Chapter 11 Two Sketches
TWO SKETCHES
MARY
With no word from Mr. Darcy, I had spent the days worrying about Lizzy’s state of mind, then reveling in Lizzy’s miraculous cure, then worrying all over again in a useless cycle.
Irritated, this morning I set a goal: solve the puzzle of the third great item, the flute sought by la Demoiselle des Parfums.
The choice was no whim. Since meeting the perfumer, a lost memory had tickled the periphery of my mind like a crooked page in a pristine stack. A page I had been unable to grasp.
Georgiana’s table in the Pemberley library was, as usual, buried under a mess of musical scores.
A half-dozen French and German books perched on the clutter, serving as paperweights while being read.
The French books were risqué romantic novels with innocent titles.
The German books were philosophy by Hegel and literary reviews by Caroline Schelling.
Mr. Darcy had a library table as well. His held an ebony writing tray with ink, a blotter, and pens—goose quills for correspondence and crow for fine work. A small stack of ivory notepaper sat on an expanse of ready, bare oak.
Despite the mess, I chose Georgiana’s table and sorted inward from the corner, piling manuscripts by musical era until there was enough space to lay the Loch bairn journal open to the page that mentioned the relics:
For the Great Song, I knowe the three relicks, edged, chayned, and hollow. The Queene holds the edged and chayned, but not the thryd, the hollow relick of Musike bathed in tears of betrayal.
The journal’s pages had yielded no further clues. The passage before described the weather, the passage after a clutch of duck eggs. But this room was suffused with volumes and knowledge. It might uncover whatever lost memory involved the flute.
I relaxed and began from the words in the journal: edged, chained, and hollow.
The dagger was edged. The amulet, chained.
The item for the wyfe of song would be hollow and, according to the Frenchwoman, it was a flute.
But “flute” was a broad label. It included everything from panpipes to piccolos.
Still, it would be an old-fashioned instrument, a tube with fingering holes, nothing like a modern flute.
And it would be formed from dragon claw, harder than steel, incredibly difficult to shape or drill. So, it was likely a small, simple flute…
I let my mind wander, my gaze drifting over the shelves of books. Useless memories fluttered, some from Longbourn, some from Pemberley: a treatise on reed flutes, a chart of recorder fingerings, a page of Virgil’s Eclogae where tibia—flute—was repeated over and over.
I let my mind spin from there… flute… music… dance. Pah. That was the wrong direction.
Perhaps the Frenchwoman was wrong, and it was not a flute. What else was hollow? Pots and buttonholes and frames flooded my brain like I had split open a peddler’s sack of irrelevance.
I dug my fingers into my hair and scrambled it into a mad mess.
When I was a child and my brain was over-cluttered, I would scramble my hair then stumble through the house half-blind until Lizzy or Jane took pity and tidied me.
Now, the ritual was more nostalgia than necessity, but when I combed my hair with my fingers, my mind was clear.
Follow the theme of the puzzle: music. Lizzy said the dragons’ true names were songs. The ancient calamity that broke Fènnù’s mind, the fracture, was a corruption of those songs. Music was not merely one of the great wyves’ callings. It was intrinsic to draca themselves.
The dagger Gramr, despite being an artifact of war, had been invoked by song. At the London ball, Joane Rees wet the dagger’s blade with her own blood to reveal hidden notation. When she sang those notes, Fènnù rose.
I went to Mr. Darcy’s table and borrowed writing materials, then returned to Georgiana’s seat. On a sheet of thick notepaper, I drew the five lines of a musical staff. Joane had sung soprano, so I wrote the swirl of a treble clef, and the staff lines became tones in my mind, E – G – B – D – F.
When panic erupted at the ball, I had fought to reach Joane through the frightened, fleeing crowd.
I heard only snatches of her singing. An isolated A-flat.
An E-flat descending to C, a minor third.
Not enough to establish a key, although Western keys were likely irrelevant.
