Part 1  

Margaret Dashwood dearly loved to dance. More than her mother had, more than her sisters did, more than any girl she knew near Delaford and beyond. She loved to dance.

And she was good at it. Very, very good. Her friends said she seemed to float along the floor and the local fairy dragons rumored that she could actually fly above the dance floor. Of course, that was not true, but still, it was delightful to be talked about that way.

She stepped and twirled about the cozy wood-paneled sitting room, stopping at each rose covered chair, staid dark wood table, and the fireplace screen embroidered a green wyvern, honoring them as though they were actual dance partners. The pianoforte in the corner sang a whispered tune, the ghost of the melody Marianne had played the last time they entertained guests and had a lovely little bit of dance on this very floor. Her white ball gown, trimmed in pink ribbon roses, swayed and swished in time with her mental music. Granted, the faded carpet made it difficult to glide as one should, and the confines of the furniture limited the true expression of grace, but it was here that her heart was always fullest, remembering the merry steps with family and friends that kept her content until a proper ball could be had.

Still though, loving to dance and excelling at the skill were not the same as enjoying an assembly or ball. In fact, it was very, very different. At a ball, one required a partner, and therein lay the problem.

Many men tried to dance, but few danced well. She longed for a partner who skimmed across the chalked dance floor to be exactly where they should be, when they should be there, ready for the next step; the kind she did not have to think about, but instead could rely upon them as she trusted herself.

Perhaps that was why it was said: To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.

But such a creature was as rare as the fire drakes who ruled the kingdom. So, she settled for lesser partners and the vague dissatisfaction they brought.

The parlor door flew open and Snuff, her little grey-green puck Friend scrabbled in, talons catching on the carpet, and dove under the nearest piece of furniture, a heavy wooden cabinet against the nearest wall. The size and shape of a portly pug,  he easily persuaded those who did not hear dragons that he was a fat little lap dog, especially since he enjoyed laps and scratches and table scraps, just like Marianne’s little dog, Nick.

Colonel Brandon appeared in the doorway, hair mussed and cravat askew in stark contrast to the fine blue suit he wore, exasperation pouring from his entire being. Only one reason he ever looked that way.

“What has he done this time?” Margaret hurried to stand between Colonel Brandon and Snuff’s hiding place.

“You assured me he would stay out of my private chambers.”

She crouched to peer under the black lacquered chinoiserie cabinet. “Snuff, you gave me your word. What has come over you?”

Snuff peeked out from under the cabinet between the graceful wooden legs, his big eyes wide with anxiety. His wing nubbins trembled, such a pathetic creature. “He is the only one in the house who has it.”

“That does not mean you are free to take it. Come out from under there now!”

Snuff crept out, tail between his legs, just like Marianne’s Nick when he was scolded. “I cannot help myself! I cannot. It is just so perfect. I must have snuff.” The poor creature writhed on the carpet, all four feet in the air, moaning.

Colonel Brandon stomped three steps closer. “That is quiet enough with the theatrics, you ungrateful lizard. I ought to put you back where you were found.”

“No, you would not be so cruel.” Margaret stood to face Colonel Brandon. He might be angry, but calling Snuff a lizard was below him.

“The old barn is cold and your barn cats are monsters! They nearly killed me.” Snuff huddled into a ball, trembling.

Although that had happened when Snuff was just a tiny hatchling, he had never quite recovered from his dread of cats.

“Then you will stay out of my locked drawers.”

“Locked?” You broke the locks?” Margaret clutched her forehead.

“No, that menace chewed through the back of press!” Even though raising his voice was ungentlemanly, one could hardly blame him.

“You made me a promise, Snuff, and I took you at your word. You must bring yourself under better regulation. What happed with the lavender? You promised it would sate your hoarding hunger.”

“I tried, really, I did. But it was no use. It is not so delightfully sneezy I must have—”

“Snuff, yes, I know.” She picked Snuff up and held him close. “I am so sorry, Colonel. I do not know what else to do.”

Colonel Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I suppose there is nothing more to be done for it. I will put the order into the tobacconist as Delaford suggested.”

Snuff writhed in ecstasy.

“Do not think this means your behavior is acceptable. If you cannot control yourself after this, I promise, you are out. Margaret, the carriage is to leave for the ball in a quarter of an hour. See that your Friend is not going to get himself into trouble whilst we are gone, and do not keep us waiting.” Colonel Brandon stomped out.

“I am sorry.” Snuff said.

“No, you are not. You are sorry that he is angry, but have no intention of changing.”

“I am what I am. It is my nature.”

“And it is in his nature to expect his order to be followed. I fear he means it this time.”

“I will do better, really I will.” He wrapped his tail around her waist.

“I know you mean well, but this time, you must go to Delaford and confess your crimes, as we agreed. Perhaps she will be able to motivate you more strongly than I.”

