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Perscitia begins every morning by drinking a large bowl of hot water.
Not tea. Tea is luxury she cannot afford, not on her careful budget. Once a week she might allow herself an infusion of anise or fennel. But for the most part, she finds hot water more than sufficient to wake herself. An even larger bowl of porridge, mixed with whatever cuts had been available at discount butcher the day before, fortifies herself for the rest of the day ahead.
Her work proper begins with tending to her correspondence.
She had always known from how busy couriers were that men sent a prodigious number of letters, but she had never realised just how much, until she had begun writing and receiving them herself. And of course, it is not only men she writes to, but women and dragons. On her most intensive days, that can amount to a count of letters as high as fifty; rare is the day she does not write at least ten.
Not that she does the writing. She has no the knack for it. She has tried and tried. She knows the symbols of the English alphabet, and can tell an A from a Z, even if letters like b and d give her trouble at times. She knows the sounds associated with them, and she understands punctuation, from full stops to commas. But when she tries to hold it all in her head at once, it never coalesces. It is a slog, like trying to fly through water, or even molasses.
When not writing letters, she is developing policies, or overseeing the funds, or attending meetings; possibly she is attending meetings about the development of policies or the oversight of funds. She rarely has a moment to herself. From dawn to dusk she is researching, flying, writing, debating, learning, building, working.
She adores it.
This particular week sees her in Manchester, with a two-fold mission. Well, technically, a five fold mission; anything less would have been a waste of a trip. But the two primary goals are, firstly, to meet with the local dragon population and encourage them to vote, and secondly, to drum up support for one of her current bills, financial support for war veterans.
The crowd which has gathered within Alexandra Park Promenade is not large, not compared to some of the rallies they have managed to inspire within London, but neither is it disappointing. Six local dragons, all within the range of light-weights and middle-weights, with perhaps a hundred men and thirty. Enough to catch the attention of passers-by, certainly, which was half of the entire point.
Perscitia performs the opening speech, and performs it well, or so she judges herself. The same could not be said for the handful of veterans who had volunteered to perform. One mumbles the entire way, so even standing on a yellow reaper's shoulders the crowd could perhaps make out one word in three. Another breaks down into a stream of profanity, which frankly Perscitia thinks is well-deserved, given that the army left him with half the limbs he should, but which clearly rankles the human crowd's sensibilities. In comparison, the last speech is not bad, merely...
"Dull," whispers Miss Jennifer Hawker, at Perscitia's left foot. "Dreadfully dull."
Perscitia cannot say anything which will not be overheard, so she can only tilt her head slightly in agreement.
"In the seven years I served... Long years, good years... Or so I think myself, though I did not see much action, except for when I did..." drones the veteran on the stage.
Perscitia sighs. This idea had come about from the general way dragons governed themselves, both within the breeding grounds, and outside of it, where everyone was given a chance to speak, if they so wished it.
Not that they had always been particularly notable public speakers. As the speaker on stage attempts to recall the location of the particular battle where he first broke his arm, Gentius is brought vividly to mind. "It was Spain, I think. Or no, not Spain proper, it was a place called Catalan? Or Portugal, maybe, it hardly matters. The women were all the same anyway..."
A single whistle rises from the crowd. It is a sad sound.
People begin to drift off, alone or in pairs. A mangy Winchester-cross near the back flaps away. There is little Perscitia can do to stop it, except prompt one of her aides to politely thank the speaker for his "stirring speech" and nudge him from the stage.
Perscitia had planned a final speech of her own, quite a tidy bit of oration if she does say so herself, but she judges the mood of the remaining crowd and cuts it short. "Once again, I would like to thank all of you for your continued support of our nation's proud veterans," she cries. And then, "It is on their behalf that we hope you enjoy this fine meal!"
On that cue, her aides pull out the carts, laden with large bowls of soup for the dragons and plates of sandwiches for the men.
The grain, bread, and mutton is quite a sizable expense, no doubt. But it is an expense which is absolutely worth it. Pretty words may fill peoples' heads, but food fills their stomachs, and of the two, Perscitia has learnt which of the two they are more likely to recall.