Georgiana’s power manifested through melody, and the modes of her song tended as Eastern as the dragons’ names.
But on the shores of Pemberley lake, I had shared Fènnù’s ancient memory of three great wyves’ attempting to heal the broken song. The stupendous power of their music tore my soul, but I had heard their song through Fènnù’s senses. I could not listen analytically as I would with my own ears.
Fènnù’s attention had fixed on one melody within the song. That I did recall, and it matched the fragments of Joane’s song, although those were so short they would match almost anything.
I dipped the pen and transcribed the melody onto the notepaper.
It was largely pentatonic, usually called an Eastern style, but pentatonic scales appeared in the West as well.
Gaelic music. Gregorian chant. It was an ancient form.
Origin aside, I was certain of one thing: The complete song had been contrapuntal, three equally important parts combined in a harmonic whole.
Stuck and tired of thinking in circles, I unlatched the library window and whistled. After a minute, a lustrous song draca, the loyal one from London, winged to a nearby branch.
I drew a breath, held it—wondering if this was stupendously foolish—then sang the melody from Fènnù’s memory.
The song draca cocked his bejeweled head and whistled the notes back. Perfectly. An echo, as he could repeat any tune I gave him.
The earth did not shake. Wings did not eclipse the sky. The song draca, with studied indifference, watched a caterpillar inch along the branch. Even small draca preferred meat.
That was unexciting, but I was not the one with power. I let the ink dry, then set out briskly to find Georgiana.
I entered the grand music room to the sound of her playing Mozart. Two bars later, Mrs. Reynolds hurried in behind me, her elderly shoulders puffing. She gasped in relief and offered me an envelope. Apparently, she had been chasing me.
“A letter for you, madam.”
“Thank you,” I said and took the envelope. “How is Thomas?” He had been unconscious only a few minutes when struck by the Blackcoat, but his headaches had lingered.
Mrs. Reynolds permitted herself a smile. “Mr. Digweed said, ‘Right as rain today.’ He is greatly relieved. Even so, Lucy has asked to take a day off to care for him—for Thomas, that is, not the father.” Another amused crease joined her wrinkled cheeks.
Then she waited. Georgiana, in snow-white morning dress, had abandoned the Mozart. She arrived beside Mrs. Reynolds and watched me with equal interest.
I realized Mrs. Reynolds was asking permission for Lucy’s request.
“Do not ask me,” I protested. “You know far more about it.” Lucy routinely vanished to attend school and, hopefully, to live her life. Embarrassingly, I had never inquired about the details.
“Yes, madam,” she said obediently.
The day before Lizzy rose, Mr. Darcy had informed the senior staff of my new status as an heiress. With him gone, the result was a raft of uncomfortably deferent questions. It did not help that this amused Georgiana. She had folded her hands and adopted an innocent expression, but I knew better.
Once again, Mrs. Reynolds was waiting. “Yes?” I said warily.
“The letter is from the master,” Mrs. Reynolds said pointedly.
I whipped the envelope up. Mr. Darcy’s handwriting. “Why did you not say so?”
Georgiana pressed to my side, and I opened it for us both. The seal was intact but thick and layered; he had broken and resealed it.
“Miss Bennet,
I trust you and Georgiana are well.
In south Derbyshire, I have encountered a dangerous blight. Crops are infested with foul crawler grubs growing within pea pods and young fruits. The numbers would be overwhelming, but we appear to have discovered it in time…”
I read on, frustrated. “There is not a word about Lizzy. He says we are to reimburse a farmer for his burned crop.”
The bottom of the page held an ink sketch, unquestionably a foul crawler in nascent form. Georgiana frowned at the drawing. “Do crawlers breed in crops?”
“It was thought they were subterranean,” I said. “Certainly, they have not spawned from entire fields. Hatching that many would endanger everyone within miles. We should inspect Pemberley’s crops. And the neighboring estates will need to inspect theirs…”
I puzzled over the problem. Inspecting Pemberley’s fields would disrupt farming for several days, a substantial effort.
