The mockery did not bother me. I took the scone with shaking fingers and cradled it in both hands. The first bite was fresh and tender and tasted of currants, and it was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten. I closed my eyes and took another bite, savoring it and pretending I was saved.
Finally, the voices around me broke my fantasy. An American man was speaking, his vowels even more drawled than their usual accent.
“…she made the link fine, but she fights when I give her orders. That’s the problem with fresh ones. Don’t know how to be obedient. She didn’t bear the last dose well. The full dose is going to kill her. Then what’ll we do?” A finger jabbed my belly. “Not likethismess is one of your fancy English ladies.”
“Oh, but she is,” Mr. Tinsdale said. “Are you there, Miss Woodhouse?” Thick fingers seized my jaw, and I opened my eyes in fright. Mr. Tinsdale smiled beneath his curled mustache. “Providence blesses our cause. If she has sent you, you must have value.” Steering my face as if I were an animal, he dragged me past the corner.
Harriet lay slumped on the floor, her eyes closed, her chest heaving. I pulled free and knelt by her. Her wrists were tied, but I could hold her fingers. One palm was sticky with dried blood.
Mr. Tinsdale squatted, an imposing bulk beside me. “Your friend is another prize from the local traffic, but better than breakfast. She is our fresh stock.”
“Wyvestock,” the American grunted, baring his teeth in a grin.
Mr. Tinsdale patted me on the shoulder. “I thankyou, though. Without your tiresome advocacy for Miss Smith, I would never have spent valuable venom on an African. Still, she has endured. Perhaps it is her animal strength. Our London wyfe did not last five minutes.” He jerked his thumb toward the blanket-covered pile we had passed.
Like he was a nightmare, a fantasy of the miasma, I pushed him from my mind. “Harriet. I am here.” She moaned, her eyelids fluttering. Her fingers twitched in mine.
“Good. You have roused her,” Mr. Tinsdale said. He turned to the American. “No more waiting. Give her the full dose. If she dies, she dies.”
I kicked and clawed, but Mr. Tinsdale dragged me away while the American uncorked a glass bottle. An odor of sour orange and bitter almond burned my nostrils. The crawler venom Lizzy had described.
“I invented her affinity!” I cried. “She will never survive. Use me! I am a great wyfe!”
“Stop,” Mr. Tinsdale said. His hands pulled me around to face him. His mockery had become a cold threat. “How do you know of great wyves?”
“I am one. I am the great wyfe of healing.”
“You?” he scoffed. “Frivolous Miss Woodhouse who dresses like the morning sun at balls?Youare one of the chosen three?Youcan wield the great song?”
I had no idea what that meant. “I swear it.”
“That would be providence indeed,” he whispered. “Or a lie for a friend. You will have your chance.” He raised his voice. “Proceed.”
I shouted “No!” and fought and thrashed, but Mr. Tinsdale held me easily. With cold-blooded precision, the American poured a measure of the venom between Harriet’s lips. Her throat convulsed while he sealed the bottle away. Then he held out his hand to Mr. Tinsdale, waiting.
Mr. Tinsdale drew the black dagger from its sheath. He fondled it, watching the firelight on the serrations. “Thisis true power, sweeter for the irony of being wielded through the inferior sex. Not even the Emperor can match this. This shall be the scepter of my rule.” Reluctant as a miser surrendering coin, he passed it to the American, who pushed the hilt between Harriet’s bound hands. She cried out at the touch, her back arching while he tied her palms around the dagger with a leather thong.
The American thrust his face obscenely close to Harriet’s, his peculiar hat brim nestling in her hair. He began whispering.
“See his skill?” Mr. Tinsdale said admiringly. “Hewhispers. There are ten thousand slave masters in the world. They break a hundred thousand slaves. A million. But to enslave the mind is a rare skill. Opium and venom and cocoa leaves, then fear and pain, balanced justso…”
Harriet’s hands began to shake in an uncontrolled, violent palsy. Her head jerked, banging the rock. Her breath shortened to violent, choked gasps.
The American leaned back on his heels, clicking his tongue with dissatisfaction. “She’s got command. She sent the orders. This one’s stronger than that last one. But once they get to shaking like this…” He shook his head. “She’s going quick. Not gonna last long.”
I was hanging from Mr. Tinsdale’s hands, weak and panting. In my despair—at last—I saw how this fable was written. The wyvern had foreseen it all. This was the third life to save. My sister, who fled because I was mindlessly cruel and who suffered because I told lies she never wished, needed me.
“Let me touch her,” I said. The wyvern’s pure, golden gift stirred within me. “I can save her. You will see. I can heal her.”
46
RUTAND ROCK
LIZZY
I stoodon the front steps of Pemberley House, watching. The young princess was aiding her grandfather, the king, into a coach. The prince and a handful of his retinue milled outside another. They were so slow. Mrs. Reynolds had packed Nessy off with Lucy five minutes ago.
Mary strode up beside me. “Coaches can be seen from the air. The grooms are saddling every horse. We should ride to one of the Briton villages. The forest will screen us.”
