Page 93 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
I stole a glance at Miss Darcy. Her lips moved, silently echoing a word.
“What isla Tarasque?” I whispered.
“A French myth, very old. A fearsome dragon that lived in the water and was tamed by Saint Martha.” She listened. Presumably, she had excellent tutors for her French. “They are searching for it. No… searching forbookson it. And the ‘child of the lake.’ I do not know what that is.”
“Stay still,” I whispered. “They will take their books and go.”
I was frightened, but not terrified. If they tied up a maid instead of harming her, they would not dare harm ladies.
And my mind was buzzing with the strangeness of their search. Child of the lake. The same name as my family’s journal, Loch bairn.
With the added light, two men swiftly searched the shelves while the sandy-haired man guarded us. One searcher cried out in triumph. He smashed a locked, glass-covered shelf. They began pulling out books and placing them in a large canvas bag.
Were those the prized draca books?
Abruptly, I realized I might be able to do something. Raise the alarm, if nothing else.
I closed my eyes and reached for the little tykeworm.
The void that surrounded Pemberley came first, like blindness. But where was the tyke? I concentrated, searching but finding nothing. I forced a calm breath. Forget the whispered French and the book spines pressing my shoulders. Open yourself.
The little gleam of the tyke appeared. A faint star, nothing like his usual rambunctious spirit. I nudged. Nothing. It was like prodding a lump of unresponsive clay.
He was sleeping. I remembered him lying down by the fire in the music parlor.
I prodded, hard. Nothing. “Forgive me,” I whispered, then threw myself into the little glimmer, screaming in my head,Wake up!
There was an alarmed scramble of awareness. And I could see.
One aspect of my mind was muddled with sleep, the other bedazzled. A fire was a roaring conflagration a few feet away, a thousand indescribable shades. The music room loomed, sized for giants and filled with hulking instruments. Every color was wrong, replaced by vibrant hues distinct and different from the warm woods and fabrics I remembered.
The view swung, hunting for the wyfe who had screamed. She was not in the room. The view centered on a tall opening and began loping toward it. The doorway.
No!I thought.Do not come to me.Instead, I imagined Mr. Darcy, remembering how he appeared in the wyvern’s mind, all postures and angles.
The loping motion spun, bounced, then settled, looking upward. A giant sat, his clothes shining warm, his hands and face even brighter. He shifted the ponderous way giants do, looking down. He spoke, but the sound was muddled and deep. Unintelligible. His features were indistinct in the tyke’s perspective, but I sensed the shoulders and straight back of Mr. Darcy.
Now what?
Nudge him, I thought.Make asound—
The tyke’s vision vanished as fingers grabbed my jaw and jammed my temple against the books. I opened my eyes to see the face of the sandy-haired man.
“I know you,” he growled.
I shook my head.
“Allons-y!” hissed a man by the door. “Tout de suite!” They were leaving. Only these two remained. The one with the bag of books was already gone.
The man let go of my face. Then he struck me—slapped me so hard that my head banged the shelf and my vision turned white. Hot pain flared on my cheek and lip.
“How do I know you?” he hissed.
There was rapid French. I blinked, head hanging, trying to clear my thoughts.
The tyke padded through the doorway. He trotted to my feet then sat and looked up, like five pounds of scaly, proud puppy.
If only the Gardiners had bound a firedrake.
