Page 100 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
I was alone with Mr. Darcy.
But I had nothing to say. The fumbling words I had pieced together while wandering the halls of Pemberley could no longer be uttered. Not after the news of Lydia.
Into the silence, Mr. Darcy spoke, almost whispering. “You will be a great wyfe.”
“What?” I said uncertainly.
He looked at me, startled, and a flush heated the angry pallor on his rigid cheekbones. He stammered, “You will be a great dragon wyfe. Your skills mark you as a great wyfe.”
This was not why I had asked him to stay, but it was too interesting to ignore. “Mr. Rabb spoke of the great dragon wyves, but they are unknown to me.” Mr. Rabb’s name caught my throat, so the rest was hoarse.
Mr. Darcy’s throat worked also before he replied. “Rabb was the first to tell me the story. The great wyves were three Scottish noblewomen who fought the English many centuries ago. So long ago, it was not even England they truly opposed. But English rule outlawed their story. The great wyves are a forbidden legend now, but still told in secret in the north.”
“But you know of them. Can you help me comprehend my ability?”
He shook his head. “I only recognize it. I understand the other wyves better.”
“Otherwyves?”
“The three great wyves had different skills. Since their death, those skills have never been seen again. Not until our lifetime, when the three skills returned in three new wyves.”
“Who?” I said. Already I thought of Miss Darcy.
“My mother was the wyfe of healing. Her abilities woke when she bound, and when I was of age, she confided in me. My sister is the wyfe of song. You have seen her skills…someof her skills. And the third…” he nodded to me.
“You think I am the third wyfe?” I said. “This sounds like mysticism. Prophecy.”
“I am no mystic, and there is no prophecy. But for whatever cause, the three wyves appeared together once, so it is reasonable that they would appear together again. Their skills are named in their legend.” He recited:
“To sound our claim,
the three wyves came:
Of healing, wise.
Of song, who cries.
Of war. Arise.”
My eyebrows squished dubiously. “If your mother was the wyfe of healing, and your sister is the wyfe of song, this seems more unlikely.” His dark eyes watched me. “You claim I am the wyfe ofwar?”
“You command unbound draca. You are fearless.”
“I assure you I am quite fearful. And small and timid.” Mr. Darcy gave an incredulous laugh. How rude. “Is this why you proposed? To complete your set of wyves?”
“Of course not! I knew only that you were brave and—”
I held up my hand. “Stop.” My feelings were confused enough without hearing a recitation of imaginary virtues.
What I had planned to say last night could no longer be said. I took a deep breath. “I understand this alters our situation.”
“Whatalters it?” His voice had become dangerously soft.
“Wickham. With Lydia. The worst outcome is that she is ruined. Even the best is that they marry.” To call that “best” made my stomach curdle.
“Why should that matter?”
“Because you hate him. Because your sister could not bear to be near him.”