The meal has its desired effect. The remaining crowd begins to mill, the bolder humans even among the dragons, and she catches whiff of conversation on the wind— 'I never saw a penny after my son's death' and 'you see men without legs left on the street begging, a shame, a shame' and 'if we have money for them big boats, we must have money for the widows'. People come up to speak to her, to ask her questions, to critique her policies, and sometimes, even, to thank her. One human woman— quite old, judging by the silver in her hair and the hunch of her shoulders— even does her level best to shake one of Perscitia's claws. "You're doing God's work, miss, and let me tell you."
Perscitia does not believe in God, and the reasons for her work are her own, but Perscitia knows well enough not to say that, and merely thanks the woman for her support.
"Perscitia!" a voice cries, as the woman wanders off. "Perscitia!"
She near-immediately turns to greet it, recognizing that she knows it, but not registering from where.
It is a man. He is not particularly big for a man, nor is he particularly tall. His hair is a dusty blonde. His eyes are grey; or his single eye is, for there is a patch where the second one should be, and a long pitted scar running down from his forehead to his chin. Despite this, Perscitia has no issue in recognising him.
"Perscitia," her captain says, "how wonderful it is to see you again."
The shell cracked open, and the world streamed in.
It was light, and colour, and noise, and sound, and scent, and taste. It was an unfurling of wind, it was the flicking of a tongue, it was the stretching of limbs and tail. It was exploration, it was discovery, it was questions.
Where was she? Why was she here? Were those eggs? Why were they here? Where was here?
A voice laughed, and she recognised the voice. She had heard it before, in the shell. Why was the voice laughing?
"Only you are very curious," he said. He held something out towards her. "Here, would you put this on? Then we can get to answering your questions, and to a nice fresh sheep, too."
"What is it?"
"It is a harness."
She flicked her tongue inquisitively, then batted at it. "Why do I need to wear it?"
"So you will not fly away, and get hurt."
She sniffed. "I have no intention of flying away, but I suppose I do not want to get hurt, and I would like my questions answered." So she allowed the man to slip the harness around her, and his hands were gentle, and warm, and he kept his promises.
"Perscitia," the man says again, and his voice seems to echo strangely.
"I can certainly imagine you must have... mixed feelings about seeing me again," he says, and she cannot seem to look away from his face. "Certainly I do.
"I will admit, I was hesitant, about coming here today. But I have been reading about you in the papers, about the amazing things you are accomplishing," he says, and it is strange, how despite his altered appearance, his voice and his scent is almost entirely unchanged.
"And when I heard that you would be hosting a rally, here, practically in my own backyard, it seemed a sin to not come and see you. To not tell you direct how very proud I am," he says, and she feels her wings rise up of their own accord.
"And I wanted to say that I am sorry. For how things went, between us. How very unfair it was," he says, and her wings are trembling, as if nearly on the verge of flight.
"And— And I heard, that you were looking for veterans, especially those who were injured over the course of service, who would be willing to speak. Who would be willing to advocate for the cause; for our shared causes. And I thought, that perhaps, this would be an opportunity for us to work together again," he says, and still her wings are held taut, not moving, and something terrible is growing in her chest.
"Perscitia?" he says once more, and it takes all her self-restraint not to loose that great roar in her chest.
Her captain's name was Douglas Smithson.
His hair was the colour of pale sand, and his eyes were the colour of the cloudy sky, and they crinkled at the corner when he smiled or laughed.
She did not have a name, at first. As her face was dug deep into the warm flesh of her first meal, juicy and fresh, she overheard one of the other men admonish him: "The name, lad! You were supposed to give her a name before leashing her!"
She paused long enough to look up from her meal. "A name," she said; it was true, she did not have one, and that suddenly struck her as very strange. Everything, surely, must have a name. "Yes, I would like one, please."
A curious red hue had crept up Douglas's cheeks, and he said, "Yes, yes sweetheart, I know, only—"
"Only what?"
"I did not want to give you a name only to discover afterwards that it did not suit." He had reached out a hand, hesitated for a moment, and then placed it against her neck. It had been warm and soft and she had pressed herself into it. "I thought perhaps we could select one together?"
