“He said not to acknowledge me.” Her voice sharpened. “Not even totellme?”
Without warning, she ran from the room. I ran after her, slipping on books, then catching the outside door as it bounced after her exit.
She stood motionless a few steps into the street, her back to me.
I stopped an arm’s length behind. “Harriet. Papa is gone. I am struggling to honor his dying wishes. I am failing, over and over. But he told me his wish for you. You are to have the life you deserve. You should marry a gentleman, and bind, and be a lady.” My voice broke. “I am trying to achieve that.”
Mr. Debrett emerged from the door, my papers in his hand. He saw us, then looked awkwardly aside,hmmingto himself as if admiring the deserted street.
“Will you ever forgive me?” I said.
Slowly, wordlessly, Harriet extended her hand behind her back. I touched her fingers, and for a moment, she squeezed mine.
A large, private coach, four-horsed and gleaming with black lacquer, was clattering down the street. It rolled to a stop in front of us. The footman glared at us, then opened the door.
Mr. Tinsdale stepped out and said in a puzzled tone, “Miss Woodhouse.”
I smiled despite my wet cheeks. “Your pardon, sir, we are departing. You should know that Mr. Debrett has declared Miss Harriet Smith to be a documented wyfe. I am certain she will bind brilliantly. She has extraordinary affinity to draca.”
Mr. Debrett passed me my papers. “She is at least properly documented. I look forward to listing her in our next edition.” He gave Mr. Tinsdale a cool smile. “I am afraid that Miss Smith and the many wyves like her make your proposal of an expurgated edition impossible.”
I waited for Mr. Tinsdale to show embarrassment at his exposure. Or frustration at being denied. But he simply answered, “What of the other project?”
“The… uh…personalresearch?” Mr. Debrett flicked a glance toward Harriet and me.
“Proceed,” Mr. Tinsdale said. “There is nothing secret about it. On the contrary.”
Mr. Debrett fell into a businesslike tone. “I confirmed your relation to the royal family. You are eighteenth in line to the throne. Although that separation will grow as heirs are born and then the next generation.” He laughed politely. “When one is more distantly related, the line of succession changes rapidly.”
“It does,” Mr. Tinsdale said gravely. There was a silence.
Mr. Debrett resumed, suddenly chattering and nervous. “Historically, the succession is more malleable than the layman presumes. Parliament may even alter the Act of Settlement. The wyves’ movement has achieved notable support for abolishing male primogeniture. But you would know more of that than I.”
“I would,” Mr. Tinsdale said. He looked up at the sky. “I think I shall return home. For safety.”
Mr. Debrett followed his upward gaze. “Safety?” he said uncertainly.
Mr. Tinsdale smiled. “Have you not read today’s newspaper? I should think it would fascinate a man of your profession.” His voice strengthened like an actor’s, and he recited, “?‘Behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads.’?” His voice dropped to a carrying whisper. “?‘And there was war in heaven.’?”
He bowed to Mr. Debrett, then to me, then—with mocking formality—toHarriet, to whom he added, “Miss Smith.” He entered his coach. The driver whipped the horses to a gallop, and they raced down the empty street.
Mr. Debrett turned to Harriet and me. “Was there news today? I slept in the office.”
Harriet looked at me, as if I could provide a neat explanation of a pair of dragons at the British Museum.
“There are—” I began, then my voice faltered. Scarlet had tugged my heart. I began walking to the street corner. “A dragon rose from the Thames.”
Mr. Debrett hurried beside me. “A draca, you mean? Was it witnessed? There are historical accounts of draca from water. Was it a greater draca? The arrival of a firedrake would be extraordinary.”
We reached the corner, and the Thames opened to our left. I pointed. “I meant a dragon. Although that is not the one from the Thames.”
Yuánchi was gliding above the ice, his sunlit wings spanning a third of the river. With a flick of his wing tips, he rose over a bridge, then skimmed the ice again. He banked, effortless as a soaring gull, and vanished behind the riverside wall of Westminster Palace.
Mr. Debrett pushed stiff fingers through his gray hair. They stopped halfway, leaving him in a pose of shock.
On my other side, Harriet said, “Why would he fly in broad daylight?”
“He was summoned,” I said. I could feel it in the Darcys’ binding, a tautness in my borrowed scarlet strength.
