It was early afternoon, not even two, but the light was dwindling faster than nightfall. Cold, yellowish fog rolled up from the river like a rising tide. The low clouds had the same peculiar hue, churning through brass, then bronze, then corroded copper.
Mr. Knightley took the first coach. He would meet Georgiana at the salon and escort her to Chathford.
The second coach pulled up, and Harriet found a seat. Emma followed her friend, her pale lashes lowered and a blush locked high on her cheeks.
Darcy gave directions to the driver, then offered his hand to me, somehow managing to be simultaneously rigid and cringing, and I decided to put an end to this nonsense.
I drew him away from the coach door and laid my palm on his heart. “Love, you are indulging in vanity.” His surprised dark hazel eyes met mine as I continued, “Only a silly wyfe would think a touch is betrayal. I hope I am not that. But you are behaving like a penitent nun and unjustly embarrassing Emma. A womandied. If that is not sufficient perspective, I felt the strength that surrounded us on that river. Emma was a scarf blown in a gale.” I looked up atthe stormy, orange sky. My sense of the draca world seemed to tremble with the chilling air. “I think we all are.”
His shoulders straightened. “You are right. I will apologize to her.”
“Go in. I require a minute.” Darcy entered the coach and pulled the door just shy of latching.
The driver called down, “Are you not comin’, ma’am?”
“I will. I am greeting a guest.” I had sent a summons, and the answer approached.
A lindworm, the heaviest of quadruped draca, was loping down the street and drawing stares—draca in London usually lolled out-of-sight in their draca houses. She settled eagerly at my feet, twenty-five pounds of stout muscle, wide-chested as a bulldog but equipped with a squat, lizard-ish tail and sheathed in moss-brown scales.
I bent, staring into her black eyes and wondering how to express the future tense. My affinity let me share the silent mental speech of wyverns and dragons, but other draca breeds communicated more simply, with images and emotions.
I spoke aloud for focus and concentrated on images to convey my words.
“Men wish me harm. Your strength would be welcome. If you travel with us, I will ensure you are returned to your home.”
The lindworm nodded her head in a sneezyhuffthat left a smoky odor, then looked up at the top of the coach. I had pictured her seated there, having no other inspiration for a draca traveling by coach.
She tensed, powerful muscles bunching in her hips and legs. “Do not—” I began, but she had already leaped an astonishing eight feet up and was scrabbling into the spare seat beside the driver.
“Bloody hell!” the man shouted and jumped clean off the far side of the coach, which was almost as impressive.
“Wait!” I called, running around the back of the coach. “She will not hurt you.” The lindworm trotted across the driver’s bench to peer down at the driver, who was spouting excited oaths.Wait, I thought to her as well. If she jumped after him, I would be chasing the two of them across half of London.
Ignoring Darcy’s shouted “What was that?” from the window, I finished circling the coach and affixed a smile. The driver had a teen’s wispy beard, but his arms were burly—a young man who had driven horse teams for years. He propped his fists on his hips and gaped up at the draca occupying his seat.
“She is quite tame,” I said. “Here, for your trouble.” I opened thedrawstring on my reticule and held out a shilling. “There will be another if you bring her back to this street after.”
“Back?Her?”
“Yes. Her home is there.” I pointed to a stone draca house outside a terrace home on the next street.
He exhaled the long, doubtful sigh of a tradesperson indulging insanity, then took the shilling. “All right, then.” He climbed up, and the lindworm made room, turning a dog-like full circle before settling on her side of the bench. Perhaps she was admiring the view.
I climbed into the coach. Emma looked exhausted but no longer mortified. Harriet was watching Darcy with ill-concealed awe. Darcy himself looked slightly smug. Doubtless he had enjoyed a dramatic speech brimming with ethics and remorse.
Gravely, he turned to me and drew a preparatory breath. I raised a restraining hand—gently, I hoped. “My pulse has raced enough. Tell me when I have had a cup of tea.”
At Chathford,we joined a line of three coaches waiting to discharge passengers. Darcy banged on the roof and called up, “Find out what is happening.”
There were curt, professional shouts, then the driver called down, “Music, sir.”
I watched ladies disembark from the coaches before us, then we climbed down. The driver took his extra shilling and rolled off, the lindworm beside him and peering at every passing sight.
Inside, Mrs. Reynolds curtsied to us, then waved a despairing hand—high drama by her standard. “A dozen guests already! And the footmen are missing. Madam, I must ask Lucy to help serve.”
“Of course,” I said. “But whose guests?”
“Miss Bennet. She is mad with music!”