The other man scoffed, and someone else laughed, but she thought it a wonderful idea. "Oh! Oh, yes, what a wonderful notion!"
So at first she did not have a name, but that was alright, she had so much else to focus on. Why did men have to wear clothes, when men did not? How was leather made, and buckles, and swords and lanterns? Why was up up and down down? How long would it take to fly from one end of England to another? Where did sheep come from, and how did they not run out?
Some of these questions Smithson could answer, quite easily. Some he could not, and he told her so, and would help her in obtaining the answers from others, or even once or twice, tracked down books in the Dover covert library that could answer them to satisfaction.
It seemed like magic, the way he would consult a volume, flipping through the pages, and then produce an answer where there previously had been none. "Oh, books truly must be the most splendid thing in the whole world," she told him, their third night together.
Smithson chuckled and then said, "I think I have an idea for a name. What do you think of Perscitica?"
She tilted her head. "What does it mean?"
He smiled, and his eyes crinkled. "It is Latin for 'clever one'."
And Perscitia liked that very much.
Perscitia does not roar.
Roaring is a weapon, one of the strongest in her arsenal. But it is a blunt weapon, one couched in threat.
Thus far in her professional career, such as it is, Persctia has only resorted to it three times. The first, when she stood on the lawns before Parliament and demanded dragons be given seats. The second, when that self-same Parliament tried to deny them of the dragon militia the pay they had been promised for aid during the invasion. The third, when they had nearly rejected her and Temeraire's proposal for a unified coalition of dragons across Europe.
Each time she roared, however, that weapon lost a little of its edge. And she most certainly could not be seen roaring at a poor, hapless veteran who had merely come up to speak to her after a rally for veterans.
So instead, in her best imitation of Lady Allendale, Perscitia raises her head high, pulls her wings around her like skirts, and turns her back on Douglas Smithson.
Miss Hawker appears at her side, having to half-run to keep up with Perscitia's long strides. "Ma'am?"
"We are leaving," Perscitia announces.
Miss Hawker does not slow her down with any nonsense, does not ask, "Pardon?" or "What?" or "The event is not scheduled to end for another hour." She merely nods, and says, "I will make the arrangements." Within half an hour they are on the wing, leaving Douglas Smithson far, far behind on the ground below.
The most irritating thing about being out of the shell, Perscitia decided, was how very tiring it was. She could scarcely go two hours without needing to eat, and after she ate she would be so utterly tired that she would have to sleep, no matter how much she would prefer to be doing other, more interesting things. It was so very tedious.
"It will pass," Douglas reassured her. "Soon you will be strong and hale, just you see, and you will be able to fly and fight for hours and hours."
Perscitia liked to fly.
She liked the way the wind caught her wings and she likes how Douglas would whoop for joy when she goes very fast and she liked determining the precisely correct speed and angle to descent or ascent needed to go exactly where she needs.
"She'll have a talent for formation flying, and no doubt about it," the training master said, and the pair of them beamed with shared pride at his words.
Formation flying was clever, perfectly organized. Some dragons fly faster than others, some slower, all with their own precise pattern of wing-beats, and all of this must be considered to keep the pattern. She wants to understand it all.
"Well, it's like this, you see..." Douglas stepped back and began to draw patterns in the soft dirt of her clearing with a stick.
Each pattern, he explained, corresponded to a number, or else a transformation which could be applied to a number, such as addition or division. When placed in sequence, these patterns became yet a larger pattern still, the entire sequence representing more complicated equations.
She was enraptured. It was not the mathematics itself— these, she thought, were rather straightforward and obvious, and it puzzled her somewhat how much Douglas struggled with rather simple sums— but rather the ingenuity of writing it all down. Of keeping record of it, of putting it in a format where it could be shared, and checked, and improved upon.
Soon Douglas was fetching whatever books they had available at the covert library, and spending their evenings after training transcribing the equations within it down for her, to better explain it. She can see the beauty, the logic, and marvels at its application.
When they had time, Douglas would some of the excerpts around the equations themselves, the theories which underpin them. Often these excerpts seemed rather simple and self-obvious, but sometimes they offered keen insights, and she could help but ask if perhaps she should be learning her letters too.
