by Maria Grace
“You are being foolish. How many more chances to settle well do you think you will have?” Lady Russell’s eyes narrowed. “You are comparing him to Wentworth.”
“And if I am? I do not think it is a bad thing. He was an admirable—”
“Utter foolishness.” She waved her hand in a great sweeping gesture, dismissing the very notion. “Truly it is, and you must stop. I cannot permit you make this sort of mistake. I care for you too much.”
Anne placed her chocolate cup on the nearby little square table slowly, deliberately. “I am two and twenty, not a child. I am very well able to make a good decision. I would appreciate it—”
Lady Russell leaned forward and stared intently into Anne’s eyes. “I am sure it seems that way to you. But you must trust me. In this matter there are things I understand that you do not. You must listen to me.”
Listen to me. Listen to me. Listen!
The words echoed over and over in Anne’s skull, ricocheting like billiard balls from one side to the other and back again. Clacking and rattling each time they struck an obstacle, threatening to wear down her resolve. She bowed her head, collapsing into her lap, cradling her head in her arms.
“Anne, what is wrong?” Lady Russell stood over her. “Are you unwell?”
“My head! My head feels like it is about to shatter. Pray excuse me. I must go to my room.” Anne sprang to her feet, unsteady and dizzy.
“I will take you. You should not be alone.” Lady Russell reached for her.
“No, no. I must be alone right now. I do not think I can tolerate even the sound of another person breathing!” Anne pelted from the room as fast as her shaky legs would take her.
At the grand stairs, the razor’s edge of the pain seemed to fade. Not that she felt well, not by any means. But the initial urge to cast up her accounts had passed and perhaps, just perhaps, she would be able to make it to her room without calling for assistance.
Chapter 4
Anne’s headache persisted the entire night and continued for the next two days. Blinding, nauseating pain encompassed her entire being, subsiding at just the moment that flinging herself from her window to the garden below seemed like a very good idea. Thankfully, that urge passed with the worst of the pain. Still though, she spent two more days in bed recovering from the experience, naturally missing Charles Musgrove’s call.
Mary said he sent his well wishes and would return in a few more days for an interview with her. Once Anne felt a little stronger, no doubt she would find missing the interview extremely vexing. But for now, simply standing up and looking into the sunshine without knives shooting through her skull were pleasures not to be underestimated. Perhaps that was a little dramatic. It did sound like something Mary would say. But was it wrong to express oneself that way when it was entirely true?
After five days of confinement, Anne craved sunshine and fresh air even more than food and drink. Finally feeling strong enough for both, she donned on a plain pink muslin morning dress, slipped into the kitchen for a slice of bread and cheese, and made her way to her mother’s garden behind the house.
Perfectly lovely sunbeams kissed her skin with warmth, reminding her of the pleasure of being alive. She chuckled. There was that dramatic streak coming out again, but as long as she kept it to herself, surely the indulgence was not so bad.
Near the overflowing white peony blooms with their heady perfume, the air hummed with the determined buzz of the local bees, their pulsing thrum more a feeling than a sound. She pressed her temples—something was off. The garden was familiar but somehow different.
It made no sense.
Perchance her eyes were weary from the days in her darkened room, but still, things looked different, just a little, like a person sitting for a silhouette who kept moving just a mite. Right and not right, rapidly alternating by moments. The garden sounded different too, but no word aptly described how—maybe brighter, more in focus? But those were words that described sight, not sound.
Lingering effects of the headache, perhaps? No doubt they would pass.
Anne continued along the little trail between the peonies that grew narrower as it went. How comfortably intimate the embrace of the flowers. Heavy perfume—a sweet interweaving of jasmine, rose and gillyflower—filled the air.
A rabbit trail opened up to the left. She stopped and peered down the narrow opening. Sometimes, when she was lucky, she could see the fuzzy little dears looking back at her with their bright eyes and long ears. Yes, there was one!
She crouched and leaned onto her heels. If she were very quiet, it might stay a bit and allow her to watch. It turned to look at her. Wait—what? No …
Her eyes lost focus, and the image of the rabbit melted away like butter in a hot pan. The creature that now stared back at her—what was it?
Fangs. It had fangs.
A shudder began at the back of her neck and snaked down her spine.
About the size of a large rabbit, its scaly hide was a sort of brown-green that blended in with the garden plants. The tip of its long tail flicked warily, and a substantial frill flared up behind its head.
“What are you?” Anne whispered.
“I am a rabbit in the garden.” It spoke in a painful, raspy odd voice. Not the sort of voice a rabbit should have, if a rabbit should have the power of speech.
“No, you are definitely not a rabbit. What are you?”
Its tail slapped the ground. “Excuse me, but you are quite rude! Clearly, the question is ‘who am I’ not ‘what.’ I am Beebalm, and I am a puck, you stupid girl.” The voice, different now, was staccato, breathy, and the tiniest bit cold.
Anne fell back to sit hard on the ground, catching herself with her palms. No, it was not possible. The creature could not have spoken to her. “What is a puck?”
Why was she even talking to it?
The creature’s wide lacy frill fluttered open, and it hissed, sharp teeth bared. Anne scrabbled back.
