Page 127 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
Amid the babble, I slipped outside.
Jane and Charles’s wyvern was beside our draca house, examining the abandoned perch with evident curiosity. She was a little larger than Lady Catherine’s wyvern, at least the size of a heavy foxhound. But instead of bronze, she gleamed resplendent gold in the morning sun. I had never heard of a gold draca.
I closed my eyes. Her mind shone, wise and old. She was aware of me.
I opened my eyes. Her eyes flicked through shades of the rainbow as the sun touched them.
“Are you already our drake, transformed to a wyvern?” I wondered because she was interested in his perch.
child. he will swim for more than a lifetime of man
“?‘Child’ again? Are you all so old?”
you are so young
“I am happy you have bound with my sister.” Her wings rustled. Best to get to important questions. “I wish to ask, what is the darkness of Pemberley? Draca flee the three lakes. Another wyvern told me to go there to help Jane. But it did not help.”
emptiness is not darkness. deference is not fear. jane is healed. the sisters of the child are revered
“That is a very vague answer, if it is an answer at all. If you are so old, you should have learned to be clear.”
Her jaws opened in the panting laughter of her kind.
Behind me, the manor door burst open and Mamma ran out. She stopped beside me, her trembling fingers over her open mouth. The house emptied into our garden, forming a half-circle of awed faces. The wyvern looked back at her admirers with scintillating eyes and equal interest.
Jane and Charles were hand in hand. “Is she not beautiful?” Jane said to nobody in particular.
Janeand I explained our plan to Mamma and Charles after breakfast.
“Take Longbourn?” Charles was astonished. “We cannot! It is yours.”
“It is very precariously ours,” I answered. “And not for long. With our drake gone, Longbourn is sure to be claimed. But the entailment is clear. You are bound consort to an heiress. Reside here with your wyvern for seven nights, and you and Jane assume the title.” He was shaking his head. “You must, or our home will be lost, and likely to someone unfriendly.”
“Lizzy is quite right,” Mamma said. “I have been recently disappointed with the quality of Hertfordshire gentlemen. Even members of the clergy. I am certain some horrible cousin from London would cast us out to starve.”
“If we do this, it will be in name only,” Charles said to her. “It will remain your home.” He looked at me. “Your estate.” He added, with a helpless laugh, “I am already quite overwhelmed sorting out Netherfield! Although now I have Jane to help.” He smiled at Jane adoringly, and Jane melted a little with happiness.
I suppressed an eye roll. For all that I loved them both, my tolerance for adoration was being tested this morning. Jane passes the butter and is adored. Charles pours the tea and is adored.
I wandered the house, restless. For two long years as Papa’s health worsened, I had been driven to protect my family. Then there was the desperate fight to save Jane. It was strange to have the two worries that consumed my life vanish overnight.
Mary and Miss Darcy were seated together at the keyboard of our small pianoforte, discussing chords and cadences. Pages of manuscript were laid out. I recognized Mary’s distinctive hand even in notation.
I listened as Mary played fragments of music. It was unfamiliar and modern. This was her composition.
They stopped so Mary could write changes. She looked up at me, smiling. Another happy sister.
“I like it very much,” I told her. She ducked her head to the music and thanked me, her smile pleased behind her swinging braid. “I should like to hear it all.”
“May I play it?” asked Miss Darcy. After a stillness, Mary nodded, then came to stand with me. She was nervous. I watched her eyes on Miss Darcy. That was the audience that worried her, not me.
Miss Darcy began to play. It was not what I would have imagined Mary would write. It had her intensity, but it was incandescent with emotion. Romantic. Longing.
I became lost in the music, and in hearing Miss Darcy perform again. This was different from the roaring Beethoven she had played at Pemberley. This was lyric. Every note sang.
“It is wonderful,” Miss Darcy said softly after the last tones faded.
Mary was staring in astonishment. Perhaps this was the first time Miss Darcy had played for her.
