A kestrel flew in the open window, something that would have startled him a year ago, but seemed unremarkable now. Cerridwen, by her aura, though he was not certain he could tell her from another kestrel with his eyes alone. She circled the ballroom once before perching on the chair nearest him. “Darcy,” she squawked in her bird voice. “Coquelicot needsyou to come to the Dragon Stones. And drink one of the elixirs first. They are in the silver box on the mantel.”
He checked his watch. He was due to ride out with his steward in half an hour. “Can it wait until afternoon?”
“Now.” The kestrel sounded distinctly cross.
Something was wrong. “Why did she not use a sending?”
“She cannot spare the energy,” the kestrel snapped. “Come now, questions later.”
Cerridwen clearly did not want to tell him what it was. Still, if Coquelicot needed him, he would go. Mrs. Sanford was already on her feet, fetching the silver chest to him, a service she would not ordinarily provide. Her expression showed her concern. “If I can help her in any way...” the midwife said.
He nodded, taking one of the familiar vials from the chest and easing open the stopper. “I will send word.” And he drank the potion.
Darcy glared at Cerridwen, now in her natural form in the clearing. “You dragged me all the way up here and now you just want me to sit and wait?” Not bloody likely, not when he could feel the waves of distress pouring from Coquelicot. There had to be something he could do for her!
“All she needs is your presence nearby. She thought she would do well enough here, but at a time like this, she needs the strength of a true anchor. And you are the closest thing she has.”
“A time like this? What does that mean?”
“She is laying her eggs. Or she is trying to, at least.”
“But you said laying eggs was easy!”
“Usually it is!” Cerridwen snapped. “But she is old to be bearing, far from her Nest, and she spent too much time in other forms, traveling to get here. It interferes with the process.” It was unlike Cerridwen to be this short-tempered; she must be worried.
He swallowed. “Is it dangerous?”
“How should I know? She ought to be at the Nest, where there are healers with centuries of experience. I am not yet full-grown!” Which was hard to remember when she dwarfed him.
Quickthorn's sea-green form stalked towards them, glaring at Darcy. Of course, Quickthorn usually was glaring at someone, often enough him, so that was hardly unusual. She spat out, “Stop it. Coquelicot is picking up your fear. She needs you to be calm and certain. Andweneed you to be quiet. There is nothing you can do here but anchor her with your presence, and we cannot afford the distraction.”
Before Elizabeth, before France, he would have snapped back. Now he said humbly, “If you can spare a moment to tell me how she is, I would appreciate that.”
She stomped away. And Darcy deliberately turned his mind to warm memories of Coquelicot, of all the good she had done in the short time he had known her. Quiet, easy thoughts. Coquelicot could heal anything; surely she could heal herself.
If only I had a gift for dragon healing! I can only heal mortals.Her voice spoke in his head.Come to me, Little One. Come sit against my side, like Pierre.
He stood up. “She wants me to sit with her,” he explained to Cerridwen.
“Good.” Something flashed in the dragon's gold-ringed eyes. “The healers say they have nothing to offer, since they cannot leave the Nest. I am going to ask Rana Akshaya for advice. She may refuse, but at least I will have tried.”
“A good plan.” Though from what Elizabeth had said, Rana Akshaya rarely agreed to requests for help.
Cerridwen took wing, the wind of her flight ruffling Darcy's hair as he made his way to the center of the clearing where Coquelicot rested. Her body lay full length instead of curled in the more typical relaxed dragon pose, her head on the ground as if lifting it was too much trouble. Somehow he knew just where she wanted him to be, so he settled himselfon the ground, resting his back against her bulk in the hollow just behind her foreleg.
She gave a purr of satisfaction, though he could not tell if it was physical or mental. He leaned his head in to touch her warm, luminous scales, and she seemed to like that, too. The ruby iridescence so close to his face was like being in the middle of a burning sunset, but somehow he could sense Coquelicot more clearly this way. So he closed his eyes and stayed there, sending thoughts of relaxation and ease to the dragon.
Periodically her muscles rippled under him, but he kept his place. Occasionally a spasm of pain slipped through her defenses, and he tried to soothe her.
What a strange experience this was, sitting here, huddling against a dragon! It was hard to remember that not long ago he had been horrified to discover that Elizabeth's kestrel was a dragon in disguise, and he had been harboring under his own roof one of the creatures whom he blamed for his brother's death. How he had hated the very idea of dragons!
He had made a grudging peace with them by the time he left for France, but he had still not trusted them fully. When had that changed? It must have been during those weeks in the French Nest. He had grown more comfortable with them there. Not that they had much time for him, in their desperate efforts to defend their Nest against Napoleon, just as he had risked his own life and freedom to stop the French Emperor. All the dragons had been good to him, but he had not conversed much with any of them apart from Coquelicot.
No, without question, she was the reason for his change of heart. She had healed his arm when he had given up hope, and had made it possible for him to go through the Gate back to Elizabeth and England. Without her, he would still be in pain from his wound, unable to use his right hand, and stuck in France. He owed her a great deal.
You owe me nothing, Little One. It was my pleasure to gift it to you.
You are very good. Should I let you rest, or do you want to be distracted?
