Page 57 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“My word.” Lady Catherine stomped over to glare at her wyvern, who ignored her.
“Quite,” I agreed, trying to pin my hair back in place. It had gotten rather long.
Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded in an officious manner. “I will now disclose information of a military nature, but that I may share for the purpose of scientific research. Indeed, the crown is indebted to Mr. Darcy for his considerable effort in this area.”
Mr. Darcy gave a ghost of a nod in acknowledgment. Lady Catherine made an impatient, unimpressed noise. The colonel hurriedly resumed.
“We know Bonaparte seeks to recruit draca for military advantage. Whether or not we approve, his actions require a response. Unfortunately, the first attack by an English regiment with bound draca failed terribly. Mr. Darcy warned of the risks, and I trust his advice will be weighed closely in the future.
“However, many factors contributed to the disaster. The French clearlyknew our plans before the attack. They had defenses prepared against draca. They even attempted to steal our draca, using a vile and unknown chemical that attacks the bond between draca and master.”
“Draca and wyfe,” Mr. Darcy said.
The colonel acknowledged the correction and continued, “This matter has become more urgent. Several weeks ago, while I was assisting with militia training in Brighton, the bound draca of a gentleman in town died mysteriously. Two days ago, a second died. But this time, evidence suggests these deaths are the work of French spies. We believe the draca was killed with the same weapon used against us in battle.
“The evidence from Brighton has been sent to me. We wish to determine if it is the chemical in question.” The colonel gestured and the servant handed him a large jar sealed with a wide cork and wax.
“You cannot be serious!” I cried. “You will test aweaponon the Rosings wyvern?”
“We are not testing the weapon,” the colonel said reassuringly. “In battle, the French weapon sprayed a liquid on the affected draca. Here, we will not touch the wyvern, or even approach. We merely wish to determine if this is, in fact, the chemical used in the attack. The cloth in this jar has a pungent odor, and reports suggest that even the odor of the weapon distressed our draca.”
This seemed poorly thought through to me. “Surely this is an argumentnotto proceed.”
“I agree with Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy said. “As I have already expressed.”
“You are all ridiculous,” Lady Catherine said. “Whoever heard of a dangerous smell? My wyvern is exceptionally robust. Proceed, colonel. I wish to join my luncheon.”
“We will proceed with the utmost caution,” the colonel said. “If everyone would step away from the wyvern?”
We backed up several steps, forming a sparse circle. Mr. Darcy stood beside me, his arms folded in disapproval. Lady Catherine stood across from us, scowling back. The wyvern twisted her neck to observe us.
The colonel drew out a pocketknife and scraped the wax from around the cork. “First, I shall release the cork to judge if the odor is still present.” He pried at it with his fingers, then with his knife.
The cork popped free and fell to the ground. He bent to retrieve it.
A scent grew. Sour orange and bitter almond. The same astringent odor Ihad smelled when the monstrous foul crawler sprayed vile liquid to attack draca.
“Stop!” I cried. “I know what it is.”
The wyvern screeched a rending, rising cry.
Terror and fury swarmed up my spine. My vision blurred with a second scene, peculiar and brightly colored as if drawn in pastel.
The colonel was fumbling to find the cork in the grass. I saw Mr. Darcy run to help him, but I saw it twice—once through my eyes, his motion lithe and quick, but a second time with the lightning perception of a predator who saw a plodding, slow enemy attempting to flee.
The wyvern’s powerful body crouched to strike. “No!” I shouted and threw myself to catch her. One hand skidded uselessly off a spreading wing, but my other caught her muzzle. Her leaping body slammed into me like a charging horse. I was thrown hard onto the ground, and we tumbled into a pile with me on the bottom.
Her muzzle was above my face, prismatic eyes fixed on mine. Like a shared dream, our minds sank into each other.
I felt her terror, her body trembling with panic and fury, her wings spread to strike, her breath hissing past my fingers clamped around her muzzle.
She felt the prickle of grass against my neck, her weight pressing me down, my lungs struggling to fill after the impact. My ribs hurt. One hand stung where her scales had scraped my palm. My other hand held her muzzle, the scales like warm steel under my fingers.
Below that, around my wrist, was the thinnest hairline of pressure.
Her foot was raised, and her burnished, razor claws encircled my arm. The heavy rear claw, an obsidian scythe at least four inches long, meshed with the three front claws. It was like being held in a pair of shears.
I had seen her sever a two-inch oak branch by tightening those claws. It had been effortless, an idle amusement while she stretched in the sun.
