Then I saw the figure clinging at the base of his neck, skirts flapping and hair knocked loose by the wind. Lizzy was riding him. The strength I had given Harriet would kill them both.
Harriet was on the ground a few steps from me. The American crouched by her, whispering in her ear and watching the sky.
The world lit with glaring, brilliant gold light. Mr. Tinsdale dropped my arms and cried out, his hands over his eyes.
In that blinding glare, I threw myself down by Harriet and clutched her hands. Her heart was stuttering again, her lungs spasming. Every instinct screamed to help, but I ignored that, finding the poisons swirling in her flesh, then pouring in the gold purity—feeling how similar it was to the gold radiance filling the sky—to melt them away.
The blazing golden illumination faded. A crash of thunder hit us. A second later, a heavy boot kicked me away from Harriet.
“Keep her away,” the American said as Mr. Tinsdale yanked me to my feet, my ribs throbbing where his boot hit. The American kneeled by Harriet, and her eyes opened weakly. He cursed. “Now I got to dose her again.” He pulled a vial from his pocket, leaned close, then shrieked and reeled back. Blood ran from a cut that crossed his forehead and the bridge of his nose.
Weakly, Harriet waved the dagger tied between her hands. The American swore violently, then stomped her wrists to the ground with his boot. He pried the dagger free. “Goddam blackies. You’ll pay for that.” He spat on the dagger in his hand.
“Stop!” a voice commanded. Mr. Knightley, in muddy and torn day dress, stood on the path.
“Mr. Knightley!” I cried. “You found us!”
“Miss Woodhouse,” he acknowledged, his eyes on the American and the dagger. “I saw you take the north path. I followed, or tried to follow. I became peculiarly lost.”
“They have pistols in that cave.” I pointed.
“Shut your mouth,” Mr. Tinsdale snapped, cranking my arm painfully and dragging me back a step. He shouted at the American, “What are you waiting for? Kill him!”
Mr. Knightley had taken two cautious steps to stand between us and the cave mouth. In a rush, the American attacked him, the dagger flashing in awicked, underhand strike—a strike that stopped short, his wrist caught in Mr. Knightley’s hand. Mr. Knightley’s other hand grabbed the back of the American’s neck, locking their faces close while his elbow jammed the American’s shoulder at a painful angle. Their pose held, rigid as a statue, and the American began to strain, blood running from the cut Harriet had given him.
Mr. Knightley watched him with cold disdain. “My father taught me to fight,” he pronounced softly. “He was a gentleman, and a gentleman duels with pistol or sword. But he also honored his roots. A slave must fight without weapons. In his memory, I teach his skills to those who have been stripped of freedom.”
“Goddam darkies,” the American gasped. The point of the dagger quivered, barely an inch from Mr. Knightley’s waistcoat. “Not worth the chains I’ll put on you.”
“An English gentleman does not wear chains,” Mr. Knightley corrected. “No innocent person should suffer that abomination. Drop the dagger. I have no desire to fight a wounded man.”
“He is a slaver!” Harriet croaked hoarsely from the ground. “He killed all those wyves.”
Mr. Knightley’s grip must have tightened because the two men’s faces drew close, the American’s chin jerking as he struggled. Mr. Knightley whispered, “My error. You are not a man at all.” He shifted, sudden as lightning, and his arm wrapped the American’s neck. I looked away as a thick, wet snap sounded, and the American fell limp to the ground.
Mr. Knightley retrieved the dagger from the ground. He turned it, curious, and said idly, “Mr. Tinsdale. You have wandered from your false parliament of traitors and sycophants.”
Wind was growing, whipping the trees, and a flood of shadow crossed us as a huge, scarlet shape swept low in the sky. An even larger black shape followed—the soft glide of two fliers in tandem, not the press of pursuit.
As the dragons glided away, Mr. Tinsdale threw me hard to the ground. His running steps faded.
I crouched there on aching hands and knees, staring at my dirty, scraped fingers. Relief for my rescue fought with a new panic. The miasma was pooling under each stone.
I staggered to my feet, smoothing my skirt by touch, averting my eyes from my ruin of clothes. I fumbled in my reticule for my gloves and drew them on,then held them up, finding the symmetry of the pristine lace and trying not to see the dirt beneath.
“Help has arrived,” Mr. Knightley said from where he crouched by Harriet. “Let us go down.” On the narrow shore below us, Mr. Darcy and his soldiers were mounted on horses. Mr. Tinsdale’s soldiers were seated on the stones in a small, slump-shouldered huddle—surrendered, likely after Yuánchi overflew them.
“Should you not catch Mr. Tinsdale?” I said, looking at the path behind me.
“He is just a man. This time, let us get the dagger to safety.” Mr. Knightley tied the sheath to his waist and inserted the dagger. He lifted Harriet, cradling her in his arms. “She cannot walk on this ankle.”
I ran to her. “I am sorry I could not cure your ankle. I needed strength to help Lizzy. But it is only sprained.” Harriet clutched my hand weakly, but her smile was strong.
We scrambled down the slope to the shore, met partway by two of the soldiers. I ran to Mr. Darcy, who was watching the dragons.
“Call your wyfe,” I cried. “I can heal her.”
His expression became wondering, then he clasped my arms in unrestrained joy. The lake was fringed with ice, but he splashed out calf-deep like an eager boy, waving his arms hugely.
