Page 3 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
Mary and I added spencers and bonnets against the chill, then set out to visit the tenants.
Longbourn estate includes the Longbourn village, which is five scattered cottages for the tenants who work the farms. The Bennet sisters were well known to them, and I think we were all liked or even loved a little, as the tenants were families who had watched us grow from girls toddling behind our father.
My father had always managed his estate directly, believing that a gentleman should know his business but also for economy—Longbourn was too small to support a hired manager. And, as years passed and my parents accumulated five daughters and not a single son, it was I, the next-to-eldest after Jane, who became his companion for tours of the property.
I was always fascinated: the news and gossip, the unstuffy practicality of conversations about brooding sheep and dry wells. These topics would never be broached, even by Papa, at home. But on our walks, we would talk frankly of shillings, bushels, and livestock. He listened to my opinions, and I reveled in his radical encouragement of a favorite daughter.
For the last few months, though, Papa’s health had made our companionable walks impossible, so I had toured Longbourn village without him, usually with Mary as a companion. We said I was “carrying Mr. Bennet’s regards,” but we all knew I was acting as my father’s agent to manage our estate.
Our last stop today was the cottage of Mrs. Trew, who had been widowed a year but farmed her plot admirably with two almost-grown sons and some help for the harvest from our hired men, which I justified by claiming they were bored.
As Mary and I prepared to leave, I complimented Mrs. Trew on her plump pumpkins, planted by a sun-warmed wall.
“Thank’ee, Miss Lizzy,” she said, an endearment that began when I was a four-year-old girl startled into tears by one of her chickens. “You’ve been a generous help, and we be managing, though it’s hard being a woman on my own.” Her wrinkled lips pursed. “Will you be giving our respects to Mr. Bennet?”
“I will pass them on until he is well enough to receive them in person.”
“You are a brave lass.” Her fingers, cracked by a lifetime of hard chores, rubbed my cheek before she turned into her doorway.
The scrape of her touch faded, but her affection lingered. Not only affection. Pity.
She did not expect my father to visit again.
Mary became impatient, tapping her fingers in memory of some music she had played, while I stood, my heart torn for the second time that morning.
We werea quarter mile from home when I heard a growl. We turned, and Mary drew a frightened breath.
A large, filthy dog stalked us. Its legs shook with every step. A snarl rumbled, pushing a rope of foamy slime from its jaws.
I caught Mary’s hand. “Do not move. It is mad.” A mad dog had bitten a child a few weeks before. Horrible stories of the child’s slow death had circulated ever since.
My pulse pounding, Mary and I took a step back. The animal slunk closer. Hackles lifted its matted fur. Its reddened eyes fixed on Mary, and her hand tightened on mine.
I forced my fingers open. “Mary, go behind me. Run to the manor and tell Mr. Hill to bring the gun.”
“I am too afraid,” she said in a strained voice. “And you are the faster runner.”
The animal crouched, its shoulders straining.
A blur of bronze flashed, the fleeting image impressed on my eyes like an etching in a book—our firedrake streaking through the air, wings furled to strike. He passed inches above the neck of the dog, seemingly without touching. There was only one sharpthock, like our cook cutting up oxtail with her cleaver.
The dog’s head ducked, and its neck fell open, cut deep, the severed backbone protruding before the animal collapsed.
Mary screamed, a shattering cry unlike any of the pretty shrieks I remembered from teasing her as a child. Her running footsteps faded. I did not move, rooted to the spot by relief and horrified shock.
With a flurry of wings, the drake landed in front of me. He reared on his two legs, facing the obviously dead dog, his gleaming bronze head reaching my thigh. His wings unfurled. I had never been so near when they were open—wider than I could stretch my arms, ribbed like two huge fans, and spanned with skin so thin that I saw the glow of sunlight behind. It was a silhouette of violent protection, an animal’s challenge to defend me and my sister.
The drake’s chest swelled. With the howl of a rushing gale, a jet of flame shot from his mouth. It was unnatural fire, blue and transparent, almost invisible in the sunlight, but the heat was like facing a bed of coals. The dog’s carcass burst into flames, filling the air with the reek of burned hair.
I had never seen a drake throw fire. Or even met a person who saw it firsthand. But it was foolish to be so surprised. They are called firedrakes, after all.
The drake stepped toward the dog, as if he meant to attack again, or even to eat.
“Stop,” I cried. “It is diseased! You must not touch it!”
His head swiveled on his long neck to observe me with black, unblinking eyes.
“You will die if you touch the dead animal,” I said.
