Page 116 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
That horror had never infected England. Not until last year, when English extremists claimed “inquisition” as their rallying cry to raise the Church above the state.
I was alone, facing a mob.
The manor door opened, and Mary stepped out beside me. She wore Lydia’s scarlet gown, now so ornamented with black ribbon that it was passable mourning dress. It might even be fashionable. Scarlet mantels for mourning were a fad in London.
“Curate Mincekeep,” Mary called out. “You are far from your parish of All Hallows Barking.”
“Show respect when addressing the Church, woman,” he shouted back.
“My respect is for ecclesiastical law.”
My eyebrows rose. I had seen Mary read church texts, but solely to practice her scorn. That seemed rather far from respect.
Mamma arrived on my other side, standing arm-in-arm with Mrs. Hill. Mamma looked flustered but annoyed, like she had overheard an unflattering rumor in a shop. Kitty trailed her, looking nervous.
Four ladies of our household now stood opposite the crowd. Five, really. Mrs. Hill certainly counted. She was scowling with tremendous authority.
An unshaven man pointed a dirty finger at Mary. “Is she one of them ladies in congress with Satan?” He sounded more enthused than disapproving.
Mary ignored him and called out, “The Holy Inquisition is a Catholic barbarity rejected by the English Church. It is forbidden by English law.”
The crowd quieted, and several men exchanged concerned glances. A few heads nodded, presumably approving of sensible English law over outlandish concepts like Catholics.
The curate eyed his new opponent. “I am an agent ofepiscopalinquisition.”
I bit back a laugh. Only a stranger would argue semantics with Mary.
Mary cleared her throat, a bookish habit that signaled the beginning of serious debate. “Episcopal inquisition?” she said in a puzzled tone. “That requires anepiscopus—a bishop. I am sure you are merely a curate, and one who was reprimanded by Archbishop Manners-Sutton for association with radical elements. Our own parson is superior to you in rank. Mr. Fernsby, Mr. Sweet,”—she nodded to two men in the group, neither of whom I could have named—“you attend his services. I suggest we send for him and hear his opinion of your ‘inquisition.’?” She pursed her lips, then added, “Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum.”
I did not know the Latin, but from Curate Mincekeep’s flush, it was not flattering.
The crowd, however, was shuffling in a bored manner. This was much less exciting than women in congress with Satan.
Mr. Sallow apparently reached the same conclusion. He grabbed a fistful of the curate’s robes and pointed to our firedrake. “There is the proof! A firedrake, improperly bound to an inferior estate. The animal is a menace, uncontrolled after its master’s death!”
That made me angry, and I spoke before Mary could reply. “The Longbourn drake is bound to my mother and has been for decades. Mrs. Bennet is no stranger to you. Longbourn is an old and honorable estate. Why is Mr. Sallow disturbing a household of ladies in mourning? I think it is self-interest and bitter envy.”
There was a buzz from the crowd. Curate Mincekeep lifted his arms and silence fell. “The Lord will decide! His power shall deliver this firedrake to the rightful owner.”
Mr. Sallow looked dangerously satisfied. Some deal had been struck. I did not know how Lydia convinced him she could deliver our drake, but I knew the chosen owner would be Mr. Sallow. In exchange, doubtless he would support Lydia’s claim for Longbourn.
I met Lydia’s gaze and was struck by how unwell she looked. Her eyes were feverish, and the black of her pupils had swollen to swallow the blue. She had powdered her face even more than when I last saw her, but the cakey white did not hide a cobweb of discolored lines on her cheeks and forehead.
A mocking smile stretched her lips, and an oily sensation chilled the back of my neck. Our drakesquealed in distress.
I closed my eyes and reached out with my mind.
The bright shine of our drake’s mind was buried under pounding, writhing darkness. It was a terrifying assault—the same sticky blackness Lydia had thrown to drive me away from her ferretworm.
I pressed at the dark with my mind, and a filthy surge blew me back like a leaf. I threw myself harder and was tossed away. There was no contest. I was utterly overmatched.
But there was something I had not seen before. A hair-thin thread of silver extended out of the black storm. It reached almost to me, humming with tension as if tethered to something.
I tightened my grip on my mother’s hand, and the thread shimmered brighter. It was the bond between my mother and the drake.
I cast my mind along it, following the thread as it shook under the force of Lydia’s assault. The darkness closed around me, buffeting and tugging. I had to drag my awareness along the silver string, like a sailor clutching a lifeline in a night of raging storm.
A crystal wall stopped me, the defense our drake had built to repel me now deployed as a shield against Lydia. Fingers of filth clawed at it. Beyond, the brightness of our drake’s awareness shone.
