Page 13 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Your sister is gravely ill.” I nodded. This was obvious. “I cannot overstate the seriousness of her condition. There is a chance if I treat her now. I cannot delay to send for a specialized physician. Further progression will remove all hope.”
I had never seen him so serious. All I could do was nod again. He bowed and left the room, calling for the housekeeper.
I sat helplessly, almost unseeing, trapped in a strange house and terrified for Jane. The housekeeper entered, directing two maids with the brusque manner of housekeepers everywhere. They pulled the linens aside and pushed a heavy quilt under Jane’s leg. Jane made no response as they moved her.
The room emptied. But the plain dress and shoes of a maid had stopped infront of me. I looked up and saw the wizened face and reddened hands of the Scottish laundry maid I had met outside the draca house at Longbourn.
“Ma’am,” she said. I had to concentrate to comprehend her brogue. “Your sister, she is stung. ’Tis a cockatrice, or other foul crawler.” I had said almost the same words, but hearing them cut away my hope. They tolled like a sentence of death. “Dragon wyves, your family be. I saw you. You commanded that drake, and you only a miss, not even bound.”
“We are gentry, yes.” Part of me laughed silently, mocking myself for once worrying about inconsequential vanities like marriage and binding.
“Your sister must bedosed, ma’am. She needs the essence. The poison will burn her away if you do nothing, and this doctor is no better.”
“What are you speaking of? What essence?” This sounded like some folk tale.
“The draca hail from Scotland, lassie, afore the thieving English stole them. We keep the old ways and know the old cures. But do you have draca essence for a dose?”
“I have never heard of such a thing.” But no, that was wrong. Those words were in the journal my father gave me.
Her thin lips hardened. “Raw draca blood, then. If she be half the wyfe as you, she will bear it. But the blood must be freely given, or it will not fight the venom.”
“Draca blood is medicine, you mean?”
“Aye, against those foul creatures. Raw blood is dangerous but potent. A few drops only.” Her eyebrows narrowed. “You are sitting like a lump, lassie. Go get it!”
Understanding dawned. I grabbed the sharpest thing I saw, a letter opener from the dressing table, and the saucer from under my cold chocolate. I ran down the stairs. Mr. Bingley called as I passed a doorway, but I ignored him and ran out to the draca house.
It was empty.
I turned. The sun was falling below the horizon, casting long, darkening shadows.
“Where are you?” I called and heard a rustling growl under a bush. I ran and fell on my knees in front of the lindworm. She hissed, backing away, but I grabbed her muzzle and pulled until her glittering black gaze met mine. Her neck and jaws were corded with muscle—I could neverhave held her if she fought—but she just watched, her breath steaming around my fingers like a kettle ready to boil.
“You must let me take your blood,” I said. But where could I prick her? The letter opener had a point but was not sharp, and even her muzzle had scales so hard they scraped like steel.
I let go of her muzzle and reached for a paw, the letter opener in my other hand.
Her jaws snapped a hairsbreadth from my cheek, fangs gleaming dark and burnished like our drake’s claws. I froze, but her gaze caught on mine again, and the growling diminished. In the gloaming dark, blue flame flickered behind the jags of her teeth.
“Watch,” I said. I held my hands up, took a breath, then drove the point into my palm. Desperation made me push deep, and the pain was sharp. I held the saucer beneath as drops fell. “You see? Now you must take a turn.” I felt for a paw, and a strange certainty spread through me. I lifted her paw and spread her toes with my fingers, feeling soft skin between, and pushed the point in.
Her paw clenched, muscles bunching under her scaly skin. Claws I had not seen cut my fingers. But her eyes watched mine, and her fangs, so close that their heat warmed my lips as if we prepared a bizarre kiss, did not savage my face. One hard, hot exhalation crossed my cheeks, then another.
I had to look down to place the saucer. Drops fell—golden and clear, not like blood at all. One landed in the drops of my own blood and sizzled like hot oil.
I sat back, and the lindworm did the same on her haunches, suddenly doglike and docile. I grabbed the saucer, rose, and stopped.
Mr. Darcy faced me, no more than two steps away.
I did not know what he had seen, and I could not imagine what he thought.
“I…” he began. His voice failed, leaving his lips parted and his eyes wondering. Then, he was composed. “I hoped to inquire after your sister.”
What answer could I make? I ran past him into the house, then to Jane’s room.
The scene was frantic. Mr. Jones was pressing a brown flask of laudanum to Jane’s lips while she fumbled to push it away. His method seemed reckless, as he usually prescribed ten drops.
Two burly men from the stables stood against the wall, which was unthinkable because the bed cover was pushed aside, exposing Jane’s injured leg to the thigh. They stared at the floor, their faces pale with embarrassment.