“No, she is big! And wyverns are cross and cranky and smell bad. I do not want—”

“What you really do not want is to be put out and left to fend for yourself.”

He shook his slightly-too-large for-his-body head so hard she nearly dropped him.

“And have her send a written note with you that she has indeed had a conversation with you.”

Snuff grumbled. He did not like to be held to his promises.

“I know you mean well, but your execution leaves much to be desired. Now, off you pop. I dare not be late for the carriage, it would not do to frustrate him more.”

Part 2

The carriage appeared exactly when Colonel Brandon said it should, and he handed her and Marianne inside. With both of them dressed for a country ball, most of the space within the carriage was taken up with skirts and wraps and feathers. The carriage was rather old, almost as old as Margaret, but Colonel Brandon had the carriage refitted when he and Marianne married. So the leather squabs were soft and comfortable and the springs sufficient to cushion the bumps and ruts in the road from Delaford to Barton Park.

Marianne straightened the ostrich feathers in Margaret’s hair..“It is good of Sir John to humor Mrs. Jenning’s wish to throw a ball in honor of the new bride in the neighborhood.” 

Considering how much Sir John liked to entertain, it was good of Mr. Angleton to marry and give Sir John an excuse for a party.

“It is only right. Angleton inherited the place from his uncle, which enabled him to marry as he would.” Brandon shared a sad glance at Marianne as he brushed a bit of road dust from his dark coat. “So, he brought home Lily Osset as his wife, not the heiress all were expecting. Sadly many in the neighborhood have been disappointed and are now reluctant to provide the new Mrs. Angelton the social status that should be hers by right of her new marriage.”

“That is very cruel, indeed.” Marianne bit her upper lip and stared through the side glass, remembering her own brush with such a fate. 

“Osset? Did you say Lily Osset?” Margaret asked, her heart fluttering.

“I believe you once met her at one of the local assemblies.” Colonel Brandon’s brow furrowed.

“No, I think it was her brother,” Marianne seemed relieved to have something else to occupy her thoughts. “As I recall you danced very well together.”

Indeed, they had. Roger Osset had been a partner like no other, one she danced with as though they were made for one another. What a whirlwind season that had made last year. They would dance the supper sets and final sets together in every ball, in perfect step and harmony. 

He even heard dragons, too. What more could possibly be asked for?

Then business called him away, and she saw him no more. Since they had no understanding between them, he could not write, and there was no communication, just a far too abrupt ending.

No other partner measured up—everyone seemed dull and clumsy in comparison. She even gave up dancing for months until Elinor managed to convince her there was nothing to be gained in indulging her melancholy, denying herself what had been her greatest pleasure. 

So, she began again. Nothing measured up to the days of dancing with Mr. Osset, though. But Elinor was right, as she often was. Life was better for dancing.

The carriage rolled up to Barton Park—so many memories, bitter and sweet, called to her, nearly overwhelming, as they passed Barton cottage. This cottage with the smokey fire  where she, her mother and sisters, had taken refuge after her half-brother John, really his horrid wife Fanny—had put them out of Norland, had hardly changed. Such a difficult time that was to be sent away, with no recourse,  without even the dragon Norland approving the transition.

The whole affair put Norland out for several years. He even required John to offer them some amends for all the trouble they had caused—Elinor had been a great favorite of Norland’s. But by then, Elinor and Marianne were happily settled in their own homes with their own husbands and Fanny had talked John out of assisting them yet again.

But Norland would not let the matter rest quietly. Now that John and Fanny had a daughter, the  wronged drake declared that their daughter could not, would not, be presented at the Dragon Keeper’s Cotillion until they properly sponsored Margaret’s presentation, and a modest dowry be provided to help ensure her a good match.

Oh, how Fanny railed at that. Even protested to the Dragon Sage on the matter. But a recent letter from the Sage settled the matter. Norland was within his rights. And thus, Margaret had secured an invitation to the Dragon Keeper’s Cotillion. How her heart thrilled at the very notion! To dance with dragons! What could be more exquisite?

So now every ball, every dance, was an opportunity to perfect herself for that moment with the dragons.

Of course, Elinor, Marianne, and Colonel Brandon were pleased for Margaret’s opportunity, but even Marianne found Margaret’s enthusiasm a bit overwhelming. So Margaret had learned to keep that to herself, and to talk about the weather.

The carriage released them just outside the doors of Barton Park, where Sir John and his enthusiastic mother-in-law, Mrs. Jennings, greeted them with more excitement than a dog greeting his master after a long trip. Truly it had not been that long since they had last dined together, no more than a fortnight, but it was nice to be welcome.

“Colonel Brandon, and your lovely ladies. How good it is that you have come to grace the party with your presence.” Sir John hurried toward them, open hands extended. How well he looked in his blue coat and tan breeches.

