Chapter 45 Venom
VENOM
EMMA
The path had never faltered. It might spread and fade while crossing a large log or curl in a generous half-circle to skirt a fall of rocks, but always in the distance, it led onward.
This, however, was unquestionably a fork. I could guess north well enough because the morning sun shone between the puffs of clouds, but even that did not help—north was ahead, but that was an unclimbable peak. The path split east and west around it.
Released from their endless plod, my knees shook. The trance that carried me through the night had ended at the meadow. Since then, I had drunk from a stream to relieve my parched throat, and my clothes were warm enough while I moved, but my body was spent. If I sat, I doubted I could stand again.
The forest itself did not frighten me. It was aged and restful, its hunters skilled at avoiding clumsy humans. But I could not keep walking without food. And a change of weather—a freezing night, or even a wetting from a shower—would be deadly.
“I wish to go home,” I said. I had taken to complaining to the mysterious wyvern, even though he had moved definitively to his rest. If he had ever been present. “Or simply to find someone.” There were supposed to be Britons guarding the estate. They seemed to do a poor job.
Walk, or your knees will buckle for good. More light showed through the branches to the left, so I took one step that way, wincing at a sore ankle and a blistered heel, then another.
The path rounded the side of the hill. The trees fell away. A crystal lake spread below me, more than a half-mile across. On the far side, a stream cascaded to the shore, and a road wound among sweeping, natural gardens. Pemberley House.
“Found!” I shouted, then the scene vanished in a watery blur while my sobs escaped. I let that finish, then I picked my way along the increasingly scraggly path as it descended the hill face.
As the lake’s stony shore drew close, the path widened into a shelf. I smelled woodsmoke and, incredibly, the delectable aroma of frying sausage. My stomach growled loudly.
A thin stream of sooty smoke rose from an opening in the hillside. It was broader than a door, the rock floor trampled with muddy bootprints.
I called in, “Are you at home?”
“Is that Miss Woodhouse?” a gentleman said behind me, so near that I would have jumped if I had the strength. “What on earth has happened to you?”
Weary and very confused, I turned to Mr. Tinsdale. He wore immaculate hunting dress in forest brown, the waistcoat snug around his barrel chest. One thick hand carried a paper-wrapped package.
Mr. Tinsdale. Here. I tried to assemble a response. I had heard snippets of conversation between Lord Wellington and the Darcys. This man was a traitor. Lord Wellington was searching for him in…
“Are you not in London?” I said, feeling I should report that.
“Unfortunately, this business requires my presence.” His palm pushed his coat aside to stroke the hilt of a long, sheathed dagger at his belt.
Behind him, a red-coated officer stepped from the trees, then uniformed soldiers with muskets. Saviors. But no. The captain stopped respectfully behind Mr. Tinsdale, waiting for orders.
Mr. Tinsdale smiled broadly. “Would you like something to eat?” Unwanted tears filled my eyes, and I nodded. He pointed to the cave entrance. After a hopeless pause—the other option was running, which was ludicrous—I limped in.
It widened inside, a wandering passageway with rock walls like puddled custard, so smooth they gleamed. Ridges of rock dangled stone icicles like fangs. Firelight flickered beyond a bend.
Mr. Tinsdale continued pleasantly, “I would say you look like something the cat dragged in, but that would insult dead mice. Though, I feel I should have expected you. You show up with a certain regularity.”
His hand grabbed my upper arm, stopping me amid a clutter of gear on the floor. A small, open chest held medicinal bottles of powders and liquids. A bucket of water sat by a soot-stained kettle and a brace of pistols. The rest was a shapeless pile covered by a blanket.
Mr. Tinsdale rustled his paper package. “Our sortie to Pemberley has faced unexpected shortfalls. But good leaders adapt. My men have been stopping carriages. Here is our latest, whimsical acquisition…” He smiled and dangled a scone a few mocking inches in front of my nose.
The mockery did not bother me. I took the scone with shaking fingers and cradled it in both hands. The first bite was fresh and tender and tasted of currants, and it was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten. I closed my eyes and took another bite, savoring it and pretending I was saved.
Finally, the voices around me broke my fantasy. An American man was speaking, his vowels even more drawled than their usual accent.
“…she made the link fine, but she fights when I give her orders. That’s the problem with fresh ones.