Her captain laughed, not unkindly. "What use would a dragon have for reading and writing? You are too big to read the page, or hold a pen besides." He scratched at the itchy space behind her neck she could never quite reach herself. "Stick to your sums, my sweetheart, and mark my words, you'll be one of the greatest strategists in the corps."
Once a month, on the full moon— which is easiest to fly by, and for ferals to keep track of— a meeting is held for all the dragons of London.
Well, certainly that was the original concept. Of course, not every dragon within the greater London area attends, certainly not monthly, and a great deal come from outside London as well. Mostly the outer-lying lands of England, and then occasionally Wales and Scotland and Ireland beyond, but sometimes even from across the channel. They come to talk policy and business, to build coalitions and create consensus on the important issues, and, of course, to gossip.
While Perscitia likes to think herself above such things, for the most part, she will indulge in it on occasion. This is one such occasion.
So in the aftermath of the meeting proper, she nudges Moncey to follow her to the edge of the clearing and in a low voice tells him what has happened at the Manchester rally. She had been hoping for some sort of advice; in retrospect, she is not sure why she expected anything but what she received. Moncey flops down onto his back, unleashes a loud chittering noise and declares, "That is excellent!"
"Excellent?"
"Yes, excellent!" Moncey rolls back onto his feet, wings outstretched with excitement. "There you were, not wanting to fight, pointing out— very sensibly— that you might get very hurt doing it. And he tried to force you do it anyway, for no benefit of your own I might add. An' here he is a good decade later, missing an eye and looking to you for help." Another chitter. "I could not think of a more perfect revenge if I tried."
Head dropping, Perscitia looks to the ground. "I did not intend any revenge." Not truly, at least.
"I know. That is what makes it so perfect." Moncey hops from left to right. "Serves him right, the fucker."
"Moncey!" Perscitia cries.
He is unrepentant in his good humour. "Do not tell me you are getting as antsy as the men about such things."
"I am not antsy, that was merely out—"
He gently buts his head against hers. "Your problem, mate, is that you spend too much of your time worrying what men think of us."
"It is my job to worry about what men think of us," she mutters, cross.
"And you are excellent at it." His nuzzles closer against her neck. "But try to stop caring for one solitary night, and come flying with me, yeah?"
And Perscitia does like to fly. So she launches herself into the sky, and flies with her friend in the deep blue sky under the full moon.
Perscitia grew larger by the day, and stronger, and faster too. Her training ramped up accordingly.
She was quite good at it.
She was patient with the harnessing and did not startle overly much when crew runs along her back. She was swift and agile in the air with an intuitive grasp of flight dynamics. She learnt her signal flags quickly, and had them all memorized by the time when some of her clutch-mates were struggling to grasp the final sets. Her Douglas, too, proved to be an excellent captain, just as she knew he would. He was calm and direct with the crew, and made sure they were prompt and well-behaved, and in the air his voice was loud and clear, and everyone was happy to obey his orders.
Then the combat training proper began
Flying was enjoyable, yes, but after fourteen hours in the sky carrying a whole crew, it rather lost its shine. Rifles firing in the blind spot of her back startled her terribly, and made her ears ache. And if she protested any of this, she was told off for complaining, and "that you best follow orders". And if she asked to what purpose do those orders serve then a man they called Admiral would come wag a finger at her, and if she protested after that, then one of the older, larger dragons would come and cuff her on the head.
"You are a dragon, sweetheart, and dragons fight to protect Britain," Douglas told her after, gently massaging her bruised scales.
"But I do not think I like fighting," Perscitia said, not if it felt anything like being hit like that.
"You will grow to like it. It is in a dragon's nature. Pray, try, for me."
And because it was Douglas who asked, she tried her best. Truly, she tried her best.
Letters come. Letters go. Perscitia has been distracted lately; she has let them pile up. "We must make a going of it, Miss Hawker," Perscitia tells her aid as her bowl of hot water is carried away.
"Of course, ma'am," Hawker says, dutifully pulling them out from the intake drawer of the pavilion's most ornate feature, the writing desk.
Almost immediately, Perscitia is struck with a pang of regret as she notices a familiar seal, blue and red, at the very top of the stack. She conspires to discreetly knock it to the side while Miss Hawker's back is turned.
