A Natural History of Dragons (37 page)

He complied, a smile beginning to break his casual facade. “A little matter concerning the Scirling colony in Nsebu. His Majesty’s government is sufficiently pleased with the progress there that, as of next year, they will grant visas for citizens to travel there.”

Nsebu. I knew of it only from the papers, and not much even then; something about establishing a colony to protect Scirling interests in Erigan iron, and to oppose Ikwunde aggression. “Are there dragons there?”

“Are there dragons! Mrs. Camherst, I must remedy your lack of cartographical knowledge at
once.
Nsebu lies scarcely across the border from Mouleen.”

Moulish swamp-wyrms. Ugly beasts, with an extraordinary breath of foul gas—but two hundred years before, the great traveler Yves de Maucheret had written of peoples in the swamp who worshipped dragons as the ancient Draconeans had. His claims had never been verified, or even investigated.

“Some identify three major breeds of dragon within the region,” Lord Hilford added. “Others say there are no fewer than seven. It wants a proper study, truly.”

For one glorious moment, the bleakness of grief lifted from my spirit. To go to Eriga, and to see the dragons there … but then practicality reasserted itself. Mr. Wilker could not pay for chemical experimentation himself; between that and my son, I had scarcely enough money left to run my household. An expedition was out of the question, even if I had the first notion how to organize one.

I said as much to Lord Hilford, then added politely, “But I would be grateful to hear of what your expedition learns.”

“
My
expedition! My dear Mrs. Camherst, I cannot go to Nsebu. The heat, the humid air—my health would never permit it. Let me phrase this in a way you cannot misinterpret: I intend to
fund
an expedition, and if you wish to join it, all you need do is say so.”

Fortunately, my blindly groping hand found my chair again before I attempted to sit where it was not. Once I was securely planted, with no risk of falling, I said, “But—”

Lord Hilford put up one hand. “You needn’t say anything
now,
one way or another. The expedition won’t happen tomorrow. But I wanted you to be aware of it. You can make your decision later.”

“Thank you,” I said faintly, and so he departed.

After what seemed an eternity of staring blankly at the wall, I picked up the green-bound volume of Jacob’s and my work and went to set it on my desk. There I paused, staring at the slim spine of Sir Richard Edgeworth’s
A Natural History of Dragons
—the volume I had read so many times as a child, the one my father had given to me upon my marriage to Jacob.

Life without dragons was grey and empty. Sparklings had led me out of the grief that followed the loss of my first, unborn child; might not their larger cousins do the same for the loss of my husband?

The mere prospect of it was already lifting my spirits. To define myself first and foremost not as a widow, but as a
scholar
 …

The dragon within my heart stirred, shifting her wings, as if remembering they could be used to fly.

Tucking errant strands of hair behind my ears, I took
A Natural History of Dragons
off the shelf and curled up in the window seat to read.