“Do you know nothing? I am a dragon.” It stomped its left front foot. Long dark claws tore at the ground.
“You are very small for a dragon. I thought they were very large.” And that they were only myths.
“You are a stupid girl. I had hoped for better from you. You really ought to apply yourself to learning something useful before you speak. Yes, you ought.” The creature turned on its tail and hopped into the dense flowerbeds, snorting as it disappeared.
Anne rubbed the dusty heels of her hands into her eyes. She must be seeing things. And hearing them, too. Had she just been scolded by a miniature dragon? That headache had truly affected her; that was the only possible explanation.
It was not a good sign, not at all.
She pushed herself back to her feet, a bit light-headed and wobbly. Best return to the house, no doubt she was trying to do too much. A bit more rest; that would set things to right.
Slowly, deliberately, she forced one foot in front of the other, gravel crunching under her half-boots, dusty skirts swishing around her ankles. There, she was feeling better already. As she turned down the path toward the house, the head shepherd’s dog trotted toward her.
Thick and stocky and covered with rich brown and white fur, he woofed at her, smiling his unselfconscious canine smile. He sat, panting, and waited for his customary scratch under the chin. Thank heavens, a creature who would not talk back to her!
“Such a fine fellow.” She scratched his scaly neck.
Scaly?
Cold prickles coursed down her neck and shoulders as she edged back and peered at the sheepdog. Like the rabbit, the dog-form liquefied and sloughed away, revealing a decidedly medieval dragon-like creature the size and shape of the dog that been there before.
Its hind leg scratched behind its small pointed ear with long dangerous-looking talons. “Do not look at me so curiously. I am the dog you have always known.” The voice was whispery-painful, like the sounds she had heard in her last conversation with Lady Russell.
“No, not at
all. You look nothing like a dog at all. What has happened to you?” Anne drove the heels of her hands into her temples and cast about—were there more of these creatures in the bushes?
It stood and wagged its long thick tail exactly as the dog had, the sun glinting off the almost-white and brown spotted scales on its back. Triangular ears, pinkish white in the center, pricked toward her. “So, it has happened at last. Good on you, Miss. Good on you. It is about time there is a proper Keeper for these lands.” The voice changed to something no longer painful; rich and a bit rough, a voice she could have imagined belonging to a large dog.
“Keeper? I do not know what you are talking about. I do not know why you are talking at all.”
“I think the real question here is not why I am talking, but why you have only just started to hear me? It is odd to take so long to grow into one’s hearing.”
“You have been talking all this time?” Her mouth went dry.
“Yes, but not to you of course, except to persuade you that I was the dog you used to see.” The creature yawned—what a huge mouth! Fangs! And those teeth—so many, so sharp …
“But why would you do that?”
“If you think yourself shocked now, talking to a dragon, how much more would you be to see one and not be able to talk to him? You would think me some sort of frightful beast.” He sat back down and cocked his head at her in an expression she had often seen the sheepdog use.
“I suppose that makes sense.” At least it seemed to, considering that this situation that made no sense at all.
“Of course, it does. Dragons are eminently sensible.” His thick tail swished along the pebbles.
“I will have to take your word on it.”
“Your mother often did.”
“You knew my mother?” Her knees melted beneath her, and she sagged to the ground, sharp gravel biting into her palm.
“Naturally. She knew all of us by name.”
“All of you? You have a name?”
“Of course, we do! We are not uncivilized. I am Shelby.” Was he laughing at her as he bent his front legs and bowed his head?
She stood and struggled through an artless curtsy—why was hard to say—more reflex than anything else. “I … I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Did she just say that to a creature who called itself a dragon? A dragon!
“You remind me of your mother. Once we were acquainted, she proved quite hospitable.” He lifted his nose and sniffed the air. “Must get back to the sheep.” He trotted away as though nothing unusual at all had taken place.
She stared after him. Pray let him turn back into a dog.
But he did not.
Oh, for a nearby bench! How could one remain standing after such an encounter? There, under the white lattice gazebo, a small iron bench. She staggered there as quickly as her feeble knees could take her.
Surely her head should be hurting now, but it did not. Why?
She sat, hunched over her lap, fingertips pressed hard to her temples. There was some natural explanation for these events. Surely there was.
Perhaps one—but not a pleasing one. She must be going mad—stark mad! Bedlam should be her home soon! What else could it be?
That would be Father’s undoing! A daughter in Bedlam—it might even kill him.
“You see, you see!” A voice—not another voice!—twittered above her.
She craned her neck and peered into the bright blue sky, wishing, praying to see the pretty little wrens—the ones Mother and Lady Russell used to talk to—that frequented the garden. Two colorful creatures circled above her. At first glance, they seemed to be small birds, but she squinted and they became scaly, lizardy creatures: four-legged, with fluffy not-quite-feathers, but not-quite-scales either, rendering them in bright rainbow shades.
The larger one dipped down close to her. “The daughter of the house hears us now! She hears! I am sure of it.”
“But what does it mean? Does any know her character, her motives?” The smaller one perched on the topmost rail of the gazebo.
