This was the guidance I sought.
Yuánchi, can you delay Fènnù? You must protect yourself. She is controlled, so she will attack. But we need only a few minutes.
I can.
I opened my eyes. Darcy and Georgiana were rushing up. I smiled in relief. “We have a chance. Yuánchi need only delay their attack. The wyfe controlling Fènnù is weakening. She will not last much longer.”
Concealed by my smile, I left a mental finger stretched out, resting on that tendril of control. Testing it. If it did not weaken soon—or if it strengthened—I was prepared. Then death would fall like a thunderbolt.
45
VENOM
EMMA
The path had never faltered.It might spread and fade while crossing a large log or curl in a generous half-circle to skirt a fall of rocks, but always in the distance, it led onward.
This, however, was unquestionably a fork. I could guess north well enough because the morning sun shone between the puffs of clouds, but even that did not help—north was ahead, but that was an unclimbable peak. The path split east and west around it.
Released from their endless plod, my knees shook. The trance that carried me through the night had ended at the meadow. Since then, I had drunk from a stream to relieve my parched throat, and my clothes were warm enough while I moved, but my body was spent. If I sat, I doubted I could stand again.
The forest itself did not frighten me. It was aged and restful, its hunters skilled at avoiding clumsy humans. But I could not keep walking without food. And a change of weather—a freezing night, or even a wetting from a shower—would be deadly.
“I wish to go home,” I said. I had taken to complaining to the mysterious wyvern, even though he had moved definitively to his rest. If he had ever been present. “Or simply tofindsomeone.” There were supposed to be Britons guarding the estate. They seemed to do a poor job.
Walk, or your knees will buckle for good. More light showed through thebranches to the left, so I took one step that way, wincing at a sore ankle and a blistered heel, then another.
The path rounded the side of the hill. The trees fell away. A crystal lake spread below me, more than a half-mile across. On the far side, a stream cascaded to the shore, and a road wound among sweeping, natural gardens. Pemberley House.
“Found!” I shouted, then the scene vanished in a watery blur while my sobs escaped. I let that finish, then I picked my way along the increasingly scraggly path as it descended the hill face.
As the lake’s stony shore drew close, the path widened into a shelf. I smelled woodsmoke and, incredibly, the delectable aroma of frying sausage. My stomach growled loudly.
A thin stream of sooty smoke rose from an opening in the hillside. It was broader than a door, the rock floor trampled with muddy bootprints.
I called in, “Are you at home?”
“Is that Miss Woodhouse?” a gentleman said behind me, so near that I would have jumped if I had the strength. “What on earth has happened to you?”
Weary and very confused, I turned to Mr. Tinsdale. He wore immaculate hunting dress in forest brown, the waistcoat snug around his barrel chest. One thick hand carried a paper-wrapped package.
Mr. Tinsdale. Here. I tried to assemble a response. I had heard snippets of conversation between Lord Wellington and the Darcys. This man was a traitor. Lord Wellington was searching for him in…
“Are you not in London?” I said, feeling I should report that.
“Unfortunately, this business requires my presence.” His palm pushed his coat aside to stroke the hilt of a long, sheathed dagger at his belt.
Behind him, a red-coated officer stepped from the trees, then uniformed soldiers with muskets. Saviors. But no. The captain stopped respectfully behind Mr. Tinsdale, waiting for orders.
Mr. Tinsdale smiled broadly. “Would you like something to eat?” Unwanted tears filled my eyes, and I nodded. He pointed to the cave entrance. After a hopeless pause—the other option was running, which was ludicrous—I limped in.
It widened inside, a wandering passageway with rock walls like puddled custard, so smooth they gleamed. Ridges of rock dangled stone icicles like fangs. Firelight flickered beyond a bend.
Mr. Tinsdale continued pleasantly, “I would say you look like something the cat dragged in, but that would insult dead mice. Though, I feel I should have expected you. You show up with a certain regularity.”
His hand grabbed my upper arm, stopping me amid a clutter of gear on the floor. A small, open chest held medicinal bottles of powders and liquids. A bucket of water sat by a soot-stained kettle and a brace of pistols. The rest was a shapeless pile covered by a blanket.
Mr. Tinsdale rustled his paper package. “Our sortie to Pemberley has faced unexpected shortfalls. But good leaders adapt. My men have been stopping carriages. Here is our latest, whimsical acquisition…” He smiled and dangled a scone a few mocking inches in front of my nose.
