Page 164 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
Even pinched with worry, Harriet’s black eyes were pretty, framed by slightly plump cheeks, charcoal brows, and umber skin. I told her often that was more attractive than my winter-pale face and blonde ringlets.
“Are you certain I should bind a draca?” Harriet said.
I reached across the carriage to take her hand, the crook of my wrist almost blue beside the warmth of her brown fingers. “Dear Harriet. I am certain you are a lady, and ladies bind when they marry.” She shook her head nervously, so I added, “Let me show you London.”
Emma Woodhouse, comfortable and clever, does not fear a city.
I trapped a breath in my lungs, summoned the memory of my glove’s pearl button, then drew the curtain from the coach window.
“Oh my.” Harriet gawked out the window. “It is grand. You must look, too!”
My eyes were locked on the coach’s pleated red cushions. “I have seen London before.”
After Papa’s death, I met his lawyer here. The lawyer clutched my hand as I left, reciting condolences and advice. Then a strange man staggered against me and sprawled in the gutter, wracked with cough.
That fear, vivid as life, seized my mind.
Harriet turned from the window, and her smiling lips moved as if speaking, but her skin became ashen and mottled. The colorless miasma of illness swirled around her, and she gasped and choked for air—
No.That is false. Harriet is not ill. It is an evil fancy.
I found my glove’s button and counted perfect loops of thread. Harriet’s cheerful voice resumed, describing a milliner’s window.
Here is my first secret. False thoughts slip into my mind. These evil images of sickness are so terrible that I visited a famous physician for a private opinion. The doctor wore fine tweed, but his watch chain dangled, unfastened. I do not remember what he said.
I summoned a smile for Harriet, unfoldedTheTimes, and reread the announcement:
For Ladies:
A Musical Salon and Social Discourse upon Feminine Power, the Right of All Women to Bind, and other Topics.
By invitation.
Misses Mary Bennet and Georgiana Darcy.
Miss Bennet’s reply to my letter was folded in my reticule. Emma Woodhouse, handsome and rich, was welcome at their London salon.
The miasma slipped putrid tendrils under the seams of the carriage door.No. That is false.
My gloved fingers were trembling. I willed them still. Since the illness and death of my dear father, these false thoughts have pressed harder and harder. But I have a tool to master them.
“Come, Harriet,” I said. “Let us have you looking nice.” I smoothed her collar, like I had smoothed her life, perfecting her rise into society.
Perfection is proof against illness.
I aligned a point of lace on her shoulder, and serenity filled me. The miasma skulked and hid below our seats.
London’s vaporof coal smoke stung my eyes as I stepped down from the carriage. The street swarmed with gentlemen, ladies, energetic children, and an astonishing range of carriages and cabs.
One passing coach had an iron travel cage strapped atop. A small, sleek draca was inside—a dark brown ferretworm as long as my forearm, and not much thicker. Her black eyes met mine before the coach vanished around the corner. An echo of brown woodland-earth flickered in my mind.
I looked for the building named on the invitation. The doorway was down the street, but the path was blocked by a dozen working men shouting and waving hand-drawn signs. One sign faced me: “Of the Heathen, Ye Shall Buy Bondmen and Bondmaids.”
The man holding the sign saw my attention. He grinned, stretching skin that was rough with stubble. His gaze crawled down my yellow silk gown.
Harriet stepped from the coach. She looked around, her raven curls swiveling, then she saw the men. Her hand caught my arm. “We should go another way.”
“Another way?” I said. “Why?”