Don’t know how to be obedient. She didn’t bear the last dose well.
The full dose is going to kill her. Then what’ll we do?
” A finger jabbed my belly. “Not like this mess is one of your fancy English ladies.”
“Oh, but she is,” Mr. Tinsdale said. “Are you there, Miss Woodhouse?” Thick fingers seized my jaw, and I opened my eyes in fright.
Mr. Tinsdale smiled beneath his curled mustache.
“Providence blesses our cause. If she has sent you, you must have value.” Steering my face as if I were an animal, he dragged me past the corner.
Harriet lay slumped on the floor, her eyes closed, her chest heaving. I pulled free and knelt by her. Her wrists were tied, but I could hold her fingers. One palm was sticky with dried blood.
Mr. Tinsdale squatted, an imposing bulk beside me. “Your friend is another prize from the local traffic, but better than breakfast. She is our fresh stock.”
“Wyvestock,” the American grunted, baring his teeth in a grin.
Mr. Tinsdale patted me on the shoulder. “I thank you, though. Without your tiresome advocacy for Miss Smith, I would never have spent valuable venom on an African. Still, she has endured. Perhaps it is her animal strength. Our London wyfe did not last five minutes.” He jerked his thumb toward the blanket-covered pile we had passed.
Like he was a nightmare, a fantasy of the miasma, I pushed him from my mind. “Harriet. I am here.” She moaned, her eyelids fluttering. Her fingers twitched in mine.
“Good. You have roused her,” Mr. Tinsdale said. He turned to the American. “No more waiting. Give her the full dose. If she dies, she dies.”
I kicked and clawed, but Mr. Tinsdale dragged me away while the American uncorked a glass bottle. An odor of sour orange and bitter almond burned my nostrils. The crawler venom Lizzy had described.
“I invented her affinity!” I cried. “She will never survive. Use me! I am a great wyfe!”
“Stop,” Mr. Tinsdale said. His hands pulled me around to face him. His mockery had become a cold threat. “How do you know of great wyves?”
“I am one. I am the great wyfe of healing.”
“You?” he scoffed. “Frivolous Miss Woodhouse who dresses like the morning sun at balls? You are one of the chosen three? You can wield the great song?”
I had no idea what that meant. “I swear it.”
“That would be providence indeed,” he whispered. “Or a lie for a friend. You will have your chance.” He raised his voice. “Proceed.”
I shouted “No!” and fought and thrashed, but Mr. Tinsdale held me easily. With cold-blooded precision, the American poured a measure of the venom between Harriet’s lips. Her throat convulsed while he sealed the bottle away. Then he held out his hand to Mr. Tinsdale, waiting.
Mr. Tinsdale drew the black dagger from its sheath.
He fondled it, watching the firelight on the serrations.
“This is true power, sweeter for the irony of being wielded through the inferior sex. Not even the Emperor can match this. This shall be the scepter of my rule.” Reluctant as a miser surrendering coin, he passed it to the American, who pushed the hilt between Harriet’s bound hands.
She cried out at the touch, her back arching while he tied her palms around the dagger with a leather thong.
The American thrust his face obscenely close to Harriet’s, his peculiar hat brim nestling in her hair. He began whispering.
“See his skill?” Mr. Tinsdale said admiringly. “He whispers. There are ten thousand slave masters in the world. They break a hundred thousand slaves. A million. But to enslave the mind is a rare skill. Opium and venom and cocoa leaves, then fear and pain, balanced just so…”
Harriet’s hands began to shake in an uncontrolled, violent palsy. Her head jerked, banging the rock. Her breath shortened to violent, choked gasps.
The American leaned back on his heels, clicking his tongue with dissatisfaction. “She’s got command. She sent the orders. This one’s stronger than that last one. But once they get to shaking like this…” He shook his head. “She’s going quick. Not gonna last long.”
I was hanging from Mr. Tinsdale’s hands, weak and panting. In my despair—at last—I saw how this fable was written. The wyvern had foreseen it all. This was the third life to save. My sister, who fled because I was mindlessly cruel and who suffered because I told lies she never wished, needed me.
“Let me touch her,” I said. The wyvern’s pure, golden gift stirred within me. “I can save her. You will see. I can heal her.”