Page 118 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
The cuts beneath the drake’s claws felt thin as hairs, but the cloth was wet. And this was my new bombazine twill. “At least it is a black dress.”
42
BURSTING WITH JOY
In our room,I loosened my dress-tie, eased the dark cloth off my shoulder, and adjusted the looking glass.
My collarbone was decorated with shallow cuts from our drake’s claws: three vertical slashes from his right foot, and two from his left with its injured toe. I dabbed at them with a handkerchief, then reached over my shoulder, feeling for the cuts from his rear claws.
Jane’s fingers took the cloth. “You are always hurting yourself.” The cloth wiped, gentle but shaking.
I was afraid to speak. Afraid my voice would break the spell of normalcy.
The cloth touched again.
“How do you feel?” I said.
“I had a bad dream. Lydia was drowning in darkness. Silver light burned the darkness away, but she was gone.”
Strange. Was another Bennet sister imbued with unusual skills?
The bloodied handkerchief fell to the floor. “There. It is better.” Her fingers, once so deft, fumbled trying to refasten the tie.
“I shall do it,” I said. “Would you like to come down?” She nodded, and we went down together.
Our household was long past worrying about Jane appearing in her nightgown. Mamma settled her in a chair, fussing for tea to be made, while Kitty’sbright voice chattered of a new fashion they must try. I watched them pretend that all was fine and fought to keep my eyes from spilling.
The doorbell chimed. Our housemaid rose from fixing Jane’s hair, but I said, “No, Sarah. I shall go.” I doubted a mob of torch-wielding fanatics would ring, but if they did, I would rather they met me than a maid.
At the door, I swallowed my tears, settled myself to be presentable, and realized the shoulder of my dress was shredded. Oh, well. I opened the door.
Mr. Bingley, his curly hair handsomely messy from riding, looked at me in surprise. His blue eyes crinkled into a delighted smile.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet! I did not expect you. What on earth has happened to your park?” A blue haze of smoke still hung in the air behind him.
Both my hands were over my open mouth.
His smile became charmingly self-conscious. “Is your sister Miss Bennet at home?”
Running feet passed me, and Jane’s nightgown-robed figure thumped into Mr. Bingley. Her arms wrapped his neck. Her face burrowed into his shoulder. A single muffled word, “Charles,” emerged over and over from somewhere in his jacket.
Hesitantly, protectively, he wrapped her stick-thin figure in his arms. His hand patted her shoulder. “I am back,” he whispered.
“But you are in America!”I burst out.
We had moved to the parlor. Mr. Bingley was seated at one end of our settee. Jane, wrapped in a dressing gown, was… well, cuddled against him.
“Iwasin America,” Mr. Bingley replied. “It is a grand story.”
Mrs. Hill interrupted. “Miss Bennet. Would you not prefer a seat with more room?”
“But she is so wobbly,” protested Mr. Bingley. “I am afraid she will…” I watched him struggle to invent a dire risk. “Tip over,” he finished, a little unsatisfactorily.
“That is quite right,” Mamma spoke up. “She could strike her head.”
Mr. Bingley appeared distressed by that. His arm encircled Jane’s shoulder.
“Why America?” Jane asked softly.
