Chapter 22 A Military Experiment
A MILITARY EXPERIMENT
The next morning, while Mr. Collins visited his parishioners, I explored his garden. There were neat rows of sprouted peas, lettuce, and onions, a scatter of tiny white butterflies, and bright-green shoots too young to reveal a personality.
I was sniffing a fragrant bush with white-rimmed leaves—thyme?—when the maid arrived with Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam in tow.
After greetings, Mr. Darcy said, “If you are at leisure, we would appreciate your assistance on a professional matter.” His clipped tone suggested he did not approve.
“A military matter,” the colonel added, with a mysterious smile.
“Military?” I said.
“We plan an experiment with the Rosings wyvern,” the colonel replied. “It will be brief, but it is important to the war effort.”
“My gamekeeper, Mr. Rabb, suggested you attend,” Mr. Darcy said deliberately. “He feels you have an affinity with the wyvern that may help us judge her reactions.”
That left me a little nervous. I had hoped Mr. Rabb would keep our meetings to himself. But the colonel seemed unconcerned, and I could hardly refuse, so we set off toward Rosings.
Lady Catherine, the Pemberley gamekeeper, and a servant waited on one of the large lawns.
“Mr. Rabb,” I said with a severely cool nod. I was not sure about being proffered for wyvern experiments.
“Ma’am.” He touched his worn hat with an unrepentant grin. Apparently, a nod was insufficient to chasten a gamekeeper.
The colonel was casting bemused looks at the sky. “And now we require our wyvern! Should we place bait?”
The gamekeeper cocked an eyebrow at me. “I’m sure she’ll come down.”
So, Mr. Rabb knew the wyvern would come to me. But his manner suggested he had kept that to himself. That was reassuring, and I forgave him a little.
I let my mind drift outward. Feeling for her. I was not sure how I did this, or even if it was me doing it or the wyvern, but it had become easier each day.
South. I shaded my eyes, but she was too far to be in sight.
I concentrated. Will you come, please?
I felt her begin to move. I turned and squinted at a different stand of trees so I would appear uninvolved.
Her glide was silent, but I heard exclamations as she was spotted. Then she flapped powerfully, whipping my skirts and knocking my hair from its pins as she landed exactly at my feet.
She peered up at me, eyes glistening through a rainbow while she preened in delight. Everyone was staring at us.
“Yes, you are most clever,” I said. She gave an ecstatic coo.
“My word.” Lady Catherine stomped over to glare at her wyvern, who ignored her.
“Quite,” I agreed, trying to pin my hair back in place. It had gotten rather long.
Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded in an officious manner. “I will now disclose information of a military nature, but that I may share for the purpose of scientific research. Indeed, the crown is indebted to Mr. Darcy for his considerable effort in this area.”
Mr. Darcy gave a ghost of a nod in acknowledgment. Lady Catherine made an impatient, unimpressed noise. The colonel hurriedly resumed.
“We know Bonaparte seeks to recruit draca for military advantage.
Whether or not we approve, his actions require a response.
Unfortunately, the first attack by an English regiment with bound draca failed terribly.
Mr. Darcy warned of the risks, and I trust his advice will be weighed closely in the future.
“However, many factors contributed to the disaster. The French clearly knew our plans before the attack. They had defenses prepared against draca. They even attempted to steal our draca, using a vile and unknown chemical that attacks the bond between draca and master.”
“Draca and wyfe,” Mr. Darcy said.
The colonel acknowledged the correction and continued, “This matter has become more urgent.
Several weeks ago, while I was assisting with militia training in Brighton, the bound draca of a gentleman in town died mysteriously.
Two days ago, a second died. But this time, evidence suggests these deaths are the work of French spies.
We believe the draca was killed with the same weapon used against us in battle.
“The evidence from Brighton has been sent to me. We wish to determine if it is the chemical in question.” The colonel gestured and the servant handed him a large jar sealed with a wide cork and wax.
“You cannot be serious!” I cried. “You will test a weapon on the Rosings wyvern?”
“We are not testing the weapon,” the colonel said reassuringly.
“In battle, the French weapon sprayed a liquid on the affected draca. Here, we will not touch the wyvern, or even approach. We merely wish to determine if this is, in fact, the chemical used in the attack. The cloth in this jar has a pungent odor, and reports suggest that even the odor of the weapon distressed our draca.”
This seemed poorly thought through to me. “Surely this is an argument not to proceed.”
“I agree with Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy said. “As I have already expressed.”
“You are all ridiculous,” Lady Catherine said. “Whoever heard of a dangerous smell? My wyvern is exceptionally robust. Proceed, colonel. I wish to join my luncheon.”
“We will proceed with the utmost caution,” the colonel said. “If everyone would step away from the wyvern?”
