Page 76 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“I am surprised to encounter a militia officer in the Peaks,” my aunt said. “Is there some threat?”
I knew enough insignia to see the man was no officer, but he did not correct her. “French spies, ma’am. Bonaparte’s men were spotted not far from here.”
“Here? We are in the center of England.” My aunt was offended, perhaps because she had grown up nearby.
“Probably lost their way,” my uncle said jovially.
“You’ll have to change your way,” the soldier said. His tongue protruded, working at a tooth. “We closed the west road. You got to go east.”
My uncle frowned. “That is inconvenient.”
“No!” I broke in. “East is good.” I squeezed past to leave the carriage, brushing by the surprised soldier. The Gardiners’ tykeworm, which traveled with us inside the coach, gamboled across the leaf-covered dirt at my feet.
It was almost noon, the sun at its peak for late March. The angle looked… right. I closed my eyes, summoning the impressions from the wyvern, and turned in place. The warmth of the sun spun, and the shape of the land turned around me. Not the land itself—the things living in the land. Draca.
For the first time, we were high enough. The horses had been toiling upward for hours.
I stopped and extended my arm so I would not lose my bearings, then opened my eyes. “Yes. We should go east.”
The soldier’s jaw hung, exposing crooked, brown teeth.
“Very good,” my uncle said, as if young ladies spun like compasses every day. “May we proceed, officer?” I climbed back in, impatient and ignoring their discussion of landmarks and distances.
The driver backed and turned the coach, then we set off, bouncing over a road rough with forest roots. The entire morning’s travel had been exceedingly bumpy.
My aunt and uncle exchanged a glance of the sort acquired by married couples after many years. I thought I knew the topic. Me.
“This is the closest we have been,” I said, a little defensively.
“How encouraging,” my aunt said. That was polite, considering I had sent us coursing wildly in the last three days.
We were north and west of Longbourn, farther from home than I had ever traveled. My uncle journaled our trip each evening. He estimated we had driven over two hundred miles. Some of that was wasted—side trips when I heard of large bodies of water.
This morning, I felt every one of those two hundred miles in my seat. The roads had been bad since yesterday.
When we departed Longbourn, I guessed my goal was the Lake District, simply because it was famously wet. That was far north, almost in Scotland. But at half that distance, we climbed into a mountainous area called the Peaks. And something changed. The hills and trees felt familiar.
“Traveling east will please Mrs. Gardiner,” my uncle said with a smile.
“Are we near your old home?” I asked her.
“We will pass close to where I grew up.” She was peering out the window. The view was good, as the Gardiners were too sensible to insist on iron-barredcoaches. “Perhaps we can overnight in Lambton. I would love to see how it has changed.” She gave me a teasing smile. “If our guide permits a slight delay?”
“That would be wonderful, Aunt,” I replied, and swatted down my twinge of frustration. They had been extraordinarily patient.
The roads improved. My aunt began to name peaks and streams. When we stopped by a tiny church to rest the horses, she led us into the woods beside.
A mossy stone shape rose taller than me in the cool shade. It was a cross overlaid with a circle, a single massive rock carved with unfamiliar, weathered patterns. One arm was broken off.
My aunt ran a finger over the stone. “I used to walk here from Lambton. The church is old, but this cross is ancient. The Irish druids were first in these woods and built a shrine here. Then came the Scots. The Church was last.”
“The Bennets originated in Scotland,” I said.
“I had a Scottish grandmother. She brought us here for the old festivals. Samhain. Imbolc. AndLà Bealltainn, as the Scots say. Beltane.” My aunt arched an eyebrow rakishly, and her husband chuckled. “May Day, if you do not wish to offend the local parson. It is a shame we are too early. It is a month away.”
We resumed our travel, and my aunt reminisced. Her words hummed without requiring much attention. Between the warming afternoon and the smoother roads, it was very restful.
I stifled a huge yawn.
