by Shana Abe
Hayden James came by today for tea bearing a posy for me and a bouquet for Mother’s sickroom. He’s blond and tall and quite handsome. But he spent an entire two hours talking with me about the weather. Even I was bored.
May 11, 1774
Temperate. Clear.
I should have anticipated this. I mean, I did anticipate it. I just never truly believed he would work up the nerve to ask.
Hayden is very dear. I do like him. Perhaps I even love him. I enjoy his quiet company, and his thoughtfulness, and the way his eyes light up to the most perfect blue when he smiles. I appreciate that he still brings lilacs to Mother’s grave, and that he worries about me living alone here in the cottage. It’s very kind, if unnecessary. I have my work (although I am a poor substitute for Mother’s skills), and family about. I have ones who care. We are a tribe, after all, and no one is ever truly alone in Darkfrith. Just ask the Council.
I suppose that if I am to note that Hayden’s character is rather reserved, I must also truthfully declare that his manners are always the pinnacle of courtesy. If his demonstrations of physical affection for me are somewhat … restrained, at least I know he values my virtue.
I’ve tried to close my eyes and picture him in the cottage with me, taking tea with me every day for the rest of our lives. Our sons and daughters around us, yellow-haired and merry. What a relief it would be to finally slip into the domestic ease enjoyed by the rest of the tribe.
Madam Zoe James. Madame Zoé James.
He is a fine man. I must think about how to answer him. My least desire is to hurt him.
May 12, 1774
Rhys. Langford. Is. An. Ass.
Saw him at Market this morning in the village. Heavens knows what he was doing at Market, since he surely never has to purchase anything of his own. There are servants to shop for him, after all. No doubt he’s just been sent down from Cambridge (again) and decided to rake up some trouble here at home for a change.
(What would I give for a chance to leave this shire and attend school! You can bloody well wager I’d not get caught doing anything to send me back here, but of course only the hallowed family of the Alpha is allowed to leave!)
He spies me before the bakeshop buying bread and saunters over. Yes. Saunters. He wears his hat cocked back and his brown hair untied and his breeches too tight and has this smile, this so Charming and Sweet smile, as if he’s just happened upon a Dear Bosom Friend. Which I am not.
“I understand I am to congratulate you,” he says.
“Oh?” I reply, because I can’t imagine to what he’s referring. Cerise’s second child? Surely not Hayden, as I have not yet spoken with him.
“Indeed,” he says. “Hayden James, eh? Decent sort, if a bit dull. I wondered if any of the fellows here would ever pluck up the courage to end your reign as the Old Maid of the Shire.”
I did not throw my bread at him. I merely gave him my coolest smile and answered, “As long as it wasn’t you. Oh, but that’s right—you did try, didn’t you?”
And then I sauntered away.
May 13, 1774
Cloudy. Drizzle.
We have set the wedding date for June of next year.
May 28, 1774
Something grave has occurred. I don’t know what. There’s a hum racing through the shire, through the tribe, an awful sort of excitement. I know there was a letter delivered today to Chasen Manor. Susannah Cullman, the third scullery maid, caught a glimpse of it on the salver before it was delivered to the marquess and is telling everyone it was stamped from a foreign land, written from the hand of a princess. And then I heard it was actually from Lady Amalia, the marquess and marchioness’s youngest daughter (who, as everyone knows, was supposed to be at boarding school in Scotland).
Whatever it is, it’s not good news. I was in the garden pulling weeds when I first felt it. It was clement today, sunny with the smallest of breezes. I was on my knees in the bed of mint and thyme, enjoying their fragrance and the warm pungent dirt, listening idly to all the little rocks beneath me when all at once, without warning, a great cloak of Deep Blue Darkness rose up to wrap around me. I don’t know how better to depict it: soft, encompassing, infinite. I froze, trapped in my body; I could still feel the tips of my fingers and my toes, my face, that one particular bone of my corset that is pushing out of its seam into my ribs—but everything else was gone. I was suspended in indigo space. There might have been stars, but the sensation of blindness filled every sense. No smells, no sight, no touch or taste. Utter, perfect silence.
