The gravel resisted the chair’s wooden wheels, so Mr. Knightley took over pushing. Greenery enveloped us. Nothing appeared exotic, but it was diverse and wild with overgrown bushes that reached above our heads.
“When I attend balls, my status is defined by my appearance, not my fortune,” Mr. Knightley said.
We had returned to the choice of dance partners. He meant his skin, obviously.
“When we came to London,” I said, “I did not believe how widespread that prejudice was. It is not like that in Highbury.” Mr. Knightley raised a doubtful eyebrow, so I said, “Truly, it shocked me. Although I think I did not alwaysnotice the subtle intolerances of country society. Harriet has told me disturbing stories since we came to London.”
“England’s tolerance for blatant prejudice is growing. Ambitious men encourage hate that supports their beliefs, or they exploit it for cynical gain. But British soil is free. America has the grotesquery of slavery in the south, and the cowardice of appeasement in the north. I watch their politicians debate the Missouri Territory, and I know commerce will triumph over humanity again. And the American slave states are strengthened by this new alliance with Bonaparte.”
“At least that alliance carries no weight in England.”
“I fear you are mistaken. English extremists admire Bonaparte. Mr. Tinsdale and his like aspire to unchallenged power, so they worship dictators.”
I preferred to avoid the topic of Mr. Tinsdale. “You are very informed about America.”
“My father was born there, a slave. When the colonies rebelled, King George announced freedom for any slave who joined the loyalist army. My father escaped that evening. He walked a night and a day to find a regiment camp.” Mr. Knightley chuckled wryly. “My father named me George to honor the King, but he always said I was named for another George as well: George Washington, the slave owner who so frightened the King that he welcomed Black men to Britain.”
Mr. Knightley and I were walking side-by-side while he pushed Nessy’s chair. His coat was of the best woolen weave, his buttons polished silver, his enunciation refined and educated. This history only made him more of a puzzle.
I decided to pry. “And his son is a gentleman musician? That must be a remarkable story.”
Mr. Knightley smiled oddly, but he did not answer. Hmph. Perhaps I could ask Georgiana.
Our trio stopped at another fork. This had a half-scale statue of a wyfe, her features weathered and blurred. She cradled a winged draca in her arms—a firedrake—as if it were a complacent goose. That was nonsense. Only tykes were safe to handle, and then only by their bound wyfe. Although there were fables of wyves who could charm any draca. Perhaps Lizzy could hold a drake.
I asked Nessy, “Do you think this lady has a name?”
“Miss Bunny,” she whispered.
I hid a smile. “I recall that the Bunny family boasted many great wyves.”
That accidental phrase,great wyves, felt potent here. The overgrown greenery embedded us in a natural shrine. Nine rays of carved stone radiated from the statue’s head and shoulders like an overlarge halo, although the church did not permit draca in religious scenes.
Nessy squirmed around in her nest of blankets. This time she asked, “Which way?”
The wide gravel path curved benignly to the right. To the left was little more than a trail, overgrown with frost-nipped clover and drooping branches. The foliage gleamed jade and turquoise, the twigs swollen and streaked with purple as if poised to burst forth in spring, not frozen by frigid winter. Their hues gleamed over-colored like the false luster I saw when the miasma struck, but this felt living, not filled with sickness and threat.
“Left,” I said. “Those plants look talkative.”
It was narrow, so I led, lifting the occasional branch or weedy stalk which Nessy then raised over her head to be caught by Mr. Knightley. Grass and leaves brushed the sides of Nessy’s chair and crushed beneath the wheels. Heady aromas freshened the air, crisp and springlike or musty like rich loam. The path thinned, wound, then widened.
“I did not think the garden was so large—” Mr. Knightley began.
I raised my hand. “Listen.” Leaves were rustling. Ahead, a patch of hedge swayed, then thrashed. It looked distressed, not threatening, so I stepped closer.
A silvery shape the size of a modest dog was hidden in the overgrown stems and lush, rough-edged leaves. I crouched, and a chisel-shaped draca head lifted on a swanlike neck.
“A firedrake,” I exclaimed. I saw her wings now, one furled, the other awkwardly half-extended among the weeds. Nessy squealed excitedly and Mr. Knightley said something cautioning, but I was too amazed to listen. The drake’s scales were a color I had never seen, a silver warmer than polished sterling, as if rubbed with copper. Her shining black eyes stared into mine, mesmerizing in their depth.
One did not simply find firedrakes in public gardens. Was she bound? Bound firedrakes were extraordinarily rare, but I had never even heard of a feral drake.
The drake’s shining head dipped into the green. A stalk shook, then her head rose to resume observing me, now with a rough-edged leaf sticking out of her mouth at a comical angle. She chopped at it ineffectively with obsidian teethbetter suited for flesh, then a startling black tongue snagged the scraps, and the leaf vanished with a gulp.
“I want to see!” Nessy begged. After reassuring Mr. Knightley, who seemed convinced we faced a mortal threat, the three of us formed a tiny arc around the drake.
“She is hurt!” I realized.
The drake’s wings were longer than a swan’s and jointed differently, but the half-spread wing was clearly crooked and slack. I pushed weeds aside to see. The last rib of the wing hung at an angle. Broken.