“You will be dancing tonight, Miss Dashwood, yes?” Mrs. Jennings took Margarets hands and held her at arms’ length, studying her gown. “You are a picture in your lovely white gown. The dance floor is not the same without you. Pray tell me you will dance.”

“Only if you will promise me that Mrs. Angleton will lead the dances.” Marianne had made Margaret promise not to take that honor from the new bride, even if it were offered. While it was a little disappointing, it was the right and proper thing to do.

Mrs. Jenning smiled as though she might be quite relieved. “That is gracious of you Miss Dashwood. Of course we will do so.”

At her side, Marianne nodded. “We have been in such anticipation of tonight. Events at Barton are always so memorable.”

“You will be at want of a partner tonight.” Sir John offered Margaret his arm. “Come with me, I shall introduce you to potential partners who are visiting with us just for the occasion.”

Colonel Brandon nodded his approval and Sir John whisked Margaret off into the drawing room.

The furniture had been removed for the occasion, and the carpet as well. Hall chairs were brought in to line the walls, an artist chalked the floor with a moon and stars and dancing fairies. Chalked floors were one of her favorite ball decorations. Lavish, flower-filled vases occupied small tables interspersed between the chairs, near the windows and in the corners, filled the room with their perfume.

There, in the far corner, the new bride stood in a knot of local matrons.

“There, there they are.” Sir John plunged further in the crowded room, away from the ladies, toward a pair of gentlemen near the pianoforte in the corner, studying the others in the room.

“Gentlemen,” Sir John called. “Might I intrude for just a moment? I would like to present our friend and neighbor as a most eligible partner for the evening.”

Both men looked their way.

Merciful heavens! Was that possible? Roger?

Part 3

“Miss Dashwood, may I present Mr. Miles Bexley, a dear friend of Mr. Palmer. He will be taking a house in the neighborhood, soon.” Sir John gestured to the gentleman, a smile crinkling his round cheeks.

The taller man bowed. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Dashwood.” Although well-dressed, and poised, he lacked the easiness in the room that suggested he would be pleasant company for more than a quarter of an hour. Not that he would be rude, precisely, but perhaps it was that he seemed the sort who wanted more meaningful conversation that was typically to be found in a drawing room or dancefloor.

Margaret curtsied. “I am pleased to make yours, Mr. Bexley.”

Poor man seemed rather flummoxed at what should come next.

“Now ask her to dance,” Sir John crossed his arms and tapped his foot. “It is the proper thing to do.”

Mr. Bexley’s face fell, and he sighed. “Pray forgive me, Miss Dashwood. I hate to inflict myself on one who is clearly an able partner.”

“Nonsense, Miles, you should ask her to dance,” Roger slapped his shoulder and chuckled, not meeting Margaret’s gaze.

Sir John gestured toward Roger, who was, as usual, dapper and poised and full of good humor. “And this brash fellow, Miss Dashwood, is Mr. Roger Osset. He comes to us from Cambridge, but refuses to tell us how long he intends to stay with us.”

“One cannot always know what plans will best suit, no?” Roger bowed, deep, with a theatrical flourish. “You will excuse me, one of the men who will help me decide that matter just arrived.”

And like that he disappeared.

Margaret’s cheeks flushed, and she pressed her lips tightly. How could he do that? How astonishingly rude.

Sir John followed Roger’s retreat with his gaze, forehead knotting.

And poor Mr. Bexely seemed utterly undone with his jaw agape and eyes wide. He glanced at Sir John who canted his head toward Margaret. “Miss Dashwood, might I ask you to dance with me the first set?”

“Yes, that is the spirit, nicely done.” Sir John seemed to recover some of his equanimity, but it was just a touch hollow.

Margaret forced a smile. “Thank you, sir, for the invitation. I would be pleased to dance with you.” Which was a lie. She was hardly pleased with anything right now. But if she refused his invitation, it would be a declaration that she was not dancing at all this evening. Which while a tempting alternative, but a rather extreme reaction to the bit of pique she felt. At least for now it was.  

“Margaret, there you are! I am so glad to see you have come.” Elinor glided across the room to stand with her. Always poised and calm, her years as Mrs. Ferras had only made her more so. Pretty, sensible, and demure, she was the perfect parson’s wife, a paragon of all wisdom and virtue. And exceedingly dull. “I see you have met Mr. Bexley. Good evening, sir.” She dipped in a little curtsey.

“Mrs. Ferras, it is lovely to see you tonight. Is Mr. Ferras with you tonight?”

“Just over there, with Mr. Palmer.” Elinor gestured to her husband who stood near a window in the middle of a lively discussion between two yeomen farmers and the local solicitor. Heaven only knew what dreadfully boring matter they were discussing.