A cold wind shivered over me; my skin prickled like I was stark naked in snow. I caught the scent of pure panic, of fear. There were still no sounds around me but the feeling of danger! discovery! hide!
And then three single words, echoing as if coming from the center of a great bell, yet very clear: Lia. Maricara. Drákon.
When I drew breath I was back in the garden. I held a mint leaf in my hand, torn from its branch. The leaf was crushed, and the smell of the damaged leaf—the sight of the green juices upon my fingers—nearly turned my stomach.
I don’t know what that was. I don’t know what to think.
May 30, 1774
Hayden has the ear of the Marquess of Langford. He’s of a good family, reliable and trusted, and came to me late tonight after an emergency meeting with the Alpha & Council to tell me what he could of what’s occurred.
I can hardly pen the words. There is another tribe of drákon! None of us ever, ever once suspected such a thing. They live in Transylvania, in the far, far hills. They are hosting Lady Amalia even now, though God knows how she got all the way out there, or even how she found them at all. And here is the most amazing news of all: They are ruled by a princess—a female! Princess Maricara of the Zaharen.
It’s a strange and marvelous miracle, that there are more of us. That a woman could lead.
Hayden disagrees. Grew rather fussy about it. Pointed out the danger behind this discovery, that this new tribe threatens our existence. That they may be wild, or feral, or taking risks that could be of immense danger to us, leading to our exposure. I admit I didn’t really consider that …
Told him he was right. Offered him tea and gingerbread (only a very little scorched!) and watched his natural Mild Humor return. He unbent as far as to kiss me Good-Night. On the lips. Very nice.
I did not mention the incident in the garden. It seemed insignificant, in light of everything else that has occurred. Perhaps I’ll bring it up later.
It was probably my imagination.
June 5, 1775
This was to have been my wedding day. Feels like Every Other Day. Nothing special. Worked tonight with Cerise in their tavern; they do need the extra hands. It’s a dirty, messy job, and my gowns end up reeking of tobacco and ale and gin. I don’t enjoy it. But she’s always so grateful for the help. And in truth, I appreciated the distraction, although Cerise could not know why. I never told her the exact date.
Hayden says perhaps soon, perhaps even next year. He’s still so worried about our future. Says until the threat of the other drákon is contained, it would be Irresponsible in the Extreme to Wed (he means, I know, to Breed). He’s deeply involved in the Council’s plans for these “Zaharen” drákon. I do wish he’d tell me something of it. But he won’t. Or can’t. One man has already left the shire, and no one has panicked about it, so he’s not a runner. Luke Rowland, about our age, unwed. It isn’t hard to conjecture he’s been sent after the rogue dragons. But again, no one will discuss it.
Today by the rye fields we shared a picnic I had prepared—my private little No-Wedding Feast—and Hayden murmured something about how my hair shone like moonlight under the bright sun. Which didn’t even make sense, if you consider it. Managed not to laugh or cry. I only tipped my head and asked him calmly, “Well. Are you free June next, Mr. James?”
He understood me. He’s very wise when he wishes. He took my hand and kissed it and said, “My heart is yours today, June next and the next, an
d always. It is more my body which concerns me.”
I replied, “And me,” which was really rather bold of me, but he only smiled.
“You are my love” is all he would say.
That tells me practically nothing, does it?
March 28, 1776
He drops by every afternoon for tea. He is absent all the rest of the time. I have told him I need more, but he only averts his eyes and repeats the same word: “Soon.” I know he is vital to the plots of the Alpha and the Council, to our future as a tribe. But he is vital to me as well.
I don’t have “soon” any longer. I am not a wife. I am not an unmatched dragon maiden. I am affianced, and alone. Always alone. It’s a bit too much like purgatory.
