That scarlet power faded behind layers of music, foundations of strength and perfection. My panic became wonder.
I touched my other palm to the back of her hand, and she added hers behind mine.
6
THE BOATHOUSE
LIZZY
I watchedDarcy pull his chair closer to Emma. She listened seriously as he explained, her hazel eyes wide, her elbows hugging her sides from her chill. A damp handkerchief twisted in her hands.
Harriet and Georgiana had helped her into the house, where she shrank onto a sofa. A few hours earlier, Emma had met us at Chathford House with an exuberant smile. Now, she was compressed, a shivering, frightened woman.
Harriet sat at her left, her pretty features screwed up in determined support. Georgiana sat on her other side, occasionally quieting Emma’s restless hands with a touch of her finger. Outside, I had felt Georgiana’s power rise—the great wyfe of song ordering whatever forces governed the world of draca. More than emotional support passed between them.
When I touched Emma outside, she cringed and cried out. So, I stood on the far side of the sitting room. Mary stood beside me, her arms locked across her breast.
I wondered about the painting. The image of Queen Mary’s dagger had felt unpleasant—a murky chill through my hand. And dissatisfying, like a hint of flavor too faint to name. That was when Emma fled.
Emma’s shoulders rose and fell. Her voice strengthened enough to cross the room. “What do you mean, ‘great wyfe’?”
Darcy frowned, his black eyebrows drawn. He was always more handsomewhen intense. “Throughout history, wyves have risen with powerful affinity to draca. The Scots have the most recent account, but even that is centuries old. Their songs name the three great wyves. From your sensitivities, I believe you are the great wyfe of healing.”
He recited:
“To sound our claim,
the three wyves came:
Of healing, wise.
Of song, who cries.
Of war. Arise.”
I nudged Mary’s stiff elbow and whispered, “He told me the same verse. Then I accused him of attempting to collect a set of great wyves—his mother, his sister, and me. That was when I refused his first proposal.”
“They have their set,” Mary said. Her tone was caustic. “Lady Anne Darcy, the beloved and mourned mother, will be played by tragic Emma Woodhouse wearing tear-soaked silk.”
I turned and studied Mary until, reluctantly, she met my gaze.
“Why do you dislike her?” I said. “Ishould be the one irritated. It is my husband obsessing over her.”
“Her relationship with Harriet is arrogant. Dangerous for Harriet.”
“They seem good friends to me.” Mary’s lips thinned, so I added, “Georgiana likes her.”
Mary made a sound low in her throat, like a small bird trapped and fluttering. Finally, she whispered, “I am mundane.”
I remembered Mary upset and ignored at a ball, long ago. It seemed another world. “That is ridiculous. Did you not see the ladies at your salon? They mimic your clothes. They straighten their hair. They even call themselves ‘Marys’! One morning, I will butter my toast and spot you leading a parade of black-clad Marys to tear down the patriarchy.”
Mary gave a hollow laugh. “They are debutantes playing at rebellion.”
I pressed her elbow with mine. “Mary. What is wrong?”
“I… it cannot be spoken. I cannot.”
“Will you tell me later?” When she did not answer, I added, “I will return soon. I wish to examine the boathouse. For the school.” Mary gave one puzzled blink before I slipped out of the room.