We backed up several steps, forming a sparse circle. Mr. Darcy stood beside me, his arms folded in disapproval. Lady Catherine stood across from us, scowling back. The wyvern twisted her neck to observe us.
The colonel drew out a pocketknife and scraped the wax from around the cork. “First, I shall release the cork to judge if the odor is still present.” He pried at it with his fingers, then with his knife.
The cork popped free and fell to the ground. He bent to retrieve it.
A scent grew. Sour orange and bitter almond. The same astringent odor I had smelled when the monstrous foul crawler sprayed vile liquid to attack draca.
“Stop!” I cried. “I know what it is.”
The wyvern screeched a rending, rising cry.
Terror and fury swarmed up my spine. My vision blurred with a second scene, peculiar and brightly colored as if drawn in pastel.
The colonel was fumbling to find the cork in the grass. I saw Mr. Darcy run to help him, but I saw it twice—once through my eyes, his motion lithe and quick, but a second time with the lightning perception of a predator who saw a plodding, slow enemy attempting to flee.
The wyvern’s powerful body crouched to strike.
“No!” I shouted and threw myself to catch her.
One hand skidded uselessly off a spreading wing, but my other caught her muzzle.
Her leaping body slammed into me like a charging horse.
I was thrown hard onto the ground, and we tumbled into a pile with me on the bottom.
Her muzzle was above my face, prismatic eyes fixed on mine. Like a shared dream, our minds sank into each other.
I felt her terror, her body trembling with panic and fury, her wings spread to strike, her breath hissing past my fingers clamped around her muzzle.
She felt the prickle of grass against my neck, her weight pressing me down, my lungs struggling to fill after the impact. My ribs hurt. One hand stung where her scales had scraped my palm. My other hand held her muzzle, the scales like warm steel under my fingers.
Below that, around my wrist, was the thinnest hairline of pressure.
Her foot was raised, and her burnished, razor claws encircled my arm. The heavy rear claw, an obsidian scythe at least four inches long, meshed with the three front claws. It was like being held in a pair of shears.
I had seen her sever a two-inch oak branch by tightening those claws. It had been effortless, an idle amusement while she stretched in the sun.
My vision still flickered and blurred, a blend of her vision and mine. Panic and fear grated and buzzed.
“You are safe,” I said. I concentrated. You know me. The fear diminished.
The strange odor was fading. The colonel or Mr. Darcy must have closed the jar.
Slowly, I raised my other hand to touch her neck. Her scales had lost their suppleness, locking together like a sheet of metal. It was like stroking a bronze sculpture, if bronze could breathe in frenzied pants.
Mr. Darcy and his gamekeeper were speaking tensely. That stopped, and through my confused vision, or perhaps through the wyvern’s, I sensed Mr. Darcy approaching.
The line of pressure encircling my wrist became more exact. That was all—there was not even pain—but a drop of warm wetness ran down my forearm inside my sleeve.
“Do not approach,” I said, not loudly but, I hoped, audibly. Mr. Darcy stopped, then retreated.
The strange smell was gone. I felt the wyvern calming. I concentrated. There is no enemy here. There is no threat. I will let go. Then you may release me.
I opened my fingers. Her jaws spread, not far, but I felt the heat behind them.
Her claws around my wrist opened, stretching wide before she moved her foot away. Her weight on my body lessened as she found the ground.
“Thank you,” I said out loud.
She made a strange huffing sound, her nose twitching.
Oh no. “Do not—”
There was a peculiar, coughing snort. It would have been comical if not for the flash of heat. I clamped my eyes closed, but it was gone in an instant, like slipping a finger through a candle flame.
There was a buffeting of wind, then her weight was gone. Half my mind ripped away.
I opened my eyes to see the sky, now drawn in simplistic shades of blue. Hands helped me stand. Mr. Darcy was facing me, his hands grasping my shoulders.
“Are you hurt?” he said.
There was a burned smell. Hair. I lifted a bedraggled lock. Yes, the ends were crisped. Mrs. Hill would be vexed. No, that was wrong. She had not done my hair for years. But my sleeve was bloody. Had I fallen?
The gamekeeper and Colonel Fitzwilliam were also facing each other. The colonel held a pistol, but the gamekeeper had grasped his arm, forcing the weapon to point at the ground.
The gamekeeper let go with a scornful laugh. “You brought a pistol to fight a wyvern?”
“I was prepared to protect Miss Bennet,” the colonel said stiffly.
“If you pulled that trigger, they’d be picking pieces of you out of those damn hedges for a week. All of us, most likely.”
“Are you able to stand?” Mr. Darcy asked me.
“I…” It was difficult to organize a thought. My mind felt lost. Abandoned. His hands tightened on my shoulders. That helped. “I am, as yet, a little unsteady.”
“She is standing perfectly well,” snapped Lady Catherine. She was beside us, glowering.
I looked up at Mr. Darcy. “I know what the French weapon is.”