August 3, 1777
Today I was washing dishes in the tavern and the Most Peculiar Thing happened. I wasn’t paying much mind to my work—really, who enjoys washing dishes?—I was looking out the window to Cerise’s little garden, admiring the green, the cuttings she’s planted, Mother’s lavender growing still, despite the damp, in the far corner, when I felt a faint, faint tingling across the skin of my hands.
I looked down, and—
I don’t know what happened. I don’t dare even put it into these pages.
It was lunacy. It was not real.
November 15, 1777
It was Worse than I anticipated. I did not cry. I fancy Cerise cried for me quite enough when I discussed this with her yesterday. But my eyes were dry, as were his when I informed him of my decision this afternoon.
I simply could not go on like this. He is half a stranger, half my heart. I understand his hesitations. There are undercurrents at work of which most of the tribe remain remarkably unaware. I might be as well, but for him … and the blue-dark Feelings that cloak me from time to time. The sense of danger galloping closer; of rising, enclosing threat.
I never wanted this half-life with him, to exist strictly in his leisure time and Sunday shadows. I confess it: I want true love and diamonds and passionate declarations. I want a mate who breathes my breath and strokes my skin, who holds my hand without reservations, who returns home to me every evening with open arms and happy anticipation. I want to be able to look up at him with the same adoration I glimpse in Cerise’s eyes whenever she glances at her husband. And I want to see that adoration reflected back at me.
As I look over the previous paragraph I realize how childish it sounds. I’m ashamed of my weakness, that I’m not good enough or kind enough or patient enough to wait for Hayden any longer. It’s been over three years now without any promise of a wedding date. I cannot change what’s in my heart.
But I was so nervous to speak to him, my hands shook. It was very hard to give him back his ring.
Naturally, Hayden was a gentleman about it all. He kissed me adieu, very gently, on the cheek.
August 24, 1779
Sunny. Scattered Clouds.
It’s been so dry this year, so dry and warm. I remember how I used to watch the clouds. I was younger then. I dreamed more. I suppose I believed in more as well.
August 25, 1779
Gray day. Clouds thickening.
Cerise wants me to go up to the manor house for the Tribal Socials the marchioness hosts every month for the singles of the shire.
I told her exactly the truth. I’m twenty-six years of age. How foolish would I look surrounded by a flock of giddy adolescents?
She seemed about to grow teary again so I forced a smile and told her not to worry. I was well and happy alone. I didn’t mind being an Old Maid (!!) and that matrimony and children were for the wildly beautiful and good, like her.
She gave me a very curious look. She said, “You are beautiful.”
I laughed and replied, “You’re my sister. I cannot rely upon your opinion.”
She sat up straighter. “Zoe. You’re beautiful. You’re probably the most beautiful woman in the tribe, more beautiful even than the marchioness.”
I laughed once more. What else could I do? But it only angered her further, so I lifted my hands in surrender.
“Cerise! You yourself once told me how odd I am. My eyes are too dark, my lips are too big. Even my hair is this peculiar colorless color. I have mirrors. I can see the truth. I’m far too strange-looking to attract that sort of notice from men.”
She was quiet a moment. She was staring at me hard, the way she does when she’s trying to understand one of my jokes, or a pun I thought particularly clever. We were in the tavern after closing, seated together beside the fire. A fine gentle glow danced along our skirts. Finally she said, “Are you blind? Really, truly? Are you blind?”
“No,” I said.
“Then I must suppose you are merely stupid. No wonder Hayden walked away.”
That made me blink! I stood. But she was Cerise, ever Cerise, and she did not give quarter.
“No one courts you because you frighten them. You have this severity about you. This ice-cold perfection. But there’s no question of your looks, Zoe Cyprienne. You’re a diamond. You’re a pearl. Haven’t you noticed how all the males who come to the tavern stare at you, how they quiet when you’re near? I’ve spent my entire life longing for half your charms, insane with the knowledge that you knew how much more fair you always were. Now … I can’t believe you don’t know it. Are you jesting with me? Because it’s not amusing in the least.”
“No,” I said slowly, gazing down at her. “I’m not jesting.”