There is a letter from the accountant of the British Society for Draconic Affairs writing in regards to the profits and revenue sustained from their latest business venture, fabric toys in the likeness of the most notable dragon soldiers from the war. Afterwards, there is correspondence from Iskierka, regarding how pleased she is with her own representation, although she has commissioned to have the toy's original button eyes replaced with rubies. There is an after-ward from her captain, thanking her for inviting him to speak at an upcoming event, and agreeing, though admitting that given his continuing position within the Admiralty he may need to be more circumspect than she was hoping. There is a request for an interview in Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, easily ignored. There is a letter from the Home Secretary Lord Sidmouth on the topic of draconic taxation. And so it goes.
The hours pass. The pair of them work steadily down the pile of letters. Perscitia focused as best she could, but even with her head turned, it is as though she could still see Temeraire's, with its distinctive blue and red seal.
For all that she was the one who had written to him, Perscitia somehow still does not direct Hawker to open and read his response. Temeraire often spoke of his captain as if he hung the moon and stars. She could so easily imagine what he would say; Oh but it is such a grand thing, to have your captain returned to you, after such a long absence! Of course you must take him back. Once you have, I will return to London forthwith, and we will have a grand celebration in your honour!
But at last every other letter had been read, and Jennifer reaches out to break the wax seal. Perscitia almost says Wait, but there is no explanation she could follow that up with, so she merely wraps her tail around her legs as Hawker began to read.
And that is not wait Temeraire has written at all. 'Oh, the nerve! To come crawling back to you, after he discarded you like nothing but wet rubbish, now that you have Treasure, and Connections, and a Seat in Parliament. It is beyond anything. Truly, I commend you for maintaining your dignity.'
Perscitia's nostrils flare.
It is not what she feared. She should be gratified. But as Hawker asks, "How would you like to begin?", it is all Perscitia can do to restrain herself from saying, It is all very good for you to say one's captain should not care about treasure, when your Captain is the son of a Lord, and won a great deal of prizes in Naval service, and my Harrison was only ever the son of a blacksmith.
No, much of training proved not to be pleasant in the least. The harness sores; the drooping wings; the tedious repetitions. Mock battles in particular Perscitia came to dread. She hated when Mitis would drop down upon her from above, and disdained the ashy grime from the false bombs she has to dodge in practice, and if she failed to do well in the trials— which was often— she was left to wait with clenching stomach as the winning dragons have first pick of the sheep and cows.
But even all of this left her unprepared for true action.
It is a cacophony of shrieks, of screams, of roars, of musket fire. The air is thick with the sulphur stench of powder. At the outset of the battle, she is able to see; but then evening gives way to true night, and suddenly it is as if she were not in a formation at all, but a single solitary soul, the only thing which stands between her crew and death.
She failed in that duty.
Perscitia did not so much see the Fleur de Nuit as feel it. A sense of movement overheard; an instinctual drive to dive, suppressed; shouts from behind. And she was boarded.
Later, she could never recall precisely what happened next, no matter how hard she strained. She recalled the near-overwhelming urge to scratch and buck, barely restrained. She recalled redirecting that savage fury back upon the attacker, clawing and swiping at an enemy dragon she could not see. She recalled the sharp strike of a bullet in her high, followed by hot pain. She recalled roaring.
At some point, the battle was over. She was not sure how they can tell; she could only trust that her captain was correct. Her every limb trembled. Douglas reached, and wiped something off her face. It was blood. Not a cow's or a sheep's, but her own.
Two crew-members went past, carrying a third between them on a make-shift stretcher. His skin is over pale, his eyes open and staring. Perscitia does understand what that means, only thinks that he seems terribly hurt, and hopes he will not be overlong in recovering.
It takes finding the body of the yellow reaper Mitis, splayed unmoving on the ground, his broken limbs still clasped protectively around his captain, for her to fully grasp that they are all dead.
Their next veteran's rally is to be in three days, and Perscitia is nearly at her wits end trying to finish with all the preparations. She needs to memorize the opening and ending speech— which normally she is a fair claw at, but this time around, she cannot stop making new revisions. She needs to confirm the final list of speakers, as too many have been slow in sending confirmation. She needs to finalize the menu, the seating arrangements, the decorations—
"Ma'am?"