“Who can tell, she has no signet of the Order, no sign that she is our friend.” The large one swooped through the lattice, in and out of the gazebo’s domed top.
“Then I shall not stay, not until there is some sign she is trustworthy.”
The two little birds—no creatures, more dragons?—zipped off into the garden and disappeared among the flowers.
No! No! Not the birds, too. Enough! Enough!
She dragged herself back into the house and shut the front door hard, pressing her back against the door lest any more dragon-creatures try to make their way in. None appeared from the flowers in the tall vase on the hall table or peeked out from behind the Elliot family portraits on the opposite wall. Thank heavens! She dragged in a long, ragged breath.
Sharp footsteps rang out in the front hall, coming closer. She most certainly did not need to be seen, her hair disheveled and covered in dirt.
“Anne? Anne? What is wrong with you? You look a fright.” Father, hands firmly clasped behind his back, stared at her with more condemnation than concern. His suit, his shoes, the arrangement of his hair were, as always, impeccable.
“I am quite unwell. I am seeing things and hearing things that simply cannot be.” She braced for his rebuke.
His eyes narrowed, and his forehead wrinkled—an expression his vanity usually obviated. “What sorts of things?”
“Does it really matter?” She pushed stray hairs back from her forehead.
“It does, I am afraid. What sorts of things?” He waved for her to follow him as he walked down the corridor toward his study, hands clasped tight behind his back, footsteps hushed by the thick carpet.
How could he ask her to walk at such a time? “It sounds like some sort of fairy story. Whilst I was in the garden, I am quite certain that animals there talked to me.”
Why did he not look more surprised? “Go on.” He ushered her into his office and shut the door rather firmly.
The room was stark and neat, curtains and carpet in stripes of ivory, gold, and blue. The wall to the left of the door boasted a pair of large bookcases that flanked Father’s desk. The opposite wall held the fireplace, fronted by several large navy blue armchairs. Between were cabinets and shelves holding the usual sorts of things men appreciated in their bookrooms.
“A rabbit, who said she knew Mama. A shepherd’s dog and a pair of birds. They all spoke to me.” She clutched the back of the wooden chair nearest the desk.
Father tut-tutted under his breath. “Are you certain it was a rabbit?”
“No, not exactly.
He dropped into the large chair behind his grand mahogany desk and looked her square in the eyes. “Stop dithering about, and tell me the whole thing.”
“I thought it was a rabbit at first, but as I watched, it changed into something else. Something I have never seen before. With scales and fangs. It called itself a puck, which it said was a kind of dragon. The dog did the same, but it looked like a small dragon from a fairy story. And the birds that flew over me. I could hardly see them, but they had scales and four feet and were not birds at all.”
Father tsked and shook his head.
“Do you know what is wrong with me?” She tumbled into the chair and looked up at him, wrapping her hands around her shoulders.
“Wrong with you? Nothing is precisely wrong with you.” Father turned aside and stroked his chin, hardly happy.
“I scarcely think there is anything right with me at the moment.”
“You are just like your mother.” He frowned and rolled his eyes.
“Mother? She heard things, too?”
“I had hoped you would all be spared the problem, as my dear Elizabeth has. But it seems we are not that fortunate, and you must take on the burden.” His lips wrinkled into a very unattractive frown.
“What burden? You are making as little sense as the creatures out in the garden.” If only she could stomp as the little puck had.
�
�Come with me, but do not talk. Nothing must be said in the hearing of the staff.” He harrumphed as he led her upstairs.
Anne followed, clinging to the stair railing.
Father opened the door to Mama’s room which had been essentially untouched and unused since her death. Was it possible that it still smelled like her? Probably not, but somehow it still did. Maybe just being amidst the pink and yellow rose-covered drapes and bed linens that Mama had chosen made her feel very close.
He shuffled to a dainty mahogany bookcase standing beside the fireplace, laden with many volumes, and pulled out a book—a large, heavy one, bound in blue leather with gold lettering.
“Here. All that you need to know is here. You will find Kellynch among the estates named between those covers. I have been assured it is an honor to be so listed, though it involves considerable effort and no distinction. My father said it was more drudgery and expense than anything else. We are fortunate that all that nonsense has been dormant for decades and nothing has been demanded from us. It is my hope it will stay that way for quite some time.”
“I do not understand what you are talking about. How am I to make any sense of this when you speak in riddles?” She clutched one of the slender mahogany bedposts with one hand and held the book close to her chest with the other, squeezing her eyes shut. Father did not like tears, but now it might actually be a reasonable course of action.
He propelled her toward the overstuffed chair near the window. “Read the book. It will answer all your questions.” He strode out and shut the door–loud and final—behind him.
Anne fell into the chair’s warm, pink and yellow striped embrace and stared at the heavy tome in her lap. She brushed away some lingering dust and cobwebs, but it did not change the title.
The Annals of the Blue Order: Its Tenets, Treaties and Laws with a Complete Listing of All Lands and Dragons Related Thereto
What kind of a joke was he playing at?
∞∞∞
July 1809
Late in the day, Anne carried the heavy tome to her room and requested a dinner tray be sent up. That was probably a mistake. Who could eat under the weight of such revelations? She read by candlelight, long into the night.
