by Maria Grace
Who had Miss Bingley got to do the work? It was not the style of any of the local artists. It was a little sad that the designs would all be brushed away by the end of the evening.
Miss Bingley announced the first dance. How kind of her. Courtesy dictated it should be something even the less skilled dancers might manage. Pride, of course, demanded that it be the most fashionable, complicated steps possible. There was little question which would win out.
The music began and in three steps she lost hope of surviving the encounter unscathed. Mr. Collins offered his right hand instead of his left, turned her once instead of once and a half, leaving her on the wrong side of the line, and tried to correct the dancers beside them who were already in their correct places.
During the next phrase of music, he trod on her toes twice, her dress once, and on the feet of the man next to him, though how he managed that was beyond imagination. Though he apologized for his mistakes, it was at the expense of him attending to the music. The cycle of shame and misery continued for far longer than anyone should have had to endure. The moment of her release from him was ecstasy.
She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. The intelligence came as no surprise, but it was gratifying to hear, nonetheless. When those dances were over she returned to Charlotte.
“If only Mr. Wickham might have stayed,” Elizabeth said.
“He was here?”
“Yes, I saw him before coming in, but he quarreled with Mr. Darcy, and left.”
“If he could be driven away by a mere quarrel, perhaps he is not made of stern enough stuff to be an officer, much less dance at a ball. If I may be so bold as to suggest you not be a simpleton and allow your fancy for Wickham make you ignore a man of ten times his consequence. I dare say you will find Mr. Darcy very agreeable.”
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil.”
“You are a peculiar creature indeed. Pray excuse me a moment.” Charlotte tipped her head, pointing at Maria who waved frantically.
Miss Bingley came towards her in a storm of silk, taffeta and feathers. She wore an expression of civil disdain that only she could possibly affect.
“So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham! Your youngest sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand questions. I find that the young man forgot to tell you, among his other communications, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy's steward.”
“He showed no reservation in sharing that confidence with me.”
Miss Bingley’s eyebrows rose almost touching the ringlets framing her forehead. “I am indeed surprised. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions as to Mr. Darcy's using him ill.”
“Why ever would you think he said such a thing?”
“As I understand, this would not be the first place he came into as a stranger and initiated calumny against Mr. Darcy.”
“I wonder why?” Elizabeth turned her eyes toward the ceiling, a painted and plaster-worked masterpiece.
“As well you should. It is perfectly false. Mr. Darcy has been always remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame. He cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned. Though my brother thought he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was excessively glad to find that Mr. Wickham had, at the last moment, taken himself out of the way. His coming into the county at all is a most insolent thing indeed. I wonder how he could presume to do it.”
“How indeed. It does seem quite outlandish that he should have the audacity to appear in the county to which his regiment is assigned.”
“I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favorite's guilt. But really, considering his descent one could not expect much better.”
“His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same. I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward.”
Miss Bingley straightened her spine. “I beg your pardon. Excuse my interference. It was kindly meant.”
“As kindly meant as your remarks about my family in the labyrinth outside?”
Miss Bingley’s face lost all color, and her jaw dropped.
“But then I do not know all the particulars of your conversation, do I?” She raised her brows and walked away.
Insufferable, insolent, arrogant, prideful ...
Jane intercepted her. “Miss Bingley looks quite ill. She is so pale. Was she unwell when she spoke to you?”
“I think perhaps the conversation did not agree with her. But do tell me, what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham? Or perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person. In that case you may be sure of my pardon.” She forced her voice to be light and her lips to smile.
Jane looped her arm in Elizabeth’s and leaned down closer to her ear. “I have not forgotten him. But I have nothing satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his history and is quite ignorant of the circumstances so offensive to Mr. Darcy. He will vouch for the good conduct and honor of his friend. He is perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has received. I am sorry to say that by his account as well as his sister's, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's regard.”
“Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?” Elizabeth avoided Jane’s gaze.
“No, he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”
“What does Mr. Bingley say of the living?”
“He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to Mr. Wickham only conditionally.”
Elizabeth squeezed Jane’s arm. “I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity, but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only.”
“It is not like you to be so resentful, Lizzy. You say you have been worried about my rapid attachment to Mr. Bingley, but I am equally fearful of your quick attachment to Mr. Wickham. Mayhap you should take the same advice you have given me. Take the time to truly know his character.”
“Thank you, the advice is of course sound. Excuse me.” Elizabeth hurried off.
Now Jane was against her too?
The one person to whom she could always go for support had overturned her for Mr. Darcy.
