Lord Wellington threw up his hands in disbelief. “Castlehurst, have you not heard a word I said? You sought a dragon that could lay waste to an army. That dragon iscoming here.”
I spotted a door below the windows. “Does that go to the yard?” I walked toward it.
“You do not have permission to leave!” the Secretary shouted.
A portly, gray-haired gentleman harrumphed and stepped into my path. He grasped my wrists, and I stopped, astonished that a gentleman would physically accost me. I tried to pull free, and the gentleman pulled back—a stalemated tugging match.
But our contest summoned a memory. My father’s battle-hardened hands once held me this same way. But not to restrain me.
It had been a lesson:
“Do not fight a man,” my father—but not my father—announced in the commanding tones he used to address his army. “A man is too heavy and too strong. But his size breeds arrogance. He will grasp you like a child.” He seized my scrawny forearms, so hard that it hurt. “Do not fight a man. Defeat him! Strike once. Strike hard.”
The motions of our drill returned, rehearsed as a dance. I reversed my futile tugging and stepped forward, aided by the pull on my arms, and planted my heel behind the gentleman’s shoe. Overbalanced, he began tipping backward. His arms lifted, and I twisted my palms hard toward my face, wrenching his wrists and breaking his grip.
His desperate, balancing backstep smacked my planted heel, andhe began to fall. He had sparse, gray eyebrows and a lumpy, red-veined nose. Too much brandy, too much snuff—an old man who heaved himself into a coach to travel a hundred yards. A weak man. A harmless man.
Barely in time, I checked my blow. He teetered, arms windmilling, then crashed clumsily to the floor.
My skirt was stretched taut between my firmly placed forward foot and my half-turned rear foot. My right fist trembled by my shoulder where I had frozen my strike. Already, soft, little-used muscles in my arm were protesting.
I had never struck anyone. I had never made a fist. Not even as a child. It was unthinkable. And Papa did not have gold-hued skin, and he certainly did not teach me to fight. What had I remembered?
The gentleman was grumbling and groaning at my feet. Shock and shame roiled my mind. The room stayed silent until Lord Wellington spoke warily behind me. “Mrs. Darcy?”
Move.
I hurried to the door, banged it open, and emerged onto a stone balcony. No steps down. No other exit. Wonderful.
Yuánchi was close. West. I squinted at the sky and thought,Did you see the memory I had? That was not my father. That was not me.
A past life,he replied.Each life is a part of the self. Their layers build the next mind.
“That is how draca minds grow,” I said aloud. “Not human minds.”
The lives of wyves are shared with their bound draca. Their draca remember.
“That memory was from you?”
Stillness stretched.No. From her.
From Fènnù.
Men’s voices whispered behind me. I looked back and saw faces peering out the door. Blustering, frightened faces. Pathetic. These men led England in war?
Wind rose. Yuánchi swept low into the garden, a hunter’s stealthy approach that was hidden by the building. He settled with fast, short flaps that rippled the grass, tucking his wingtips to avoid walls and trees.
There were shouts and scuffling behind me, then Lord Wellington strolled up to lean on the balcony. He took a long look at Yuánchi, then a longer look at me. “May I ask what you intend?”
“I intend to retrieve Mr. Darcy,” I said. “Our binding passes through me to him. Yuánchi can follow that to find him.” I looked at Yuánchi and asked belatedly,Can you?
Yuánchi’s head swiveled.He is not far. But I will not leave you with enemies. Come down.He took two thumping steps and crouched to lean his shoulder against the balcony.
That was unexpected. I licked my lips in the chill air. I had not intended to attempt my first mount of a dragon in front of members of Parliament. Not to mention the armed guards running into the garden, pointing at Yuánchi, then at Lord Wellington.
Lord Wellington acknowledged the guards with a relaxed wave that commanded calm, but when he spoke to me, he was soft and serious. “In the coach, you said you feared an attraction to violence. You must not commit violence to free Darcy.”
“I intend to ask nicely,” I said, then wondered how true that was. I had almost punched a man. But Yuánchi’s awareness flowed with me, ancient and dispassionate. “Would you help me, please?” I nodded to where Yuánchi’s shoulder pressed against the balcony.