We locked eyes. Hers are such a lovely whiskey-gold. I always wished for eyes like that.
“You’re an idiot,” she said.
“On that,” I said, “we agree.”
January 5, 1781
Cloudy. Light snow.
Went for a walk today. My legs were restless, and the blue-dark cloak of Nothingness seemed to hover uncomfortably close to the cottage. I needed to leave.
Blackstone Woods are perfumed and dense; one can nearly always find a path there to follow without running into company. The snow fell in tiny glimmers, sideways, embedding into the tree trunks, throwing sparkles across my shawl. It was silent and empty and starkly serene. Within an hour snow encrusted my skirts and began to fill my boots.
I paused to rest in a clearing of rowan and oak. It’s one of my most favorite places in the shire. In spring it’s carpeted in grass and clover. In the summer it flowers with bluebells and red campion.
The snow picked up, still sideways. I lifted an arm to admire it, inspecting the individual crystals caught upon my sleeve, in the woolen weave of my mitten. Then I took off the mittens, both of them, and raised my hands to the flakes.
My fingers were rosy with the cold. I spread them, watching the white little dots hit my skin and melt into moisture … and I realized it was happening again …
The snow struck my hands. The snow melted. And every place there was a drop of water—I was gone. I had vanished.
I stood very still and let it happen. I waited until my hands were entirely wet, and I still felt the cold, and the sting of falling ice. Yet my hands were invisible. Except for the rush of frost from my breath, I could see straight through them.
Invisible.
Have I lost my wits? This is not a drákon Gift; I’ve never heard of such a Gift. This is surely something else.
Perhaps I’ve been alone too long. Perhaps my mind has bent.
February 18, 1781
Cloudy. Dry.
I seem to have some control over it. I seem to be able to Will it or Not. Mostly.
Tonight I stood before my bedroom mirror and splashed my cheeks with water from the basin. This was my Twenty-Second experiment, and nothing happened, as usual. I was relieved. And I was discomfited. I had imagined that moment in the woods or I had not: Either way, it did not bode well for me. And then, as I was staring at my reflection in the glass, I noticed my eyes growing darker and darker—they are already black, so I don’t know how else to describe it. And then—yes! It happened again. My cheeks and nose and chin were gone. Only
my eyes and my forehead remained.
As I watched I saw that I actually began to flush visible once more, even though my face was still wet.
I Willed it.
Oh, God. Should I tell anyone? Is this a New Gift or an Ancient One? What does it mean for my future?
I know the Council edicts. Sweet mercy, we all know them. Save for the marchioness and her daughters, female drákon have been unable to Turn for generations. Now any female of exceptional Gifts is considered tribal chattel, to be given to the Alpha or his line. She will be wed and bred into his family, and to hell with whatever she thinks about it.
The marquess is already wed. His eldest son is engaged. That leaves just Rhys Langford. Arrogant, rakehell Lord Rhys, with his long dark hair and mocking green eyes. Rhys, who cannot help but send me a gloating grin every miserable time we cross paths. He’s always escorting some starstruck lass; obviously I’m still the Old Maid.
Bugger. I’d rather take my chances alone. If I can avoid water I can hide this. I’m certain of it.
May 1, 1781
Happy Birthday.
The tribe on edge, worse than I’ve ever felt. The Marquess and Marchioness of Langford have broken our most fundamental law and stolen away to the human world, to hunt Lady Amalia. Luke Rowland—sent to find and parley with the Transylvanian drákon—has been missing without word over four years now. The man sent after him, Jeffrey Bochard, has also disappeared.
The deep blue cloak follows me about. If I pause too long, it sneaks up on me. If I try to sleep, it slithers up into my dreams. This afternoon it caught me in the parlor between footsteps: wrapping close at once, vanishing the world. Suspending me in silence and fear and anger and worry. I heard the men’s names. I felt their families’ despair. I felt—I know not. Whisper brushings, their spirits? They seemed so lost; it was dreadful.
