Marie Brennan - The Tropic of Serpents

Despite that distance, however, I was not without feelings for my child. Indeed, I imposed that distance in part because of my feelings. Jacob’s serious expression, focused on the challenge of navigating the stairs, reminded me profoundly of his namesake. As people had told me, again and again, he was in some sense a piece of my husband, something left behind by Jacob the elder. I was not always prepared to deal with the reminder of that connection. And so a part of me chose instead to flee.

But it does a disservice to my own life to claim the Erigan expedition was motivated by fear. It is equally true, if not more so, to say that I was running toward something, as well as away. Jacob and I had shared a love of dragons, and if leaving his child behind was a betrayal of his memory (as so many people assured me it was), staying home would have been a betrayal as well. We had agreed, on a mountaintop in Vystrana, that caging me in the life expected of a Scirling gentlewoman would be the death of me: spiritually, if not physically. I had been caged for three years, caught in a trap of my grief and obligations as well as society’s expectation, and the work I did on paper granted me only partial freedom. Enough to make me long for more, but not enough to satisfy.

And yet I was leaving behind a child. An innocent toddler, bereft even before his birth of one parent; now I proposed to subject myself to any number of potential calamities that might rob him of the second.

I cannot say whether, given the chance to revisit that choice, I would change my mind. I know now, to a very precise measurement, how great the dangers would be, and how narrowly I escaped them. But I also know that I survived. Little Jacob was not left orphaned, as so many had direly predicted.

Did I have the right to undertake such risk? I can only give the same answer I gave then: that I have, and had, as much right as any widower in the same situation. Few question the widower’s decision, but everyone questions the widow’s.

On that day, I buried all such thoughts beneath the press of business. (Almost all of them. The aforementioned pang was real, nor was it alone.) When little Jacob had finished his conquest of the stairs, I knelt on the cool stone of our front hall, putting myself closer to his eye level, and held out my hands. He came to them, hesitantly, after a nudge from Mrs. Hunstin.

“You must be very good,” I told him, trying and failing to affect the tone I had heard others use with toddlers. “Nanny H will be coming with you, so you must mind her as you always do, even if you are in a different house. I shall write to you often, and she will read you my letters; she will write to me of how you are doing. And I shall be home before you know it.”

He nodded obediently, but I doubt he grasped the import of my words. That I should go away for a few days was a thing he had experienced many times; that I should go away for months or a year was beyond his comprehension.

I heard the crunch of gravel before the ringing of the bell. My brother-in-law Matthew had arrived, and his wife, Elizabeth, with him. They came into the hall, and I gently shooed Jacob toward Bess, with Mrs. Hunstin close behind.

Matthew sighed, looking at Jacob, and shook his head. “I know it’s too late to talk you out of this. But still—”

“You’re right,” I said, before he could finish that thought. “It is too late. I am profoundly grateful for your assistance, Matthew; never doubt that. But I am going to Eriga.”

His jaw shifted, briefly giving his face the air of a bulldog facing an unwelcome target. “I never would have predicted that Jacob would marry so obstinate a woman.”

I wanted to say, then you did not know him very well. But in truth, I’m not certain Jacob himself would have predicted our match, in the years before we met. Antagonizing Matthew would accomplish very little, and so instead I said nothing; I merely kissed my son on the head, admonished him once more to be good, and waved them off down the drive.

Their carriage, departing, passed another on its way in. The coat of arms painted on the door was familiar; it was the white stag’s head on a blue field of Hilford. The carriage, however, was not the earl’s. I stood in the entrance, frowning, and so had no chance to hide when the door flung open (almost before the carriage had stopped) and emitted the angry form of Lewis Oscott, the Baron of Denbow—and the earl of Hilford’s eldest son.

“Where is she?” he demanded, striding across the gravel to confront me. “Bring her out here at once. ”

“She?” I repeated dumbly, for my tongue had not yet caught up with my brain.

“Natalie!” His bellow made my ears ring. “I have tolerated her association with you; until now it did little harm. But this is beyond the pale. You will give her up this instant .”

My brain had only got as far as knowing who “she” was. Why else would Natalie’s father be here, if not because of his daughter? But the rest still escaped me. I had not seen Natalie in several days—a fact which, in retrospect, should have concerned me. We left for Eriga on the morrow, after all. I had been too distracted to think of it, though, assuming (when I considered it at all) that she must be with her grandfather.

A foolish assumption, and one that was now having some very unfortunate consequences.

“My lord,” I said, collecting my thoughts, “I cannot give you what I do not have. Natalie is not here.”

“Don’t lie to me. Where else would she be, if not here?”

The accusation set my back up. “With her grandfather, perhaps? I take it she spoke to you about her intentions.”

He snorted in disgust. “ Intentions. It is madness, and you know it. A position as a companion is all well and good for women who cannot do better, but Natalie has perfectly good prospects, so long as she is here to take advantage of them. And you will not want her with you forever. When you tire of her—or get yourself killed, which is entirely possible—what will become of her? No, Mrs. Camherst, I will not allow you to ruin my daughter’s future for your own benefit.” Setting his shoulders, he strode forward.

I slapped my hand against the doorjamb, barring his way with my arm. “Your pardon, Lord Denbow,” I said, with icy politeness. “I do not recall inviting you in.”

This sudden and brazen resistance startled him, but he did not let it slow his tongue. “I am here to collect my daughter, Mrs. Camherst, with your permission or without it.”

“If she were here, I would be glad to broker some kind of negotiation between the two of you. As she is not, you will have to seek her elsewhere. I will not suffer you to rampage through my house regardless.”

He was not so far gone as to try and shove me aside, though he very easily could have done so. His fury thwarted for the nonce, he resorted to persuasion. “Mrs. Camherst, please, see reason. You are determined to put yourself in danger, regardless of the consequence to your family; very well. I have no authority to command you to better sense. But I can protect my daughter, and I will.”

“Lord Denbow,” I said, moderating my own tone to suit his. “I have told you, she is not here. I have not seen Natalie in days. Should I see her before I leave, I will tell her you came, and advise her of your concerns. That is all I can promise.”

He deflated visibly, like the punctured bag of a caeliger. “I am sure she is coming here. Please, might I—”

“I will tell her you came,” I said firmly. Had he not attempted to thrust his way into my house, I might have been more tolerant; as it was, I wanted him gone. “If I see her.”