Page 9 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
And if that excitement were not enough, I had a fresh refinement to enliven my days, although it would not impress Miss Bingley’s London high society.
It was a little past dawn. I was standing in mud in front of our draca house, and most vexed with our firedrake.
“Will you not look at meoncethis morning?”
Our drake had emerged, but today he was sulky. He curled around himself and studied fallen leaves, the stone of his draca house, the points of his wings, and every available item other than me.
Each morning, I had tried to replicate the strange vision that occurred when the drake and I stared at each other after the mad dog’s attack. Each morning, I had failed. I would have had more luck asking Mr. Darcy to sing.
With a huff, I crossed my arms and scowled. The drake twined restlessly, creeping closer then scuttling away, an endless cycle. Since the attack, he never returned to the kennel while I was present, but neither did he come close. Today, he would not even face me.
I had been rising early to avoid my family, but this was a washing day, and the household was waking. Frustrated, I pointed at the drake. “You are most ill-behaved.” He crouched remorsefully, pressing his belly flat to the earth, then fled into his house.
There was an exclamation behind me. I turned to see a servant—a laundry maid, by the rough, red hands covering her shocked mouth. She was an older woman, gray-haired and wizened under her simple bonnet.
I knew our housekeeper, Mrs. Hill, brought in extra help for washing day, but I had not expected to meet a strange servant while I was apparently conversing with draca, not to mention having my petticoats inches deep in mud. But politeness serves in these situations, so I nodded and said good morning.
“Ma’am,” she said, even that short utterance revealing a Scottish brogue. Eyes lowered, she continued toward the back entrance, tromping a wide path to avoid the muddy patch by our draca house. Or perhaps to avoid me, as I was equally filthy.
Inside, I changed for breakfast, and our housemaid added the muddied clothing to the laundry she had collected. I eyed the pile, feeling guilty. But I could hardly go outside in bare legs.
The journal from my father rested on my dressing table. Although the oldest pages were indecipherable, I had read several parts, sometimes with Jane beside me for another opinion. But I learned little, other than a disturbing mention of “corrupted wyfe” and mysterious references to “draca essence.”
The day was warming when breakfast ended, so my sisters and I set out walking to Meryton. The town was a mile away, and the muddy patches can be avoided if you are not distracted by disobedient drakes. Lydia and Kittywere in high spirits and ran ahead, while Jane, Mary, and I followed at a brisk walk.
“Have you examined the cover of your journal?” Jane said, quite out of the blue. “For I believe it isnotthe Longbourn crest.”
Mary asked what journal, and we explained. It was no secret, and I had meant to show it to her, despite a selfish concern that she would then borrow it for a week.
Mary’s brow knitted. “You must keep it safe. An old document is valuable, even if it discusses only draca.” She added, “If you wish references, you shall require comprehension of Chinese. Draca originate in the Far East. But I have heard it is a challenging language.”
“I thought draca were exclusively English,” I said.
“No, draca were appropriated from the East by the peerage, who used binding to enforce hereditary rule. Binding and hereditary title together established the aristocracy, the corrupt elite that today represses honest workers.”
“Mary, whathaveyou been reading?” I said, taken aback.
“Are they really from the Orient?” Jane said eagerly.
Mary blinked at us. Her scholarly comments seldom received such attention. “I was not much interested, so I recall only a little. Marco Polo described Eastern draca as most savage. Village headmen would sacrifice young virgins to their tremendous appetite.”
Jane’s eyes had gone round. “I will not believe that!”
“I find it quite plausible,” Mary replied primly, hurt that her authority was questioned. “Our English patriarchy commoditizes unmarried ladies. Primitive societies, unless truly naturalistic, would be as culpable.”
Jane was dubious. “But our drake would not eat a woman. He is quite tame. And small!”
“It is my impression that, in the distant past, the Eastern varietals were larger.”
“How much larger?” I said. I had never seen a wyvern, but they were described as nearing the weight of a middle-sized dog.
But Mary’s thoughts were proceeding on their own path. “I should be pleased to escape to a naturalistic society. The native tribes in America revere women and acknowledge them to be the wisest leaders. That would be most enjoyable.”
I examined Mary’s clothes, which, though she still wore black, were fastidiousand impractical. “Are yousure? I should think practicing your music would be difficult.”
“I would bring a smaller harpsichord. Or perhaps a clavichord. One of the braves could carry it for me. They are very strong from wrestling bison and bears.”
This seemed an overly romantic view. “Are yousure?” I asked again.
