Page 92 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Fitz worries that I am lonely here,” Miss Darcy said. Her tentative smile glowed in the candlelight, and the gold note on her necklace gleamed. “I worry that he is too serious. So, I tease him.”
“It is good he has a sister, then.”
“He is changed since returning from Rosings. He wrote so often of you while he was there. I felt I almost had a sister.” That was a suggestive choice of words, and I wondered what he had written. “You should tease him, also,” sheadded decisively, now sounding more like a girl of sixteen. “He is far less formidable than he acts.”
“I shall have little chance. I depart tomorrow.” The flutter in my breast went still.
She stopped, her face falling. “So soon?”
“I must see my sister. She is ill.”
“Oh. I am sorry. I hope she is better when you return.” I nodded, the rote response sticking in my throat. After a silence, Miss Darcy held the candle forward. “There! They are lighting the library. It has a special chandelier. Let me show you.”
Ahead, light spilled from an open door.
When Mr. Darcy and I discussed the library, we assumed I would not visit. But Miss Darcy walked through the door with the candle, so I had little choice.
The room opened around us, sprawling and shadowed, lit by our candle and three lamps carried by men. Each man stood by a different bookshelf. The ovals of light from their lamps swung when we entered, revealing the room.
The collection was huge, which by now was no surprise. Shelves filled every wall. An oak table had neat stacks of books beside pens, paper, and blotters. Another was swamped with haphazard volumes spilled everywhere.
As the three lamps converged on us, they shone through a chandelier lowered for lighting. It rested crookedly on the floor, a confection of Venetian blown glass that reached my waist, swirling with violet and gold and crimson. Even in the poor light, it was a masterpiece.
“Who are you?” Miss Darcy said in a frightened voice. And I realized this was wrong.
The chandelier’s unlit candles were askew and broken. The crooked angle was from smashing into the floor. The base lay in a heap of glinting shards. Loops of iron chain had spooled down from the ceiling, snapping delicate flowers and birds of glass.
There was a flurry of steps and moving lamps. Heavy hands threw me against a wall of shelves. Books bounced off my shoulders and slapped the floor.
A man’s hand covered my mouth, shoving the back of my head against a wooden shelf. His eyes stared into mine, inches away.
“See this?” he said, and a knife blade rose between our faces, bright in the light. “You make a sound, and I cut your throat. Understand?”
I nodded against his hand, so shocked I was not yet frightened. His handleft, but the blade waited. After I made no sound but gasps for air, he stepped back.
A lamp glared into my eyes. Beyond it, the man joined two other dark figures and conversed in hushed, angry tones.
They spoke French.
“What is this?” whispered Miss Darcy, backed against the shelves beside me. I reached and met fingers seeking mine. We clasped hands.
“Thieves,” I whispered back. But in a library?
Some decision was reached, and a man began lighting the crooked candles in the fallen chandelier. They spat and flickered, burning fast from their angle. Their long, smoky flames drew beautiful glows from the broken glass.
The room brightened. We were against a bookshelf beside the doorway. A maid lay on the floor next to us, tied hand-and-foot with rope and gagged with white cloth. Frightened eyes met mine, and she made a muffled sound.
“Quiet!” a man said harshly. He had a pistol in his belt and a sword at his side. He drew the sword, a long, wicked piece of steel, and pointed it at the maid. She nodded.
The man was skinny and sandy-haired, with crooked, brown teeth. I had seen him before. The militia soldier who stopped our carriage.
He looked toward me. I turned my face away, instinct warning me not to be recognized.
The men’s French resumed, fluent and fast with a rough accent different than I had learned. I caught snatches.La Tarasqueseveral times, which I did not know.
Then, urgently,l’enfant du lac.
Child of the lake.
