Page 145 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Facing that horror, I chose to conceal the manner of her death. I could have borne the stigma—I care nothing for condemnation by puritanical society or the hidebound Church—but I wished to shield Georgiana from learning her mother chose to abandon her. I am sure the closest of our staff guessed the truth, but Georgiana was only eleven.” His shoulders rose and fell. “She has no idea.”
He was staring into the fire, the planes of his face carved with pain. The night had deepened, and we were lit by the shifting warmth of the bonfire while surrounded by dark woods.
“I did not intend to force your revelation,” I said. “But I am glad you have trusted me to understand.” When he did not respond, I took his hand. “Look around us. What do you see?”
After a few breaths, he looked away from the fire. “Blackness.”
“A mind, hurt and mourning, may fear the dark. But the darkness of Pemberley lake is no more evil than the dark wood around us. Does the dark of night plunge you into despair?”
“No. But the dark of night ends.”
I closed my eyes and opened my mind. His fingers tensed as he recognized what I was doing. “The darkness of Pemberley ends. We are outside it here, a half mile or so past the edge. I can sense it. A circle of emptiness around the lake. But it is no more malevolent than a stretch of rock without grass or trees, or remote, unsettled countryside.”
“You see theentiretyof it?” He was surprised. “My mother could not. She had to ride miles to sense anything but emptiness.”
I was surprised as well. When I summoned those tiny draca, I had strained to reach past the edge. Now, I sensed sparks of awareness beyond the lake, more than twice as far.
I opened my eyes and met his wondering gaze. “My abilities have been growing for some months.” The suddenness of the change left me uneasy. I myself did not understand what was happening.
When I traveled here to confront Mr. Darcy’s obsession with the darkness of Pemberley, I was emboldened by a slightly smug sense of superiority. After all, I was the one who experienced the sensation, not him.
His revelation had not changed my opinion. I had no fears for my sanity in the presence of Pemberley lake. But his pain was real, fueled by guilt and regret. Watching him remember that horrible day tore me as well. Things that seem simple in the complacency of self-satisfied confidence become intricate puzzles when you care enough to understand the layers and folds of another life.
I tightened my grip around his tense fingers. Under that symptom of his unease, his hand was strong, thick with muscle and solid with bone.
“I would not presume to advise on the intimacy of a brother and sister,” I said. “But Georgiana is a woman now. A stronger woman than an older brother’s memory of a child may recognize. There may be comfort in ending a secret you have held alone.”
“I no longer hold it alone,” he said, and the tension in his fingers relaxed. “But your advice is good.”
“Then remember what I said about Pemberley lake. Before I left, I asked Jane’s wyvern about the darkness of Pemberley. She answered, ‘emptiness is not darkness. deference is not fear.’ I do not fear it.”
He gave an amused chuckle. “I had not heard your sister bound a wyvern. Although I am unsurprised. She is your sister, after all. I believe that is only the sixth bound wyvern in England.”
“She is a beautiful creature. Gold,” I said absently, thinking of my own secret: Mr. Darcy’s aunt, the formidable Lady Catherine, had never bound her wyvern. But that secret was no burden. It could stay hidden.
A memory that had been gnawingly vague snapped into focus.
“I have seen these people before,” I exclaimed. “These Britons. At Rosings, Lady Catherine’s wyvern showed me their image while telling me to seek Pemberley lake. They were decorated for Beltane…”
I closed my eyes. There were five bound draca in the crowd. I touchedthem and felt their attention shift to me. One was curious, and I let our awareness merge.
A draca’s vision of the celebration entered my mind. The fire was a column of swirling heat high into the sky. Human and draca bodies were bright with the warmth of life. And the Britons’ faces were like the images shown by the wyvern, the blue stripes of woad dye shining brilliant indigo on their faces.
The draca’s view turned and loped past swinging skirts and men’s legs. The view settled on me seated at one end of the table, with Mr. Darcy’s straight-shouldered frame beside me. But to the draca’s vision, I looked different from the other people. I was surrounded by a golden glow, and my eyes burned like sunlit diamonds.
The night had become eerily quiet. I heard only the crackle of the fire. I opened my eyes.
The five draca were seated in a perfect semi-circle, staring up at me.
Everyone was staring at me.
In the silence, Mr. Digweed stood and raised his wooden cup. “Elizabeth Bennet. Guest of thedruíwide. Bel’s high beasts honor the wyves who carry his most brilliant fire. Behold! A great wyfe graces Pemberley’s hills. Our Beltane is blessed!” Cups were raised amid shouts of approval and thumping on tables.
Mr. Darcy lifted his cup with an amused smile. Lord Wellington raised his also and held it until our gazes met. His expression was serious and considering.
There was a rush of activity around the fire. Meats were pulled from spits and carved, heaping platters with chunks of rabbit and slices of goat. Bowls of roast tubers were passed—small potatoes, slices of cattail root, and little round roots called pignuts, which were a delicacy at Longbourn as they are tiresome to gather. I was handed a dish of white goat butter mashed with tiny garlic flowers to slather on top. I had never had goat butter before, and it was delicious—creamy with an aroma of spring grass. I would need to procure some at home.
A string of people introduced themselves, some shy, others boisterous. There were more names than I could remember, although I learned the names of the bound wyves. The curious draca whose vision I had shared was Aggy’s roseworm. He was affectionate for his breed, almost like a tyke, although one that could throw fire. Mr. Digweed’s wyfe had bound a breed of winged draca no larger than a swallow, and a newly bound wyfe of eighteen had a broccworm, a more robust cousin to Lydia’s ferretworm and a prodigious tunneler.