They have never had decorations at these events before, not unless one means posters and printed slogans. But this event will be the largest yet, and held in the heat of London, and it needs to be impressive. So she has arranged for flowers, and banners, and lanterns, which will be hung across the stage, red and gold. She noses at the last of these, sitting in wooden boxes under a tense. She understands they need to be unfolded, but still, they look terribly small, and she worries they will not be sufficient.
"Ma'am?"
And they must be sufficient. They must. After cutting the last rally short, she has dealt with over a month of sidelong glances and cutting remarks. She will not have anything the like happen again, she will not—
"Perscitia!"
The voice startles her; she spins around, snapping her jaw.
To her credit, Hawker does not flinch, does not even step back. She merely blinks and says, "You seem a little at odds and ends. I hope you won't mind my boldness, ma'am, but I took the liberty of brewing you some tea."
"Tea?" It is Perscitia's turn to blink, though then she snarls, "I can hardly afford tea."
Still Hawker is unmoved. "With respect, ma'am, you can. I have run the numbers." She tucks her pen behind her ear. "We have enough tea ordered to serve some thirty dragons and one hundred men this coming Saturday. Our budget will hardly suffer if you permit yourself a bowl."
There is logic in Hawker's argument, Perscitia has to concede. And tea is known for its invigorating properties, and so the drink may actually be a cost efficient use of funds, if it gives her the energy needed to work another few hours more. And furthermore, when the scent of the tea hits her nose, it is lovely, deep and fragrant, equally bitter and sweet, and she finds her tail sweeping back and forward in unconscious anticipation.
"Very well," she acquiesces, and Hawker does not bother to hide her smile.
With a grunt, the great pot of tea is pulled from where it had been left to seep before the pavilion's great hearth, and poured into the large wooden bowl that Perscitia uses when she has no guests. Hawker spoons in a great dollop of honey, gleaming gold in the firelight, stirring it into the dark liquid. Temeraire may speak at length on the virtues of green tea, from jasmine to hōjicha, but as far as she is concerned, they all taste like little more than burnt grass. No, on the rare occasion Perscita takes tea, she likes it black and dark and sweet.
Perscitia splays out on her belly, the bowl resting between her forelegs, the warm wood soothing against her scales. Hawker settles into a seat across from her, clutching a mug of tea of her own in her hands, the volume inconsequential compared to Persctia's own serving. For several long moments, they say nothing, merely sitting in companionable silence as they sip.
Hawker says, "Ma'am... Are you alright?"
"Of course I am alright."
Hawker's eyebrows rise, which on men is a sign of doubt. "You have been snappish and irritable for weeks. You have been staying up working long past dark each night, which I know, because we are the ones who light your candles and lanterns. And you have putting off writing letters."
This last statement is spoken with all the gravity of some damning, irrefutable argument. That is because it is. Perscitia never put off letters. Never.
Her head hangs. She had not thought herself to be so transparent. "I see. Thank you for bringing your concerns to my attention. I apologize for any impropriety on my part, and will attempt to be more prompt in my correspondence in the future."
There. A perfectly professional response. Surely no fault can be seen.
And indeed, Hawker seems to accept it. "Thank you," she says, with a nod. Then she sips her tea and says,"It is because of the man from the last rally, isn't it?" And before Perscitia can marshal an acknowledgement, Hawker continues, "He was your captain, wasn't he?"
Perscitia's back arcs; her wings rise. "That is terribly bold, Miss Hawker."
The woman met her gaze, unflinching. "Have I not earned some boldness?"
Some seven yeas ago, Perscitia had entreated the help of a number of her allies' crew members in the writing and posting for a secretary position. They had suggested said posting include the detail that she was a dragon; she had dismissed their concern, arguing that this fact should be immaterial. She was willing to pay for her assistance, and what else could possibly matter?
Matter it apparently had. About a third of the prospective secretaries who appeared for the interview had broken into laughter upon meeting her, thinking it a joke. Another third had simply run away in fear. Most of the remaining had done some queer combination of both, or else sat the interview out of terror for what she might do should they disobey, but barely been able to stammer out of sentence in response to her questions about their credentials.
