Chapter 35 #3
“Yes,” I agreed with a helpless smile. “And, I have an idea about raising the dragon. Fènnù was summoned by the song on her dagger. There were markings on the flute’s mouthpiece. I think they are musical notation.”
“Could you read them?” she asked.
“No, but I memorized them. The dagger has markings, and the amulet may, too. If we compare them, we may decipher the notation. Then we would know the flute’s song.”
Her smile dazzled. “Brilliant. The perfect challenge for my great wyfe of song.”
“Do not call me that,” I protested. “When you sang, the power was—”
She stopped me with a fingertip on my lips.
“A pipe organ with the stops pulled, or an orchestra fortissimo—those are power, but they are instruments. You compose music. How is that not a wyfe of song?” When I tried to answer, she pressed her finger firmly and continued, “And it is pointless to argue about who is or is not a great wyfe because when draca bind, they bind the couple. So, you decipher the song, I sing it, and we both bind. No, we should sing it together, of course…” She was supremely confident now and looked so lovely that I abandoned argument and kissed her finger.
She smiled… then frowned. “Look at the song draca.”
There were a half dozen fluttering, and they seemed to have found a direction at last, swirling excitedly ahead where the wooded patch curved around a rocky outcrop, the base of one of the hills bordering the valley.
“Perhaps they are harbingers,” Georgiana said, amused. “I just wanted to escape Fitz.” She started toward them.
One draca had not joined the cluster. The song draca on my shoulder sank his claws into my dress, flapping and pulling the opposite way. Then I saw the blight-blackened patch of heather beside the path.
I ran and caught Georgiana’s arm. “Look.” A foul crawler lolled in the rotted heather. It was normal sized, no monster, but very much alive.
A few feet away, a larger one, almost six inches, slunk into view around a small, carnivorous sundew plant. Larger yet and concealed on a birch branch, a winged crawler slowly spread its four wings like a huge dragonfly, studying us.
That variety I had seen only once before.
“We are in trouble,” I whispered.
La Demoiselle des Parfums strode around the outcrop, trailing her fingers along the stone. We almost collided before she stopped in surprise.
A stale, musky scent surrounded her. Her stylish bonnet was gone, her hair messily fallen. A fresh bruise was purpling her left temple. Her clothes were stained where Rebecca had sprayed draca essence, but her kohl-lined eyes and red lip paint had been carefully reapplied.
The rest of the scene clicked into place as if I was solving a puzzle piece by piece. Her monstrous, saddled crawler waited in the shadows under a distant tree. There were flying crawlers everywhere, camouflaged in the grassy heath or among the birch leaves.
The perfumer blew an irritated sigh. This time, she offered no taunting greetings. She just shoved back her tumbled hair and declared, “I met your sister. The one you said would burn me.” Mockingly, she spread her arms—see, I am alive.
“I am glad she did not,” I said. “For both of you.”
“She has the dagger.” She threw the word like an accusation.
“Yes,” I answered. There was no reason to deny it, but she seemed to be making some point…
“The Bennets have the flute.” She grabbed my hands, pawing and flipping them as if I might be hiding a flute in my palm.
I shook her off, repulsed and mystified.
“I need the third dragon,” she rasped. “Tell me how to wake it.” Again, she shoved her unruly hair aside.
Her other hand held her bottle of venomous drug.
She slopped viscous liquid on her fingers and wiped them roughly across her mouth, leaving her lips and cheek smeared and glistening.
The pungent scent burned a sour streak up my nose.
“I will not fight you,” I said. A crystal of truth had been growing in me since our confrontation at the museum, since I had tried and failed to attack her, since I had watched Colonel Fremantle die and saved Rebecca, since I had heard Georgiana doubt the legitimacy of our love.
“This is a war of men, of their egos and cruelty, not a war of wyves. Your Emperor gives you orders, but the gift you have, your strength, is yours. You do not need to serve him. Choose for yourself. You should do as you wish.”
“What children Englishwomen are,” she scoffed. “Je fais toujours ce que je veux.” I always do as I wish.
Her crawlers woke in the tufted grass, on the bending birch branches, their wings buzzing and humming.
Georgiana had watched all this with an air of extreme interest. Now she asked, “This is the one you met at the hospital?”
The perfumer’s head pivoted, blinking as if she had not even noticed Georgiana.