Gah!
The musicians began again, and Darcy approached to claim her hand. They took their place in the set. Farther down the line, Lydia stood with Mr. Collins and did not bear the trial gladly. She giggled and tittered and poked fun at their cousin as he stood solemnly, not answering her high spirits at all. Either his forbearance was the stuff of legend, or, more likely, he simply could not think fast enough to answer her. It was difficult to determine for whom to feel sorry.
Mr. Darcy observed as well, hands clasped behind his back. His face revealed nothing, but it was a cover for disapproval, no doubt. He could hardly observe such a model of impropriety without feeling so. He glanced at Elizabeth.
Her face heated, and she turned aside. But that would not do. To stand like this, in silence, virtually avoiding one another was not the way to spend a dance. “We ought to have some conversation, you know. It is decidedly awkward to stand here with one another without it. Perhaps, by and by, I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. You ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”
“Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?” He screwed his lips thoughtfully.
“It is a done thing
.”
“As you wish, then. Do you and your sisters very often walk to Meryton?”
“It is one of our chiefest amusements, to be sure. When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”
A stain the color of port wine crept up Mr. Darcy’s jaw. “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends—whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”
“He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship, and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”
Mr. Darcy drew a breath, but released it with no further comment.
Clearly he could find no way to defend himself.
Mr. Darcy glanced over his shoulder, his expression very serious. He shook his head and blinked, turning back to her. “Pray forgive me, what we were talking of?”
“We were speaking of friends and acquaintances and how our treatment of them might impact the future.”
“Ah, yes. I have been speaking with an acquaintance of yours, a great tall one as a matter of fact. One who is devastated by your neglect and pines for your companionship.”
He had been talking to Longbourn?
“I pray sir, that you would weigh carefully what you have been told. A biased report is not always favorable to both parties.”
“And yet there was sincerity in all his looks.”
“Do not suppose to lecture me on my duties, sir. There is a great deal you do not understand.”
“I am sure that is the case. Yet, is there not truth in both sides of an argument? Is not the only way to resolve—”
Ear splitting thunder shook the room.
Dragon-thunder!
Darcy cast about the room. The musicians paused. Women shrieked and clung to their partners who laughed at the silliness of their being frightened by a little thunder, even though their eyes betrayed less bravado than their words.
Another clap of dragon-thunder shook the room.
Miss Elizabeth caught his eye, her face ghastly pale.
“Your ankle, it is hurt,” he said, offering her his arm.
She stared at him, blinking. Her eyes widened, and she reached for her ankle. “Yes, thank you. I cannot imagine what I have done to it, but I am quite unable—”
He held her arm in his and helped her off the dance floor to an unoccupied corner, near a window.
“I hear—I think it is Walker,” she whispered, leaning against the wall.
He yanked the window open a hand span.
Wings rustled and scratchy taloned feet landed in the windowsill. Walker contorted himself to shove his head into the opening. “The egg, it has hatched! An hour ago, it has hatched. The hatchling is loose in the woods. Longbourn is—”
“No! He would not! It is just a baby!” Miss Elizabeth grabbed her skirts and ran off.
Perhaps to find her father? He lost her in the crowd.
“Come now! We cannot wait!” Walker’s voice rose to nearly a shriek.
Several ladies gasped and huddled closer to their partners.
“Meet me at the barn.” Darcy shut the window hard against another roar of dragon-thunder.
The egg had hatched? Hatched!
No, it could not be.
But Walker could hardly be wrong about such a thing.
Darcy ducked out of the house and broke into a run. Cold, silver light from the full moon lit the path to the barn nearly as bright as day.
What choice did he have? What else could be done? A wild-hatched dragon would destroy the peace. That was a far greater harm than anything Darcy could suffer.
He burst into the barn, startling the horses and dashed to the straw nearest his own horse. He and Walker tore through the hay and freed the Dragon Slayer blade. Long, heavy, and wickedly sharp, tailored specifically for one task and one dreadful task alone.
One unthinkable task.
One necessary task.
The belt holding the scabbard was wide and heavy, weighing as heavily on his hips as it did his mind.
His horse shied.
“Do not think so hard about this. Saddle your fool beast and be off.” Walker flapped as he scolded.
“Stop frightening the horse.” Darcy fought to cinch the saddle.
He led the horse out of the barn and mounted. “Which way?”
Walker raised his head and breathed deeply, then closed his eyes, concentrating. He raised a wing and pointed. “That way, toward Longbourn’s lair.”