“I hope you will excuse me for a few moments. I know it is terrible manners to plague him with questions about the parish during a social engagement, but the matter is quite pressing. Pray excuse me. I shall return straightaway for the first dance.” He bowed from his shoulders and hurried off.

Lovely, abandoned twice in the space of less than five minutes. What a delightful way to begin an evening. At least Mr. Bexley had promised to return.

Elinor watched him go, then turned to her. “You look quite lovely and ready to dance, my dear. The seamstress did a lovely job remaking Marianne’s gown for you—I hardly recognize it.”

“You always say that, and so does Marianne.” Why did her sisters always remind her that her dresses were handed down from Marianne, never new. Yes, she was thankful for them, and they were lovely, redone as they were, but was it too much to hope for a new gown? At least she would have to have one for the Dragon Keeper’s Cotillion. There were all required to wear Order-blue for the event. And since her sisters had not been presented at the event, her gown would have to be new. That was something to look forward to.

“Are you frustrated with Marianne, again?” Elinor already seemed exasperated, even without hearing her answer.

“She fussed about the alterations to the dress, complaining that they were too much. Even to the point of telling me the new neckline was scandalous. It is not at all, not on me in any case. Perhaps on her it might be.” Margaret glanced down at the quite adequately covered decolletage . “Sometimes I think I liked her better before she married the Colonel. She can be so droll now.”

Elinor tsk-tsked and shook her head, tall and graceful, like a willow tree swaying in the breeze. “I think they have been good for one another. He smiles ever so much more now, and she has become a wealth of good sense and good humor.” She glanced over her shoulder to the window where Edward and Mr. Bexley chatted. “What do you think of Mr. Bexely?”

“I have only just met him. I hardly know, although I have been warned his is not a good dancer.” Margaret turned aside, looking for Rodger.

“I would not know of that, but we have dined with him several times, and I can tell you he is a gentleman of good character, right opinions, and proper behavior.”

“Which is to say he is dull, stiff, with no sense of humor at all?”

Elinor pressed her lips in almost a frown, her brow furrowed. “That is dreadfully unfair. He has the most delightful little Friend; a fairy dragon called Half Wing.”

“A man with a fairy dragon friend? How singular.”

“And not just that, but the poor creature had been caught by a cat. He rescued it from the cat’s jaws, but its wing was irreparable damaged. The dear thing will never fly again, but he is quite the spirited little soul.”

Rather like she had rescued Snuff. There was something sympathetic in such a person—not that it would make up for bad dancing, but it was a mark in his favor. “A male fairy dragon no less. That is remarkable.”

“As I understand, Half-Wing is quite sociable and at risk of forming a harem around him wherever he goes. So, Mr. Bexley is very cautious about where he chooses to live, to make sure that his Friend will be comfortable. He reminds me of Colonel Brandon, the way he is so considerate of your Friend’s foibles.”

“I do not think you would be so impressed with him today. He is at wits end with Snuff’s hoarding.”

“Of course, none of us like having our things meddled with. But what other man do you know who would continue to allow such an unabashed little hoarder to live with him?”

“I hardly know any other men.” Margaret folded her arms across her chest and pouted.

Elinor squeezed her eyes shut and huffed. “Colonel Brandon has done an admirable job protecting you from acquaintances who would not be to your advantage. Yes, I know he seems a bit zealous in the undertaking, but you know he has very good reason to be that way.”

“Yes, I remember the stories.” And she did not want to hear them again. Ever.

“Not just stories, Margaret but real people. Real lives that were ruined by cavalier men without the colonel’s character.” Elinor stepped very close and leaned into her face.

“Yes, yes, I know. We are all very grateful to him. He has done so much of all of us, and I will never forget that, or take what he has done for granted. Truly.” Margaret wrenched her gaze from Elinor’s. “But you must allow me to note that he can be so dull.”

“Marianne once said that of him, too. But she freely admits she was wrong in her judgment.”

“I do not need a lecture. I am one and twenty and quite capable of thinking for myself. I am older than you were when you married dear Edward, after all.”

Clearly Elinor was not saying the first thought on her mind, which would have been ‘Older does not mean wiser’, one of her favorite admonishments. Instead, she sighed. “It that Mr. Osset over there?”

“Yes, it is.” Bother, she could not suppress her smile, which would certainly earn Elinor’s censure.

“Do you intend to renew your acquaintance with him?”

“You mean, will I dance with him if he asks? The answer to that is yes. He was a delightful dance partner, and I will not deny myself that opportunity, if it comes.” Even Elinor could not fault that answer.

“I know at one time you liked him very much. Do be careful.”

“Elinor, I am a sensible creature. I promise you I shall not repeat the … actions … that in the past brought grief to our family.” She rolled her eyes. How tiring it was to have a sister, who despite her happy ending, still served as a cautionary tale.

