Chapter 3 The Journal
THE JOURNAL
Mary and I were escorted home by a shaken Mr. Hill, then met with loud consternation from Mamma, my sisters, and the servants. Even Papa asked serious questions before being satisfied.
“We are unhurt,” I said. “Although Mary did scream prettily. Rather like an actress.”
“An actress?” My mother was horrified.
“I only compliment her voice, Mamma. My ear still echoes.” I tugged at the bonnet covering my ear. Mary studied me, considering whether to smile.
Lydia, my youngest sister and just sixteen, spoke up. “The dog is dead, then?”
“Quite dead,” I replied. “Burned.”
“I wish I had seen.” She pouted. “It is unfair that it happened to you!”
“It was most dangerous, Lydia,” Jane said.
Lydia set her shoulders and scowled.
“Has our drake returned?” I asked.
That question received blank expressions, so I led a curious parade out our front door and found the animal perched atop the draca house, wrapped in his wings with his head tucked out of sight.
“It is lucky he found you,” Jane observed.
“Yes,” I said. Very lucky, as we had been far from the house, and our drake had never before patrolled our fields.
I leaned close to look at his feet, hooked around the iron perch on the draca house roof. I had never examined our drake’s talons before. They were lustrous and dark, like tarnished pewter, but the sheen was a blued-steel razor. There were gouges in the iron perch where he had tightened his grip.
They were clean of the gore I had seen after he killed the dog.
The drake stirred, unwinding like an unfolding scarf. His small face lifted inches from mine, black eyes watching. Then, as if my mental feet skidded loose beneath me, I fell forward into another awareness.
I saw a memory—water streaking by below, ripples the color of cold beneath a blurring sparkle of sunlit flashes. The shadow of outstretched wings extended on each side. Water hissed as my claws sliced the cold surface, causing a sudden drag and slowing I detested.
I blinked, and my mind was my own again. Although I was so close to the drake’s chisel-shaped head that I was quite cross-eyed.
He had washed his claws. As I asked.
“Lizzy!” My mother’s voice was sharp and worried. “Have mercy on my nerves and stand back from that creature!”
“Yes, Mamma.” I stepped back, but after the others returned to the house, I stayed to watch our drake settle into his nap. Then I looked up and saw my father watching through the library window.
I went inside and knocked at the library door.
Papa greeted me from his desk, where he had, remarkably quickly, become absorbed in a book.
I tilted my head to read the title: Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women. “That is an unconvincing selection, Papa.” Although he had at least managed to hold it right-way up.
Papa began to hem and haw about the distraction of daughters and dogs, and the merits of a good sermon.
I occupied myself by very obviously studying the contents of the library.
My father was a prodigious reader and collector, so this was a full six shelves of volumes, most of them custom bound in Longbourn bindings.
Each row repeated the Longbourn crest in shining gilt: a wyvern, rearing with head high and wings spread behind, a pose called segreant, clutching a chest in its claws.
Papa had fallen silent.
“We have a prodigious absence of books about draca,” I noted.
Papa’s fingers rubbed pensively. “Sit, Lizzy.”
I sat, wilting under my father’s intense gaze, for once undiluted by humor or satire.
“You have had an eventful day,” he said. “I was most concerned. Mrs. Bennet may be right that it is time we had an iron-barred carriage.”
Iron-barred carriages were the new fashion, the iron purported to protect against attack by feral draca. That risk seemed farfetched to me. Certainly, it had never happened on the Longbourn estate.
“I think our ordinary carriage would dissuade a dog,” I answered, “and our horses would much prefer pulling that to hauling a hulking pile of iron. Either way, I do not take the carriage because visiting the cottages by road would be very roundabout.”
Papa seemed to be waiting. I found it hard to express why I had come. Finally, I said, “I am gentry of marriageable age. Destined to be a wyfe and bind. But today, I discovered I am woefully uneducated about draca.”
“I am no expert on draca, Lizzy. I doubt there is such a man. Draca are mysterious and willful. I fear education is impossible, other than folklore and legend. One can find fanciful myths of dragons more easily.” He cleared his throat.
“I hope our limited fortune does not leave you worried that you will fail to bind when you marry. The wyves of our family have always bound draca, usually of exceptional breeds. Or, if you are apprehensive… That is to say, I recall from my own youth hearing much ill-informed speculation on the… the moment of binding…”
Papa was coloring with embarrassment, and my own cheeks were heating to match the fireplace, so I said, “Mamma has explained that.” Actually, she had not, other than a few unspecific flutterings about her own wedding night, but at least binding was no more mysterious than other private behavior between husband and wife.
I did know that binding a draca required fresh gold never used in another binding.
This was marriage gold, or as young ladies whispered when they wished to be shocking, virgin gold.
It was the offering of marriage gold, together with the officiant’s ceremony and the…
I shall say… the marriage night that summoned and bound a draca.
But the process was uncertain. Usually, an eligible marriage would bind some kind of draca, but binding a potent breed, like our firedrake, was rare.
Perhaps this was why fashionable society disparaged binding as old-fashioned.
Laws and dusty documents reliably passed on wealth and influence, but ancient rituals were disconcertingly variable.
Some aristocracy had even called for banning the binding of draca, either denouncing it as un-Christian or complaining that draca were impractical in modern cities like London.
Papa and I sat in silence. He seemed as preoccupied as I.
I remembered Mary’s comment about fellow sentient animals.
“You called draca mysterious and willful,” I said. “Are they intelligent?” I was thinking about my vision of our drake washing his claws, but I hesitated to relate something so strange. “Do they understand when a person speaks to them?”
“Understand speech?” Papa’s eyes crinkled in amusement.
“The higher breeds—firedrakes and wyverns—are certainly less stupid. They might feign understanding, like a dog who cowers when his master’s tone is angry.
But they are animals. Despite the current misguided attempts by our military, they are wild and untrainable.
My personal observation is that our drake is most similar to a cat, content to eat our food but otherwise uncaring about people. ”
He looked away before continuing, “I was surprised our drake defended you. It is rare that draca notice even their bound wyfe. Others, they ignore completely.”
I sat, tapping my fingers and unsatisfied. Our drake did not ignore me, but to explain that would be fantastic. What would I claim? That he cowered and hissed when I passed? That I stared into his eyes and saw visions?
Papa stood, pressing the desk to help himself rise. He felt in his waistcoat pocket then held out a key.
“Open that, Lizzy.” He nodded to a polished mahogany lockbox. I turned the key, feeling the smooth working of a well-kept lock, and lifted the lid.
Inside was a journal. The cover was worn leather, faintly embossed with the Longbourn crest, although the markings seemed subtly different from our modern crest.
Papa moved carefully to stand beside me. His age-spotted fingers withdrew the book, weighing it in his hand while he spoke.
“It has been many generations since Longbourn was founded as an estate. The cornerstone of this manor was laid by my great-great-grandfather, and Bennet gentry have always held this house. Through that time, the master and wyfe of Longbourn have recorded private notes. My father passed this journal to me, and for many years, I hoped to pass it to my son before his marriage. Now, dear Elizabeth, I see more clearly, and with no reservation, I pass it to you. Like many tasks, I have ignored this too long. It is time I ordered such matters.”
I was both moved and upset by his words, more when I saw him turn away to hide his feelings. I swallowed and said something unintelligible as I accepted the book. It felt ancient, with rough-cut sheets and primitive leather binding. The scent of stale vellum touched my nose.
Papa’s usual humorous tone returned. “Make of it what you will, Lizzy. I found it obscure, a scattered record of household trivia and idle, amateur philosophy.” He settled into his chair with a sigh, waving his hand in dismissal.