Darcy urged his horse toward the woods. Walker took to the air.
“How could he have missed the signs of an egg hatching? Why was he not there with it?” Walker muttered. “That wyvern will have much to answer for from the Conclave before all is said and done.”
“Indeed.” Darcy gritted his teeth and urged the horse faster.
Walker was right. Do not think. Focus on duty. Accomplish that.
There would be time enough for the other when the treaty and all it protected were safe.
They entered the woods and the horse slowed. The beast tensed beneath him, recoiling at his every command. Was it the darkness that hampered his speed, or something else?
Each step slower than the last. It might be faster for him to take to his own feet and run. Ridiculous beast.
He had to move faster.
A shrill cry exploded from the dark woods ahead.
Piteous.
Terrified and terrifying.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
That must be the hatchling.
The horse balked and refused to walk on.
Enough of this nonsense. He moved to dismount.
A dark shadow, a shape unlike any he had ever seen, rose up before them and roared. Walker swooped on it shrieking.
The horse reared and screamed. When its feet landed, it took off at a blind run.
Darcy clung to its back, gasping for breath. He lay close over its neck lest the low branches sweep him out of the saddle entirely.
A dark blur swooped down from the trees in front of the horse’s face. It reared again, throwing Darcy from its back.
He bounced hard on the ground, losing his bearings for a moment. Walker landed beside him, fanning cool air in his face with his wings. Head pounding, Darcy clambered to his feet and clutched a tree for support until the dizziness passed.
Ahead, the horse screamed. A sick thud followed.
Walker took off. Darcy staggered after. Several hundred yards ahead, the horse lay frantic on the ground.
“Damn creature broke its leg.” Darcy hissed under his breath.
“I told you this one was worthless. Shall I?” Walker landed near the horse’s head.
“Quickly.” Darcy turned aside, steeling himself.
Walker severed its spine in a stomach churning crunch, and the horse stopped struggling.
The woods stilled as the smell of blood wafted on the breeze. Beads of sweat dried cold on the back of his neck.
Dragon screams before and behind him. Were those merely echoes or separate voices? How many dragons were in these woods tonight, and why were they all screeching? He shut his eyes and concentrated. The sounds ahead were shrill, like a baby’s cries.
“Come back for the horse later. We must get to the hatchling!” Darcy plunged through the undergrowth toward the piercing shrieks.
***
Elizabeth dashed out of the nearest door into the chill night. Was that dragon-thunder Longbourn?
Who else could it be?
A tiny, shrill cry, plaintive and fearful, drifted from the woods. Those were the sounds of a baby.
One alone and afraid.
No Keeper could ignore such a sound.
Gathering up her skirts, she pelted toward it.
All of dragon lore said a hatching must take place in human presence for imprinting to occur. No alternative would do.
Elizabeth had attended no less than six dragon hatchings. While they were only small, companion dragons, the
y could not be so different from a firedrake, could they? In every one of those, the baby did not really seem to alert to their company until after they had their first taste of meat—or was it blood? There was something in that first feeding, what it was and where it came from that made a difference. The tatzelwurm that did not eat from the Dragon Friend’s hand was the one that chose to leave after hatching. Those hand-fed, stayed.
Perhaps if the baby had not eaten yet, there was a chance proper imprinting could still happen!
If she was wrong, it would kill her, consumed with hatching hunger.
But how could she not take the chance, even die trying if necessary?
There would be no dragon death tonight.
She increased her pace. Her dancing slippers offered little protection against the rough ground, turning to tatters before she made it into the woods.
“I have seen it! I have seen it!” Rustle circled above her.
Bless his keen sight!
She trailed after him, deeper into the woods. Dragon roars pounded against her from several directions. How many voices were echoing off the rocky hillside?
A baby shrieked.
Longbourn’s roar answered.
No! He would not harm the baby!
She sprinted through a dense patch of undergrowth and broke into a small clearing.
Moonlight shone onto the open ground, glinting silver off the still wet hatchling.
Waist high to Elizabeth, it was long and gangly as a newborn foal; neck, legs and tail far too long for its body. Glistening red scales covered its clearly feminine face, fading to a darker red across the back.
A girl!
Sharp, baby teeth filled her mouth, matched by razor talons, like a kitten’s claws, only deadly. It might be a baby, but it was far from helpless.
Her wings were still trapped in the eggshell. Scrapings in the dirt testified to frantic efforts to free herself.
Longbourn reared up behind her, engulfing the baby with his shadow.
The baby howled and tried to hobble away, overbalanced by the eggshell.