Inspecting the neighboring estates, however, required convincing wealthy and independent gentlemen to make the same sacrifice.
Mr. Darcy had the influence to achieve that, but he was not here.
Georgiana was leaning lightly on my arm, studying her brother’s sketch and looking delicate draped in her white linen.
That was an illusion—she was terrifyingly fearless—but she reserved her strength for private matters.
She had never confronted a group of angry, dismissive men. I had, with unpleasant regularity.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” I said, “we must speak with Mr. Digweed and the heads of the farming cooperatives. Swiftly. Today. And could you also invite the masters of the neighboring estates to Pemberley to discuss the infestation? Tomorrow would be ideal.” Finally, my disconcertingly elevated status had a use, but still I hesitated.
“To convince them, you may need to be… vague… about who is issuing the invitation.”
“Vague invitations are customary, madam,” she said blandly.
“The housekeepers often communicate to ensure their masters have not overlooked some matter. The wording might be… ‘Confirming your master’s attendance at the Derbyshire landholders’ assembly to discuss crop infestations.
Pemberley. Four o’clock.’ If that time will serve? ”
“That is perfect. Thank you.”
Georgiana looked up from the letter. “They will not be easy to convince.”
“By then, we may have more proof than a sketch.”
I flipped over Mr. Darcy’s letter, then beamed and held out the page for the others. Georgiana cried out in delight, and Mrs. Reynolds positively grinned.
“P.S.: May 4. I have found Elizabeth. She is healthy but opinionated. We are traveling together and shall not immediately return to Pemberley. I have left my horse with the aforementioned farmer…”
The rest of the page frustrated me all over again. “He wrote a full paragraph of instructions to retrieve his horse! They are traveling where? Doing what? What does ‘healthy but opinionated’ mean?”
Georgiana was looking through the towering windows, her gaze distant. “The blight is so close now.”
“Are you not worried about your brother?”
She rolled her eyes. “Fitz is fine. Fitz is always fine. But I am worried about Lizzy.”
“Lizzy is always opinionated.” I reread the page. “How will they travel if he has left his horse?”
Georgiana’s eyes sparkled. “They will fly!”
I scoffed. “Mr. Darcy riding bareback on a dragon?”
“You do not know Fitz. He will clamber up looking proper and stern, but inside he will be cheering like a schoolboy.”
“I doubt he is cheering. You did not see Lizzy when she returned. She was… ferocious. She completely refused him.”
Georgiana exchanged amused looks with Mrs. Reynolds.
“What is it?” I said.
“Lizzy refused him once before,” Georgiana said. “We had to live with him afterward. Let us just say it did not have the intended effect.”
I checked the envelope for more addenda and found a smaller sheet, folded and labeled G. I passed it to Georgiana. She opened it, then shared it with a knowing smile.
It was another ink sketch, spare and skillful lines swiftly drawn.
Lizzy’s dark eyes stared defiantly, her jaw set in a way that indicated a sharp retort was brewing.
One swirling pen stroke conveyed a mass of hair slung over her shoulder.
The mark I had noticed on her cheek was a drop of ink carefully blurred by a fingertip.
“Yes, he is completely lost,” Georgiana pronounced cheerfully. “At least he draws well. I hope they sort this out before he resumes composing poetry. That was painful.”
Mrs. Reynolds gave a choked cough.
Georgiana noticed the other sheet of paper I held, the melody transcribed from Fènnù’s memory. Her amusement faded. “Where did you get that? I have heard it before…”
A monstrous, clutching worry had fallen from my mind. Lizzy was alive and with her love. Months of thick dread evaporated like clouds in summer sun.
“A project,” I said and folded the melody. “It can wait. We must start the crop inspections. And dinner should be a celebration. Lizzy is safe.”