Mr. Bexley strode back to them. “I have it on good authority that the musicians are ready to begin the first dance. Might I steal away my partner, Mrs. Ferras?”

Reprieve at last!

“Of course, pray enjoy yourself. She is likely the best dancer in all of the county.” Elinor stepped back and gestured them toward the dancefloor.

“So, I have heard. I only hope I do not prove too much of a trial for her.” He offered Margaret his arm and led her away, to take their place in a long set of dancers, partners facing each other.

The new Mrs. Angleton stood at the top of the set with Mr. Palmer as Sir John was not inclined to dance tonight. How strange it was that married couples rarely danced with one another. They already lived together, so why should they dance together as well? Or at least that was how the common opinion went. But if your husband was an excellent dancer, why would you not want to dance with him?

Part 4

“I understand you have lived in this neighborhood for quite some time, Miss Dashwood,” Mr. Bexley said. “I have just settled upon moving in and have a Friend who will live with me. He is quite fond of long walks, and I have been told you might point me to the most attractive rambles in the area.”

“I do quite like a long walk, and there are many pretty paths you might take. I would be happy to tell you more of them.” She smiled. Gracious, there was Roger with priggish, clumsy Miss Beckett. Why ever would he be dancing with her?

Of course, Colonel Brandon would say it was because of her substantial dowry—something which Margaret lacked—but Roger could not be nearly that shallow, could he?

Sir John stepped to the top of the set and presented Mrs. Angleton and invited her to call the dance.

So that was the kind of woman that she was. Margaret forced the sneer from her expression. That would not do at all.

Clearly, the new bride thought of herself an excellent dancer and was determined to show herself off to the neighborhood as such. But really, it was unkind of her to choose such a difficult dance as the very first. She did not know whether there were new or inexperienced dancers in the room who would be disadvantaged by her decisions.

Or perhaps she did not care about the feelings of those who would surely become turned around and make embarrassing mistakes.

Only one thing to be done. Margaret squared her shoulders and took quick glances up and down the set, identifying the handful of dancers—ironically, all standing close to her—who would surely have difficulty. Now, how best to help them when it was her turn to dance with them?

The music began, and the dance started with the first woman weaving through the two couples below her—new dancers always lost their place in this figure. Margaret slowed her steps just slightly and opened her motions to draw attention to how the dance figure had her traveling through the other couples. Then it was Mr. Bexley’s turn to mirror the figure on the men’s side of the set.

He had not exaggerated. He was not a good dancer and immediately became disoriented.

“Pass the first man by the right,” she whispered, hopefully just loud enough for him to hear. “The next to the left, then the right. No, no, no farther, turn across and through the women starting with the left.”

He fumbled and stumbled, but made it back to his place just in time for her to take up the next figure, turning with each of the nearby dancers, alternate right and left hands. From the corner of her eye, she caught Mr. Bexley and the two ladies watching her carefully, studying, with a tinge of panic in their eyes.

Although it was technically rude to continue to whisper directions and discreetly point right and left, Mrs. Angleton’s choice of dance was equally rude. At least Margaret’s social faux pax was in the service of her fellow dancers. That had to make it more excusable than the choice of dance.

The remaining figures were equally confusing and painful to watch. Without a doubt, that had to have been the longest, most agonizing dance she had ever endured. Poor Mr. Bexley seemed undone by the time the music ended. And he was not the only one.

Perhaps, when the opportunity arose, she would have a discrete word with Mrs. Angleton about the state of dance in the Delaford community.

And there was still a second dance to be done to complete the set! Heavens, how was she ever to endure it?

Mrs. Middleton, who had danced at the end of the line of couples, excused herself to speak with Mrs. Angleton before the next dance was announced. How red Mrs. Angleton’s face turned—though one would never know precisely what Mrs. Middleton had said, the message conveyed was clear, and it would save Margaret the embarrassment of having the same conversation. She would offer a discreet appreciation to Mrs. Middleton yet tonight. Such a service could not be undervalued.

When prompted, Mrs. Angleton called out a much simpler, circle dance, a mixer that would have the couple switching partners every few measures. That would be a relief—the chance to dance, at least for a few minutes, with someone competent.

Margaret and Mr. Bexley took their places in the circle. So many looks of relief around the room. Sad that Mrs. Angleton had already lost the favor of so many in just one thoughtless move. Perhaps with excellent dinners and large parties, she might be able to gain it back. Margaret’s good opinion, once lost, was lost forever, though.

Compared to the prior dance, this one flowed effortlessly, spinning and gliding from one partner to the next, with shared smiles and gladness all around. This was how dance should be. A bit too simplistic, perhaps, but the lightness of heart and step. That was right.

The music ended, and she found herself beside Roger Osset.

“How well you look on the dancefloor … Miss Dashwood.” He dipped his head. “It has been a long time since I have had the pleasure of dancing with you.”

