Chapter 19 Beneath the Ice
BENEATH THE ICE
LIZZY
The boathouse repairs finished the next day. That night, I lay awake listening to Darcy’s deep breaths and feeling Yuánchi sweep toward the city. When he was near, I stole out alone under a sky of black clouds, the silver-edged rifts agleam with stars.
Yuánchi settled on the icy shore and slipped neatly into the boathouse.
I closed the river gate behind us, then walked past his curled tail, crouched flank, and folded wing, resisting the urge to run my fingers along his side.
The scales cut if you rubbed against the grain.
He had arrived lazy and garrulous, his belly filled, and he told me a bloodthirsty story of crashing through winter-bare oaks to catch the deer hiding beneath.
The lamplight reflected from his flexing scales and cast chevrons on the walls that jumped like fleeing whitetails.
Late the next afternoon, after a bleary morning at the school due to lack of sleep, I went with Lucy to the sitting room to meet Mr. Needham, the school’s instructor for harness making. He had brought two hand-picked students, older girls of fifteen or sixteen.
Mr. Needham was slightly wary amid Chathford’s gilt and polish, but the girls’ eyes were wide as saucers. Even though we met daily, they curtsied to me far too deeply, then to Lucy as well, which made her eyebrows shoot up.
Fortunately, tea calmed things. The girls asked shy questions about the house while Mr. Needham listened and stroked his chin.
He was in his sixties, retired from serving in both the cavalry and the engineers, and originally answered our advertisement for “liberal teachers” with an account of training his sole child, a daughter, in tack and harness.
His blunt outlook reminded me of Mr. Rabb, a dear lost friend who taught me of draca and life in equal parts.
“I have a project,” I announced when the teacups emptied. The room became quiet. “If you agree to help, you must be perfectly discreet. That is for the privacy of our household and to protect the security of England.”
The girls’ eyes were wide again. Mr. Needham rubbed his jaw. “Would this be harnessing steam to carts?”
“I have not heard of that,” I said. “To pull the carts, you mean?”
“Yes, ma’am. Coal carts, on rails. They’re working on it in Newcastle, and it’s secret, but I heard about it in the pub.”
“That is intriguing, but it is not that.” I hesitated, disturbed by how easily secrets spread.
Mr. Needham’s lips twitched. “I don’t gab in pubs, ma’am.”
That made me smile. I asked the girls, “Can you keep this secret? Even from your friends at school?”
They answered promptly, “Yes, ma’am” and “Yes, Mrs. Darcy.” The pair were fierce friends who had survived as young orphans in London, something perhaps one in ten children managed.
They were deeply suspicious of strangers and had attended the school’s classes—and meals—for two months before abandoning whatever filthy nook they shared to board at the school.
Then their sharp loyalty embraced the school, where they flourished in practical studies but were shy about their childish reading and writing.
I led everyone outside, explaining, “I wish a secure seat on an unusual steed. I know it has been done before, but no example survives. You shall have to invent.”
“Is it a cow?” asked one of the girls.
I smiled and swung open the boathouse door.
Thirty minutes later, the boathouse was festooned with chalked strips of leather. The girls were draping pieces around Yuánchi’s neck while debating buckles. Yuánchi observed with interest, doubling his neck up like a swan to compare perspectives.
Mr. Needham suggested reversing a buckle, then came to stand with me, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets. He grumbled, “Were you not worried the girls would be frightened by this beast?”
“Thus far, every girl who has met Yuánchi has been in raptures. I was more worried about you.” It helped that Lucy was comfortable with Yuánchi. The girls had not wanted to appear timid.
Mr. Needham gave a short laugh. “I admit I was taken aback. He’s a wonder for the ages.
” He sucked at his teeth. “He’s well made for a rider.
The base of the neck is the girth of a horse, and the shoulders make it a saddle.
Easy to sit astride.” He eyed me. “That is, I’d sit astride. Were you wanting to fly sidesaddle?”
“I think astride. Balance will be that much more important in the air.” I frowned, realizing a complication. “I suppose that means trousers.”
Mr. Needham’s eyebrows soared. “Trousers?”
“Perhaps not. Was there a horsewoman who altered her dresses to ride astride?”
“Rings a bell. Pleats, or some such. I’m no dressmaker.”
“Of course not. I shall inquire.” Mary must know an adventurous seamstress.
“You’re sure no reins?” Mr. Needham continued.
“Definitely not. We will agree on our destination through polite discourse.”
“The harness needs a rear anchor. Could we wrap straps around the wing joints?”