“Yes,” I answered.
“You did not say she was so pretty,” Georgiana said reprovingly.
“I did not think it mattered.”
Georgiana tapped her toe. Apparently, it mattered. She addressed the perfumer. “You hurt Mary. You killed her mother. All because you wish to kill a great wyfe.”
The perfumer sneered. “Qui êtes-vous?” Who are you?
“La grande dame de la chanson,” Georgiana answered in her superb French. The great wyfe of song.
The perfumer retreated one shocked step, then she lifted her hands. The buzz of her crawlers rose to a roar. Then, more swiftly, their wings folded and stilled. The only sound left was Georgiana’s soft melody, a sotto voce hum brimming with martial readiness and threat.
Song draca gathered. Another ten. Fifty. They cycled in a menacing mass above the perfumer, a few darting down at her. She stared up into the swirl of sapphire.
“Please do not,” I said to Georgiana. “Draca should not be weapons.”
Georgiana’s song did not falter, but, grudgingly, the violent edge softened.
The perfumer flung up her arms and screamed, “Je suis aussi fort que—”
Georgiana punched her on the chin. She fell in a heap.
“I did not know you could do that,” I said, looking at the perfumer’s unconscious form. She would have another bruise.
“The benefit of being raised by an elder brother,” Georgiana said, ruefully examining her knuckles. “Should we tie her up?”
“Get rid of this, first.” I took the vial of drug from the perfumer’s limp fingers and emptied it into the dirt. I searched her pockets, found another vial and dumped it, but nothing else. “I gave her the flute, what was left of it, but it is gone.”
“I thought you memorized the markings?”
“I did, but the amulet and dagger have their own power. The flute may as well.”
“I trust in the music,” Georgiana said. She gave one of the birch trunks an experimental shove. “We could tie her to a tree…”
“Would she be safe? There are so many crawlers.”
Georgiana shrugged with an impressive lack of concern, then brightened. “We can drag her back! One arm each.”
I looked at the perfumer’s unconscious form, and for all that a part of me wanted her punished, I was frightened by what would happen if Lizzy returned and found her.
“Tie her to a tree,” I decided. “Lydia had the same affinity to crawlers. Even without drugs, they… respected her. They will not harm her.”
Georgiana looked disappointed by that, but we dragged the perfumer to a tree. She groaned insensible French while I pulled her hands behind it and knotted her silk scarf tight around her wrists.
Georgiana went to examine the perfumer’s monstrous, saddled creature. It hunkered down patiently, presumably watching us with its inscrutable, insectile eyes.
I sat on my heels, immersed in fading venomous scent and overcome by strangeness.
The perfumer’s emerald gown was tailored like court attire, the stitching so fine as to be invisible, the embroidery couched with goldwork.
Her neck, lolling to one side, had the refined pallor of a lady who arduously avoided the sun.
That must have been a challenge while flying around and killing people.
Perhaps that explained her oversized bonnet.
“She murdered the colonel as well,” I said. “He had dreams for a life after the war.” Confused emotions chased through my head. “I am very tired of having to fight people who hate and hurt others.”
Georgiana came to give me a hand up, then her face lifted with an air of listening.
“Fènnù is coming.” She shivered. “It may have to be us, you know. If Emma is the only one who can raise the dragon of song, we have to bind Fènnù.” She rubbed her arms. “When Fènnù trapped my mind at Pemberley, I was terrified. I felt her crawling into my veins, spreading what you said. Hate and hurt.”
“Her mind was broken by evil people. She is a victim.”
Perhaps the perfumer was a victim too, or perhaps she had always wished to hurt others. Looking at her swelling bruises, then her wasted hips, a symptom of her drug, I felt pity, and guilt for offering her pity.
“We should go…” Georgiana began, then she asked, “Why are the draca so excited?”
The song draca were flashing along the rock outcrop, their wingtips all but grazing it. It was Bargate stone, common in this area, buttery yellow with reddish streaks of iron. The perfumer had been examining it when we met.
Bargate was a sandy stone, but here it gleamed as if polished.
Puzzled, I backed up a few steps, careful to avoid lingering crawlers. The glassy finish extended as far as I could see, the reddish streaks rolling and coiling until they vanished below the weeds and soil.
“I know where the dragon of song is,” I said.