hunched under the covers and breathing in shuddering gasps separated by long, frightening silences.
I ran to the kitchen in my nightgown, dodged a scullery maid done up far more elegantly than me, and snatched a chunk of old bread. Back in our room, I coaxed Jane’s dose of medicine-soaked bread between her lips. Her breathing calmed, and my panic receded to simple fear.
I pushed tangled hair out of my eyes and tilted the brown-glass bottle given to me by Mr. Darcy. More than half was gone, but not yet two-thirds. Four weeks had passed, so it would last a little longer than he had predicted. Perhaps three more weeks.
Should I write to ask for more?
The question hung, roiled by a muddle of concerns. Fear of the emotions unlocked when I wrote his name. A morbid whisper—Jane was worse every day; would it even matter?
Of course, I would write. What would he think when he received a letter from me?
Perhaps Miss Bingley was visiting Pemberley. After all, Mr. Darcy required amusement while Mr. Bingley was exploring America. Miss Bingley could join Mr. Darcy for breakfast, her hair perfectly coifed, and snipe at me while he ignored my letter.
That was such an unpleasant mental image that I reveled in it while I dressed. Jealousy was wonderfully simple compared to dying sisters and ill firedrakes.
Pondering unpleasant women brought back my confrontation with Lydia. The good news was she had not returned. But her power over draca was frightening. And I was mystified by her claim to be the Child of the Lake. I did not know what she meant, or even how she knew the phrase. We had never discussed the Longbourn journal.
The burr of a familiar accent drifted up the stairwell. I abandoned pinning my hair to hurl downstairs, shouting, “Mrs. Bruichladdich,” having learned something vaguely like the pronunciation of our Scottish laundress’s name.
“I’d of come up, ma’am,” she said as I landed in the hallway like a diving wyvern in long skirts.
“Please, I require your advice. For our drake. I fear he is ill.” As we went outside, I explained about the missing scales and claw.
Our drake was curled atop his perch, looking very forlorn. There were now tiny patches without scales.
“What is wrong with him?” I asked.
“I never seen this, ma’am. Draca don’t take ill, as a rule. When did it start?”
“I noticed a few days ago, but I believe it began more than a week ago. Perhaps more than two—”
I stopped as I realized the significance of that date.
“When Mr. Bennet passed,” Mrs. Bruichladdich said quietly.
“That is likely.” What could be more significant than the death of one of the married couple who bound him?
“Ma’am, with respect, could I speak honest to ye?”
“Of course. Please.”
“I was not expecting Mrs. Bennet to hold your drake. Good wyfe as your mam is, them who hold draca as widows are… strong ladies, if you take my meaning.” Her wizened voice was cautious. I nodded for her to continue. “In the north, there’s a story of a lord who dinnae wish to lose his draca when his wyfe passed. He had a lesser worm, not a powerful breed, so he caged it in heavy iron. Thought he could keep it by force, ye see.”
She stopped, and I wondered how much she had guessed. “What happened?”
“The beast wasted away and died. The story is an old one, in verse. I recall because the cage was dusted with fallen scales, like stars. Sounded both pretty and sad.”
I walked to our drake and ran a fingertip along his back. Our laundress breathed some unintelligible Scottish oath.