It had therefore been so utterly refreshing when one of the interviewees had done nothing of the sort. Hawker had courtsied, a little unbalanced, her skirts a little faded, but then raised chin high and said, "I understand you are looking for a secretary, ma'am?"
The pair of them had worked together ever since. Perscitia had taken on other staff in the intervening years— to write, to do sums, to run errands, to be the interface where dragons were, but Miss Hawker had been the first.
Perscitia says, "Yes. Yes, I suppose you have."
Hawker sets the tea down on the small table between them, leaned forward. "Pray. Tell me what is wrong."
Perscitia draws a breath, releases it, and like a damn becoming unlodged, it all comes tumbling out.
Douglas Smithson, her captain. How he was the first person she ever met, ever spoke to. How he would scratch her scales behind her neck and teach her mathematics. How she had loved him, only to hate the corps more. How she had rejected him, or he had rejected her, and how it was impossible to separate the two. How she had spent days, weeks, months, perhaps even years, half hoping— half thinking— that he would come for her in the breeding grounds.
"And now he has come for me," she says, staring into the bitter dregs of her tea bowl. "He has come for me, and it is all I dreamed of, for so long. But I cannot trust it, not in the least.
"Temeraire thinks he has only come now because I have money, and influence, and that means to take it, or at least use it for himself. Moncey thinks much the same, only he thinks it is very funny, and that perhaps I should string him along for how how he treated me."
"And what do you think?" Hawker asks, with endless patience.
"I do not know," Perscitia says, and it is all she can do to keep it from transforming into a wail. "I do not know. I want to believe he has missed me, but how can I?"
How can she?
"Sweetheart," Douglas said, "please, come, we must fly patrol."
"No."
"I know the battle spooked you, clever one, I understand. But you did wonderfully for a first action, and patrols are how we prevent such battles in the future."
"Perhaps the stronger dragons can, but I am a miserable fighter."
"You are merely a novice. You need experience, practice."
"I do not want to practice such awful things."
"They are not awful, they are— they are important!" Douglas releases a terribly shaky breath. "If you do not fight, we will— we will be in trouble."
"It seems to me that there is no greater trouble we could be in, then to be on a battle field, being boarded and shot at."
Douglas did not answer, not immediately. He paced the clearing, tugging at his hair. "Perscitia." He stops. "If you do not fight, they will send you to a breeding ground."
"Well, I do not see what is so bad about that." She was too young to have mated, but she had heard the older dragons speaking of it, and they seemed to think it very good fun. She pulled her captain close to her chest and said, "Put any more thought of battles aside. We can go to these breeding grounds and be safe."
In a small, miserable voice, Douglas answered, "I could not come with you."
"What?" That could not be true, that could not. Not in the least. "Why not?"
"Because all my family live here, in Dover, or Manchester."
"We will fly to see them, whenever you like!"
"You will not be allowed to fly beyond the grounds, sweetheart, that is the very point."
"Then we will stay somewhere else, outside the breeding grounds."
"Where? My family owns no land, or certainly not enough to house a dragon, of any size. Where will I get the food for you?"
"It is not difficult to find sheep or goats."
"The corps supply those sheep and goats, Perscitia! Do you have any notion of how much it would cost to keep you fed?"
"But—" Perscitia blinked. She had a vague sense that money as something which exists, as it featured prominently in mathematical examples for concepts such as debt and compound interest, but she did not really understand its purpose. Thinking of something she has overheard the men talking about, she asked, "Do you not receive a salary?"
"Not enough of one. Not for this." He laughed, but it was a sad, bitter sound. "And I will not receive a salary at all, if they discharge me."
"Discharge me?"
"If I am no longer a captain."
The words rung like a bell; like gunshot.
No longer be a captain.
Now Perscitia knows better.
She knows the value of a shilling, a florin, a pound. She knows the cost needed to rent a parcel of land, and to buy it, and to build a shelter upon it. Furthermore, she knows the cost to maintain it, to clean it, to staff it. She knows the salaries provided by the Admiralty to those in their employ, from courier to heavy-weight, runner to lieutenant, smith to captain. She knows the discrepancies between them.
