Chapter 2
Chapter two
Ormdale
At that very moment, the sought-after visitor was gazing into the round pond outside the abbey’s front.
“The round pond is of seventeenth-century origin, and has been significantly enlarged by the present owner for the exhibition of one of our native Yorkshire species,” explained the older woman leading the tour.
This lady had introduced herself as the housekeeper of Wormwood Abbey, and she took the crowd about just as if she were showing them around a typical stately home.
Only this was not a typical stately home.
“Here you can see two,” she went on. “They have been classified draconis ormis, after their native habitation in our Orme River, which itself is from the Old Norse for dragon.”
He refused to be put at ease by her lavender-and-lace demeanour. He had been warned about the sort of women he would encounter at Ormdale. He would not be taken in.
“Don’t they prefer to be left in the river?” objected an underfed adolescent clutching a camera. He was probably a vegetarian.
“Yes, of course, you are right to be concerned,” the housekeeper said with a tranquil smile, the cameo at her throat bobbing.
“But you see, the river dragon often rejects one or two of her clutch, and these we raise here, so that the population does not diminish. These are juveniles. Later, they are released into the river from whence they came, so they can live a free and natural life.”
“Oh, Mr Anderson, how do you do?“ came a voice from behind him which made him turn round.
The girl standing before him was not at all the Amazonian he had expected. In her filmy, sky-coloured frock that made her eyes appear almost unnaturally blue, she seemed the sort of girl that ought to be rescued from a dragon, not guard them.
“How do you do? I’m Una Worms. My cousin George told me so much about your correspondence. And he is most anxious that I give you a private tour, and make you completely at home among us. Please, follow me?”
She spoke beautifully, in the way he had been taught to recognise as ladylike. It almost put him off guard. Then he saw the thick belt at her waist. Among other things, a sheathed knife hung from it.
“Of course, it would be my pleasure,” he said with a smile, resolving not to underestimate her.
As they moved away towards a gravel path, she glanced at his cane. He limped a little harder.
“Shall we go to the glasshouse first, before it becomes too crowded?” she asked, casting a glance back at the horde by the pond.
“Do you mind the crowds, then, Miss Worms?” he remarked, not hiding his surprise.
“I don’t particularly like crowds, it is true. But Ormdale is important for England, so everyone should be able to see it. The dragons belong to us all.”
She sounded like a child repeating a lesson.
“Your cousin is away at present?” he asked.
“Yes, he has gone to the Sudan. I’m sorry, you must be dreadfully disappointed after corresponding with him for so many years.”
“And the rest of your family?”
“My aunt is visiting a friend, and my uncle is at Windsor on business,” she said.
“And your sisters?” he pressed.
“My oldest sister is a lecturer at the London Medical School for Women,” she said, quite proudly. “And my other is away at present.”
They followed a gravel walk around the stone walls of the abbey. The belt round her waist jangled as she walked—along with the knife, there was a great ring of keys on it, a whistle, and a series of vials that swirled with a brackish liquid. The famous antivenom.
Sunlight exploded on his vision as they rounded the corner. He stopped for an instant, dazzled, his eyes lifted to the heavens as he followed the delicate tracery of the glasshouse’s ironwork to the glittering dome at its zenith.
Here, on the edge of the moors, under the stern gaze of the Yorkshire fells, it was the last thing one would expect, as insubstantial as a fairy tale.
For a moment, he forgot to hate it.
“It is rather beautiful, isn’t it?“ she said softly.
They were standing shoulder to shoulder now and he realised that she was almost his height. But he felt sure she would be easy to subdue, if it became necessary. He hoped it would not.
“But I don’t suppose you are impressed,“ she said modestly. “I’m told everything is bigger in your country.”
He blinked at her. “Well! It doesn’t compare with our skyscrapers,” he bluffed. “But I didn’t expect that, anyway, not in the Old Country.”
As they continued along the path, he reminded himself not to be taken in by her appearance.
The Ormdale women had a reputation. The oldest sister had infiltrated the medical profession, as the girl had referenced.
Very little was known about the middle sister, but their cousin was a notorious novelist.
Your chivalry is wasted on that sort of woman, his mentor said. They will try to trick you. Show them no weakness.
He had assured his mentor again and again that he was ready. He wouldn’t be disarmed at the starting yard by a pair of blue eyes.
“This is where the exotic dragons are held,” she said as they resumed their approach.
“And it connects to the abbey itself?” he asked, though he already knew this from the plans he had studied.
“Yes. We built it in the place where the old Regency glasshouse was. Of course, this one is very modern and up to date, quite different from the first. But it was put up on the same spot to honour the memory of Barnaby Worms, who built the first. He was the Worm Warden one hundred years ago. His father collected exotic species during his time with the East India Company. George has been trying to track down where all of our exotic dragons come from to get an idea of how many remain in the wild—but of course you know all about that. Won’t you come in? ”
She opened the door for him, which felt wrong. He stepped inside, already knocked off-kilter, and warm air flooded over him. He had known heat like this before, on the other side of the world, in a place he had tried very hard to forget.
Something flashed past in the air close by, a bright bird of some kind, jolting his nerves further.
“That’s our smallest species,” she said. “The nectar-eating dragon.”
There was a hum of laughter from beyond the lush vegetation.
“There are children here,” he said, swallowing sudden nausea.
“There are always children here,” she said. “The nectar-eating species is not venomous, but our antivenin makes the whole menagerie perfectly safe, in any case. Perhaps you would like to see the source of our antivenin yourself?”
She led him down a winding tiled path to an artificial glen, where chunks of the local limestone had been arranged in an irregular circle, some of them forming a rough cave.
A flicker of blue, and his eyes fastened on what he had thought at first was a shadow.
A monstrous creature the size of a crocodile was stretched out on one of the rocks, its neck flexed backward over its body in a heraldic posture. Its tongue flicked towards him like a question—almost as if it could see into his soul.
For a moment, his insides tangled. Was it the heat, the girl, or the dragon? Was it his old nervous complaint, coming back again?
No. He was no longer a shattered creature. He had been reborn. He was alive and strong and knew things that others did not. Never again would he be made to feel small, forgotten, or weak. Those days were over.
The girl was speaking to him.
“This is the creature that makes the menagerie safe for everyone,” she said.
“We couldn’t have visitors if it weren’t for this extraordinary dragon from Ceylon, with its anti-venomous scales.
And of course, there is the symbiotic relationship it has with fire, which the ancients memorialised in their stories of the legendary salamander, and which calls for modern study.
This species has historically been confused with the amphibian, but of course you know all about that.
” She stroked the creature’s head as if it were nothing at all to her to pat a venomous monster. “We call this one The Count.”
“The colour of the tongue is very striking in person,” he remarked. “It reminds one of the Australian blue-tongued skink. It has been observed that the pigmentation appears brighter in colour when it feels threatened.”
“Yes.” She paused and glanced at him. “The Count seems a little out of sorts today. Perhaps someone has been bothering him this morning. We might visit the wyverns next. They are one of our English species.”
“There is something I wish above all things to see. I am almost afraid to ask,” he said, heart beating faster. He ought to make his move now, while they were inside. “Perhaps you will be so kind as to indulge me, Miss Worms.”
“Please don’t hesitate, Mr Anderson,” she said.
“Might we pay a visit to the room where you keep your historical artefacts?”
At this, her polite smile became fixed, like a doll’s. Not part of the planned tour, then. The was an excellent sign.
“Do you mean the muniments room?” she said.
He felt a throb of excitement. “Dear George described it to me so vividly, you see,” he said. “And you did say you wanted me to feel quite at home.”