“Indeed, sir. It is pleasant to see you in the neighborhood once again.”

“Oh, do not be so stiff with me, Miss Dashwood. Were we not once good friends?”

“Were we, sir?”

“Pray, dance the supper set with me, and then you might discern it for yourself.” He flashed his brows and turned aside to disappear into the crowd.

How was she to feel about that? He did not even wait to hear her answer. Of course it would be yes, but—

“Miss Dashwood?” Mr. Bexley appeared. Face flushed, but eyes twinkling. “What an excellent dance that was. May I escort you from the dancefloor?”

Technically, Roger should have offered to do so, since he had been her last partner in the mixer. But he always had been easily distracted. “Thank you, I would very much enjoy a glass of punch right now.”

“Then to the punch table we shall go.” He offered his arm.

They wove their way through the crowded room, smiling and chatting as they went. Mr. Bexley seemed content to listen, mostly. How odd it was people were so keen to talk to a man who listened instead of talked back. Somehow, that was unexpected.

A servant filled two crystal punch cups, and he brought one to her.

Heavens, that was strong!

She blinked several times. Best avoid another glass before supper, lest she lose her footing in the next dance. As they sipped their punch, another partner claimed her for the next set, and she was off to the dance floor. Mr. Bexley nodded at her as she left, but did not seem in a hurry to claim another partner for himself.

Her next partner, Mr. Mott, and the one after that, Mr. Barnes, were credible dancers. Not exactly good, but they were not embarrassing, and she did not need to manage them on the floor. Both were also eager to offer their opinions of both Mrs. Angleton and Mr. Bexley. They seemed of similar minds on both matters. Mrs. Angleton was on the verge of proving herself a stuck-up biddy who would never be well received in the neighborhood. Mr. Bexely was a decent, if quiet, sort of man, who they would not be unhappy to share a pint with. It was good to know Mr. Bexely’s gaffs on the dancefloor did not disenfranchise him from the local men. Bad dancing was a fault, to be sure, but not one of character, or at least she thought so. Being inconsiderate, though, was so she did not mourn Mrs. Angleton’s social fate with too much energy.

The next set was the supper set. She glanced around the room, looking for Roger. There, in the far corner, drinking punch and laughing with a group of young men. He hardly seemed aware that the dancers were lining up for the dance.

Her cheeks burned. What was she to do? It would be utterly unthinkable to seek him out and remind him of his engagement. It was simply not done. But if he forgot, then she would be left standing stupidly near the dancefloor and everyone would know she had been forgotten. Mortifying—utterly mortifying!

She turned away, looking for Marianne or Elinor. Surely, they would know how to handle—

“Miss Dashwood, there you are. Hurry or we shall miss the start of the dance!” He took her arm and hurried them to the dance floor, at the end of the longways set.

She never danced at the end of the set. Her partners were always quick to claim her and line up on the floor. Why would Roger have waited for so long to seek her out?

“Don’t be put out, Miss Dashwood, you know the end of the dance set dances, too.” He laughed. “My companion was in the middle of a story, and I could not be so rude as to interrupt him. Surely you appreciate that.”

She blinked and shrugged. While she was not about to throw a temper in the middle of the dancefloor, but she was not Elinor to disguise her displeasure so thoroughly that he would never know of it.

The dance was called, a sprightly maggot that most would dance easily enough, but sufficiently interesting that she would not be bored. The musicians began.

“I cannot have you displeased with me, you know. I just will not do.” Roger smiled in his familiar, flirtatious way. “I know, I shall tell you clever things, and you shall recover your good humor.”

“And what if what you tell me is very dull indeed?”

“Then I shall have to tell you more, until I find I have pleased my excellent partner.” He bowed from his shoulders.

But it was time for their part of the dance to begin, and he could say nothing more. For all his other faults, Roger’s sense of timing was perfect. His steps flowed with purpose and grace that some said would have made him a great fencer, had he ever the opportunity to have learnt. But he was not of the sort of family that kept fencing masters for their sons.

How easy, how pleasant it was to become lost in the music and motion, floating along the floor with no other thought in mind but the next measure of music, the next graceful flow.

She hardly noticed when the first dance of the set ended, as it faded magically into the next, one of those dances when a lady spun and spun and spun, trusting that at the end of each spin her partner would catch her and propel her into the hands of the next dancer and catch her again after. This was what connected dancing to love, the trust, the companionability, the exhilaration of such a dance.

The music stopped too abruptly, leaving an almost physical pain in its wake. She gasped and pressed a hand to her chest.

“Do not tell me you are feeling faint, Miss Dashwood. You looked so well on the dancefloor.” Roger caught her elbow, panting and flushed himself.

“No, no, it is not that. I assure. I simply have not had such a dance since you left the neighborhood.” She smiled far more than was proper, but then again, she had probably said more than was proper as well.

