While I sped down the hall, I wondered why I was not worried by Darcy’s attention to Emma. I had comforted wyves infuriated or frightened by wandering husbands. Reprehensible behavior was terribly common in London.
Part of my faith was simple trust. I could visit Longbourn and leave Darcy and Emma at Chathford without a thought. Darcy’s character—his life—was a construct of honor. It made him rigid at times, but there were benefits.
And we were in love. Passionately, as I was gathering from the delicate curiosity of other, possibly envious, wyves. I remembered our trip in the coach, and the shell of my ear heated.
The cook, a stick-thin woman kneading dough and dabbed head to toe with flour, met me with a bob. My feet had retraced Emma’s flight to the kitchen. I lit a lamp and walked into the night.
Each breath became a puff of cloud. I had brought no coat, and the cold felt glorious. I lifted my free hand to the sky, a slick of perspiration cooling my wrist. The stars were obscured, but it was not utterly dark. The house windows glowed, and a third of the sky glistened palely—moonlight scattered through unfallen snow.
The boathouse was a void in the watery reflections of lights from the far shore. A snow-dusted path led to a buckled door. It opened with a hard shove from my shoulder.
The interior was long and empty, the roof beams shadows fifteen feet above my head. Four carriages could have fit along the length. The floor was packed clay. At the far end, a ramp descended to lapping water. A wooden gate on ropes and pulleys closed the river entrance, the gate’s bottom a foot or two above the water’s surface.
Darcy had mentioned a disreputable history under a prior owner—smuggling of some sort. That had given me an idea.
I set the lamp on a shelf and turned the flame high, then closed my eyes. I inhaled and emptied my lungs. Petty distractions faded from my mind.
The world of draca opened. The tyke’s awareness was a spark of bubbling energy in the house behind me. In front of me, the Thames was dark. I had wondered about that, as draca live half their lives in a fish-like form. Perhaps this part of the Thames was fouled with waste. On land, feral draca preferred the country; they did not roam London like stray cats. Water-borne draca might be the same.
For all that binding was a linchpin of social standing, most wyves considered their bound draca to be no more than a permanent, dangerous, and ratherdisengaged pet. However, I was a great wyfe. I could sense draca minds over a large distance. Most of London. But in the intensity of the salon, I had done something I thought impossible. I had spoken with Yuánchi while he was at Pemberley, two days’ travel by coach.
My binding to Yuánchi was a silver thread vanishing to the north. I focused on it and cast my mind outward.
Do you hear me?
There was no sense of connection. But the remnants of Georgiana’s song lingered, melody visible as shifting, interleaved colors. The tones sang, clarifying my thoughts.
Do you hear me?I tried again, and the words were tuned and harmonious.
You are far.Yuánchi’s silent response rumbled in my mind like distant thunder.
I am in London. And you are at Pemberley. How remarkable.
I left Pemberley.
“What?” I said aloud.
You were in danger, so I wished to be closer. I crossed half the distance. No one saw. It has been miserably wet. I flew above the clouds.
Well, I could hardly scold him given why I was here.My principal danger is frustration. I met the War Secretary today. He is an irritating man.
You go to war.Yuánchi’s tone was tense.
What? No.
There was no response.
The chill had penetrated my skin. I rubbed my hands, then thought,He cannot command us. But I miss you. Perhaps you can visit while I argue sense into his head. I have found an empty boathouse. Would you fit?
Fit inside a house?Yuánchi’s tone was amused. I imagined the huffing snort he used for laughter.
It is more a hall than a house. At least twenty yards long.The response was puzzlement. A dragon did not measure yards. But Georgiana’s power still hummed, strengthening my own.I can see through your eyes when you let me. Can you see through mine?
I have never done that. With any wyfe.
Try, I thought.
I opened my eyes. The lantern’s flame was sharply bright, the boathouse a flickering cavern that faded to black by the water. I threw my mind open, like throwing my arms wide for an embrace.
