Chapter 35 #2
Yuánchi’s wings, more than ever seeming like the complex sails of a huge ship, were flapping, but their joints flexed in complicated cupping and scooping motions, nothing like a simple up and down.
The horizon tilted nearer to level, and the thumping on my rear end smoothed into surging, long pushes.
I found the rhythm and relaxed. This was far less jarring than a galloping horse.
My goggles worked fantastically well. There was no hint of wind in my eyes despite the banshee-like howl in my ears. Oh. That was Mary shrieking.
I tried to shout reassuringly over my shoulder, but what came out was, “We are flying!” Treetops were rushing and vanishing beneath the—upper arms? fronts?—of Yuánchi’s wings. Would a falconer know the proper words?
Yuánchi’s voice filled my mind, thunderous with delight. We fly. Mary, all is well.
Mary’s howling, which thus far had only paused for gasping refills of air, ended so abruptly that I felt the shocked snap of her mouth closing. She had heard him. I filed that away to investigate later.
The trees blurred past faster and faster.
Yuánchi’s wings were spread taut but no longer flapping—we were falling with the slope of the hill like a runaway cart.
From nowhere, the sprawling roofs of Pemberley appeared, then vanished in a heartbeat.
Pemberley lake loomed, then we skimmed across, the modest waves of a still dawn streaking so quickly they appeared to sizzle.
Yuánchi’s wings began working again, and we rose, following the road that led to Lambton.
Coherence penetrated my amazement, and I thought, Turn away from the village. We must not be seen near Pemberley.
Wordlessly—soaringly—our path changed, the horizon tilting more than forty-five degrees before leveling again. This time I noted the pressing heaviness while we turned. That was concealing the sensation of being tipped.
The wind had come. The oversized collar of my leather coat buzzed against my cheek as if infested with bees.
The air was ferociously chill, but Yuánchi was warm and Mary was insulating my back.
We winged along a forested valley, all dark green murk in the early light, flying below the peaks of the hills. That was my request for stealth.
I patted at Mary’s hands until she loosened her grip a notch, then twisted to look back. Her eyes were squeezed tight. I shouted, “Can you hear me? Look. It is beautiful.” Facing backward made me dizzy, so I turned back without waiting to see if she managed.
Do you always fly this fast? I thought. The wind was scraping my cheekbones.
This is slow. You would be uncomfortable if I flew quickly.
How fast was “slow,” then? Yuánchi could fly from Pemberley to London in less than ninety minutes, although how much less was unclear; there had always been reasons to take circuitous routes.
As the draca flies, that was one hundred and fifty miles, so he could exceed one hundred miles per hour.
Was this half that speed? No, it must be faster.
A racehorse sprinted at thirty miles per hour, and I did not believe any horse approached the speed with which landscape was rolling past.
I could compute it exactly by measuring the elapsed time when we arrived at London. But I had not checked the time when we left, and my watch was buried inside my coat. Being men’s clothing, it had a preposterous number of pockets. Well, there was always the return trip.
“This is remarkable!” Mary shouted unexpectedly in my ear. She must have opened her eyes.
“Yes,” I shouted back. “If we do not grow too tired, I would prefer not to stop before London.” I had considered landing in the hills near Watford to plan—they were mostly empty and just short of London—but clambering down and up no longer appealed.
My arms still felt the strain of steadying myself during our launch.
I had forgotten to bring a London map. Whimsically, I imagined plopping down on a street corner to ask directions.
The sun cracked the horizon and lit my impending headache on fire.
“Lizzy.” Mary’s tone was steady but urgent. I had a vague, aural memory of hearing my name more than once.
The wind had lessened, an endless gust instead of a skin-abrading howl.
I was lolling in my seat, arms hanging loose, gloved hands fluttering.
I caught a handhold. Mary had reached an arm around me to hold the other handhold while gripping me with her free arm.
I tapped her fingers, and she let go so I could grab the second handhold.
The sun was higher. The Thames was recognizable, exactly like the maps. I remembered flying a long time, but we hadn’t been close to London. I had lost… an hour? Could I have slept like this?
Yuánchi thought worriedly, I cannot speak to you when your mind is like that.
When I am asleep? I thought cautiously.
You were not asleep.
His tone was suspicious. Wonderful. But this was not the time to discuss my health.
We will search the city from the air, I thought. You must fly as low as you can, so people see only a glimpse. And fly slowly until I am sure how far I can sense a wyfe who has taken venom.
I could have detected dosed Lydia across all of London, but her strength was incredible. Still, the dosed wyves at the ball were hardly subtle. A half-mile should be possible. So, passes a mile apart. How sure was I, though?
We were descending in a broad spiral west of the city proper, wings unmoving except for adjustments at the tips. I turned my head and shouted to Mary, “We will try one pass. An experiment,” and projected the same thought to Yuánchi. Mary nodded.
Slow flight felt much faster when the ground was close.
In a blink, we were skimming the Thames.
In flight, Yuánchi tucked his legs close and stretched his flexible body like a spear, so I found myself staring over his shoulder at chunky, broken ice and dark water roaring past no more than fifteen feet below.
I looked ahead and saw a stone bridge approaching.
Were we going over? Surely not beneath. The spans would never fit his wings.
You have not opened your mind, Yuánchi thought reprovingly.
I had forgotten the whole point. I closed my eyes, struggling for the required calm but distracted by every jog and tilt.
Abruptly, our motion changed—the sound of wind over wing ceased, and we became weightless and fell.
A hard shadow flashed over my closed eyelids, then wings caught air with a powerful snap and weight surged back. Beneath the bridge, then.
Trust Yuánchi to fly. My thoughts settled, and my senses expanded.
Yuánchi came first, a shining cloud of brilliance below and around me.
Then sparks of bound draca’s awareness passed on each side.
I could pick them out even at this speed.
Lindworm. Ferretworm. I exhaled, falling into the mindset, willing my mind farther, and then there were too many to name, each a beautiful, flickering being.
They flowed past like a storm of fireflies. But no oily dark. No corrupted wyfe.
Too soon, the sparks became few. We swerved and soared upward. Mary whooped delightedly, which was far nicer than shrieking. I opened my eyes and saw the sparse settlements of outer London, though I was not sure where.
“This will work!” I shouted. “But I found nothing yet.”
“Try the docks,” Mary shouted back. “Search near fishers.” She must have clues from Miss Bathurst.
We turned a tight, tipped half-circle that drove me into my seat and made the wind over Yuánchi’s wings hiss and moan. The jagged skyline of London came into view, palled with coal smoke. I braced my hands on one of the red knobs on Yuánchi’s neck and leaned forward, peering to choose a path.