“Then we will have to rectify that. Perhaps you will save the last set for me?”

Her heart fluttered, and her breath hitched in her throat. “I would be delighted.”

He offered his arm. “Then I have something to look forward to, after supper, of course. Let us find a place at the table for that.”

Part 5

Roger walked her into the supper room, stopping to talk many times along the way. Of course, the discussion was mainly about things she did not know or care about, so she had to stand stupidly as he and his friends said what they had to say and then move to the next pointless conversation.

That sounded rather crosspatch-ish, to be sure. But was it not polite to make sure that the person on your arm was included in a discourse? Surely, that had to be a rule in a conduct book somewhere.

A number of small tables filled the finely appointed, albeit crowded supper room—several smaller rooms really, with connecting walls opened up to make a much grander one—abounding with candles and flowers and mirrors. Lady Middleton had excellent taste—a prickly personality, but excellent taste. Nothing like her mother, Mrs. Jennings, who was far more gregarious and agreeable.

The tables were a bit smaller than Margaret had hoped for, more at a small table meant wider opportunity for conversation. But then again, it was better than a single long table. She would be glad for that.

Long dining tables could be difficult to enjoy, only being able to talk with your partner on the right or left. Here, one could partake in the company of everyone when there were only settings for four or six. Definitely a preferable situation.

“What do you supposed the Middletons will serve for supper—do you think there will be white soup?” Roger escorted her through the already well-filled room to a still empty table in a back corner.

Sad and neglected, it seemed. But no matter, they should have company soon enough. “Would it be too shocking to reveal that I do not much like white soup?”

“Why not—I cannot imagine anyone how would not like the bland gloopy stuff.” He pulled out a chair for her.

“It was truly dreadful at the Edminton’s ball last year.” Margaret giggled. “I am not sure anyone had the gumption to tell her so, though.”

“I have had it well made, but certainly at the Edmintons.” He paused behind his chair and scanned the room. “Pray excuse me a moment. I would like to invite my friend to join us.” He bowed from his shoulders and disappeared.

Again.

Was that common behavior for gentlemen to abandon a lady at supper? True, the meal had not yet actually begun, but being left here alone was a most disagreeable sensation.

“Miss Dashwood?” Mr. Bexley appeared out of the shadows. If she recalled correctly, he had not danced at all since their set together. Hopefully that was his choice and not because potential partners made themselves difficult to find. “Do you mind if we join you?”

“Of course. But we? Who else is with you?”

“He is already here with me. You can come out.” Mr. Bexley sat with his back to the room and pulled open his black jacket.

Jet-black eyes glittered in the shadow of his jacket. A fairy dragon? What sort of man brought a fairy dragon to a ball?

Apparently one that did not dance very much.

“You brought a Friend with you?” she gasped. “He is so polite! I would never have guessed his presence. My Friend is not nearly so well-mannered in company.”

“Who is your Friend?”

“Snuff is a little puck, and you can well imagine his hoarding hunger. He is a very sweet soul, but simply cannot control his hoarding hunger. This sort of company would drive him to distraction.” She clasped her hands before her chest—oh, the mischief that would be wrought with Snuff at a ball!

“Perhaps, one day, I might meet him. I have no pucks in my acquaintance.”

“He really is a dear. And if you bring him a pinch of snuff, you will have his admiration forever.” Margaret laughed. “But I fear I am being rude. Pray my I be introduced to your Friend?”

“You see, it is as I told you. She is sympathetic, and you may be certain of a warm reception” He held his hand near his lapel.

A jet-black fairy dragon, with a jaunty cluster of white feather-scales forming the crest atop his head, stepped onto Mr. Bexley’s waiting hand. His dark coloring made it difficult to pick out detains, but there was definitely something not right about the tiny dragon.

Mr. Bexley held him a little closer to Margaret. “Miss Dashwood, may I present my Friend, Half Wing.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance Half Wing.” She dipped her head since she could not curtsey from her chair.

“Are you now?” The fairy dragon sounded nothing like any fairy dragon she had met. While he should have sounded high and twittery, his voice was deeper than should have been possible from the tiny bird-type dragon, a little gravely, with a hit of the Scottish hills. Extraordinary. The sort of voice that one wanted to hear more of.

“I think I am well able to determine whether or not I am pleased with an acquaintance, and I certainly am pleased with yours.” She leaned a little closer.

“Why would that be?”

Gracious, what an attitude the little fellow had! “What a strange question to ask. It is always an honor to make the acquaintance of a new dragon. So few are privileged to hear dragons, one must never take the experience for granted.”

“She is far more acceptable than that ruddy fool who thinks himself above my presence.” Half Wing snorted and tossed his head, the longer white feather-scales bobbing like wind-tousled fringe over his eyes. “Her company will be acceptable for supper. I cannot tolerate another stupid warm-blood.”