“Let me ask…” To Yuánchi, I thought, The harness maker suggests tying straps around your wing joints.
Yuánchi swung his neck around to examine his own back, then shrugged his wings until they brushed the walls. Huge flight muscles flexed in his breast, and the room filled with glinting scarlet. The girls squealed excitedly.
Yuánchi swung his head back to look down at them. They are friendly, he thought affectionately.
Straps? I reminded him.
It was not done before. My wings flex when I fly. A strap would break. I remember rope lashed to my back ridge.
The back of Yuánchi’s neck had a series of rounded, bright-red knobby protrusions. They conveniently ended above the natural saddle Mr. Needham had noted, then resumed as larger ridges along his back. They were pretty, smooth as painted porcelain, and very solid.
I conveyed that to Mr. Needham, who nodded and rubbed his chin. Perhaps he used to have a beard.
Lucy had gone to fetch snacks, and she returned with a chunk of cheddar, a basket of rolls, some pickles, and Georgiana and Mary.
“Oh, this is fabulous!” Georgiana exclaimed, throwing her hands roofward when she saw Yuánchi draped in leather straps.
“This is insane,” Mary said, but her pressed lips curved in grudging admiration.
“Miss Darcy caught me with the tray,” Lucy said to me.
“I suppose that was inevitable,” I said. I raised my voice to address everyone. “But this is secret!”
Mary surveyed the crowded boathouse. “Secret from whom?”
“Mr. Darcy,” Lucy replied, accurately but more bluntly than I would have chosen.
“That is even better!” Georgiana said. “You can surprise him at his fencing club. They have a huge courtyard.”
After another hour, I accompanied the girls and Mr. Needham to the coach while he mused about lap belts and weight tests. The short-lived winter sun had already set. By the time I caught up on the household and returned to the boathouse, I carried a lantern.
Yuánchi was sprawled on his side, throat and muzzle flopped comfortably on the ground. I pulled a square of scrap leather beside his nose and sat.
“Any thoughts on our project?” I asked cheerfully.
It was long ago. I will remember more when we fly together.
“That seems rather late.”
He snorted in amusement. Yuánchi was utterly confident that flying together was safe. I hoped he remembered I did not have wings.
I added, “When I touched the dagger, my vision of flying showed a wyfe with long, black hair and copper skin.”
The wyfe who flew with me had sunset hair and snow skin.
“Red hair? Where was that?”
Yuánchi gusted air from his nostrils and did not answer. I never knew if these silences were forgetfulness, or reticence, or an inability to express human concepts like geography.
“If you did not fly a wyfe with black hair,” I pointed out, “then my vision is of another dragon.” His muzzle slid close to my hem, gem eyes gazing without response. I decided to be more direct. “What other dragons are there?”
We do not speak the names of those who sleep or are lost.
“Why not?”
Those who are lost take their names with them. Those who sleep rise to new lives, and their names change. I would not know how to name them while they sleep.
“You mean when you sleep for ages, under the water?”
Yes. Even the youngest of draca rise to new lives and names after the water.
This was a flood of information. I considered what to ask next. “Did your name change? Were you not Yuánchi before?”
I was Yuánchi before. But Yuánchi is my human name, not my true name.
“What is your true name?”
His head rose from the ground, eyes coming level with mine. A true name is a song. But I will not sing it to you.
“Why not?”
You would not understand any draca song. But my song is unfinished. He huffed and added, Do not ask ‘Why?’ No dragon song has been finished for an age.
I opened my mouth to ask “Why not?” and got a hot snort blown in my eyes, so I folded my arms instead.
My vision of flying on a dragon occurred when I touched the blade at the museum. But my other vision had been here. When I touched the water.
I picked up the lantern and threaded the dragon-wall gap to the river gate. The lip of water beneath was frozen. I knelt, rubbed the ice with a finger, then rapped it with my knuckles.
“I wish to test something,” I said. “We must be outside. Would you like to try opening your gate?” The carpenters had fixed a wide board that would undo the latch from inside. Hopefully that would reduce repairs.
Yuánchi looked over his shoulder, and the tip of his tail curled upward to press gingerly against the board. The latch clicked, and the gate swung open. I shuttered the lantern to hide us as the cold night air rushed in.
Leave first, then I will follow.
I went out, fastening my coat and testing each step in the dark. When I was beside the building, Yuánchi’s mass poured out in a rush. He stretched his wings into a vast tent of whispered wind and vanished stars, then folded them away.