She knows what the Admiralty does to those who do not obey.
"He never would have been allowed to come with me," Perscitia says. "I know that now. He would have been punished for disobeyed orders."
"Most likely, yes," Hawker agrees.
"He would not have been allowed another egg, after me. He would have been stripped of his position."
"He was, yes. He was demoted to mid-wingman, and served at that rank until his injuries forced him to leave the service in 1814." Hawker's prompt answers reveal that she knew precisely what had been bothering Perscitia this whole time, and already investigated the matter.
This revelation irritates her, but not as much as it perhaps should Perscitia did not hire her staff for their complacency. She asks, "Can I blame him for all that happened, knowing all that?"
Hawker sips. "It is not all or nothing, I don't think."
It is late. What remains of their tea has long gone cold. The world outside has grown dark, and rain patters on the stone outside. Perscitia would not want her employee making the journey home under such conditions, and wisely, Hawker does not even suggest as much. She simply sets to preparing the cot kept in the pavilion for exactly such occasions.
It did not use to be so. In seasons past, Hawker was always rushing home at the end of the day. Often there was a young man waiting to accompany her; John or Jacob or something like. Perscitia has not seen him in some time. As Hawker pulls on the spare night-gown behind the folding partition, Perscitia wonders why that might be.
Perscitia curls up around the cot. "I did not get nearly as much done tonight as I hoped."
Hawker lays down. "We will see to it tomorrow."
The last lantern is blown out.
"Jennifer?" Perscitia breathes into the darkness.
"Yes?"
"What should I do?"
A pause. "What do you want?"
An even longer pause. "I want answers. I want to know."
Isn't that what she has always wanted?
The admiral called her a foolish beast; her fellow dragons called her a coward. Perscitia did not care; or at least she tries not to.
Her captain called her nothing at all.
"Please, Perscitia," he simply pled with her. "Please. Won't you fight?"
But she could. Even when she truly tried, she could not. When she takes flight for a drill or a patrol, all she can smell is blood and powder; all she can feel is the jagged pain. Maybe she is a coward, for she cannot control this fear inside of her.
She did not recognise their final day together for what it was. There were signs, surely, warnings, but she refused to heed them. The pair of them flew together, and ate supper together, they read together, and she did not worry, not truly.
The next morning, there was a yellow reaper waiting to take her to the Pen Y Fan breeding grounds.
Douglas Smithson, her captain, did not come to say goodbye.
Two weeks later finds Perscitia in Hyde Park, in that parcel of land previously known as the Parade Ground, but is coming to be known as the Dragon's Landing, for it his becoming a popular meeting place for those citizens who struggle to find suitable spaces in so cramped a city as London. It is overcast, as is typical for Britain. But the sun is trying its luck through the clouds regardless.
Perscitia does her best not to follow the sun creeping across the sky, not to show her anxiety as she waits. Will he keep his appointment? Or will she be left waiting again?
A small figure emerges from the path ahead. Pauses, then approaches her. Stops a couple feet away from, uncertain.
"Hello," Perscitia says.
"Hello," Smithson answers.
Around the clearing lay half a dozen other dragons, from cheerful Winchesters, to precocious British-Incan crosses, to the hulking form of a bright copper. Their men and women buzz around them; captains, crew, attendants, aides, allyu. Jennifer Hawker stands with a knot of them just out of earshot, engaged in conversation, but not so deep that she will not come if Persctiia needs her.
Last time they met, Smithson had been a non-stop torrent of words. Now, past the initial greetings, he is near-silent. He sips his tea.
He also takes it black, like Perscitia.
Perscitia does not know if she can trust Douglas Smithson to be a friend, let alone a captain. Does not know if she wants a captain at all. Certainly, she has done very well for herself without one. But Smithson was always an accomplished speaker, well liked by his men. He could serve the movement well, if he is willing. And in the meantime, she can evaluate whether he lives up to the man from her earliest memories.
"So," Perscitia tries.
"So." Smithson coughs. "I hardly know where to begin."
"Me neither," Perscitia confesses.
But perhaps they can figure that out, together.