“I am honored.” She forced back a giggle.

Mr. Bexley’s cheeks colored. “Pray excuse his bold opinions, Miss Dashwood. He has not always found a favorable reception among our kind.”

“And why would that be? You seem a very fine fellow to me.”

“I do not know what to make of her, Bexley.” Half Wing hopped off Mr. Bexley’s hand to the table and took several steps closer to her. “She seems sincere, not overly stupid, and in possession of all her senses, so I am at a loss to explain her statement.”

“Cynicism does not become you, even if you have reasons for it.” Mr. Bexley seemed to be fighting off a frightful frown.

“Then disprove my cynicism, young woman. What is it you find about me that is so fine?” Half Wing spread his wings, fanned his tail and lifted his head crest.

He was not a young fairy dragon, but not so old either. But clearly, he’d been hard ridden and put up wet. His tail feathers were thin and scraggly, his floppy white crest little better. The long feathers at the end of his left wing were missing all together, giving the impression of a deformed half wing.

“While it is not strictly proper for young ladies, I know, I find a bit of cynicism rather refreshing. Colonel Brandon does at times lean that direction and tends to be wickedly funny when he does so. And his attitude appears to be born out of a great deal of life experience which makes him a fascinating partner in conversation. So, I am hardly off put by it.” Margaret flashed her brows as if to challenge the little dragon.

Half Wing shook his tail and wings at her.

“As to the state of your feathers, just because I like pretty, frilly things, does not mean I am so shallow as to consider those not so endowed to be somehow lesser. Do we not all wear the effects of our years, kind or unkind as they may have been to us. I know it is not the opinion one expects from one of my kind, too young and vain to know such things. But pray, do not paint me with such a brush, any more than you wish the same done to you.”

Half Wing hopped back and cocked his head, nearly turning upside down. His gleaming black eyes glistened so as he stared. “Extraordinary, truly extraordinary.” He hopped toward Mr. Bexley. “You must marry this one.”

Margaret gasped, hands covering her mouth as she giggled. How else was one supposed to respond to such a statement?

“I will take that under advisement, my Friend.” Mr. Bexley merely smiled as if it were the sort of thing that Half-Wing was apt to say, but his cheeks were even brighter than before. “Before you ask, Miss Dashwood, no he is not in the habit of suggesting I marry every young woman who compliments him.”

“Actually, I am,” Half-Wing turned toward her. “You are the only young woman who has complimented me, so I am in the habit of saying that about everyone who has.”

Mr. Bexley chuckled, rolling his eyes just a mite. “Of course you are right my Friend. I should have thought more carefully about my statement. But look, they are serving dinner, shall I request something specific for you or will you choose from my plate.”

“Are you a sweet fairy dragon or meat fairy dragon?” Margaret asked.

“You know of that difference?” There was something very pleased in Half Wing’s tone.

“There are a few fairy dragons in our circle of acquaintance. One of them, a stunning blue cock with a rather churlish disposition who has a preference for meats, while the hens of his harem all rather have sweet.” All the hens were kind little creatures, favorites of Snuff, but her Friend had little good to say about the cock. Though she did not say it aloud, but she agreed with Snuff.

“Yes, definitely, you must marry this one. And as to your question, I am assuredly a meat fairy dragon. But I understand that can be discomfiting at a dinner table, so in deference to you, I will refrain and eat later so as not to interfere with your dining pleasure.”

“My gracious, Miss Dashwood, you have been granted extraordinary favor. Half-Wing defers his meals for no one.” Eyebrows high and eyes wide, Mr. Bexley seemed entirely sincere.

Margaret blushed. “I am most honored. Truly though, after regularly watching Snuff devour his meals, I think I am inured to draconic dining habits.”

“Bexley, I tell you—”

“I heard you the first two times. You need not repeat it.” Mr. Bexley gestured to a passing servant and asked for a small plate for Half-Wing.

More than a little surprised, the serving girl found her composure, curtsied, and promised something from the kitchen directly.

“There you are!” Marianne appeared at the other side of the table, Colonel Brandon at her side. Radiant as she always was, in her stylish pale blue gown, her eyes glowed a little brighter as she smoothed her hands over her not-quite-as-flat-as-before waist. “Might we join you for dinner?”

“Of course, we would not wish to intrude if you have already promised these seats.” Colonel Brandon added hurriedly. Still as attentive to detail as he had always been, he was a little less edgy about it now than he had been. Still, in his dark tail coat and breeches, he had the bearing of a fashion plate.

“Mr. Osset planned to sit there, beside me and intended to return with a friend, but other than that, we would be happy for your company.”

A distinct crease between Colonel Brandon’s eyes appeared, then retreated.

“Indeed, we would.” Mr. Bexley stood and bowed, gesturing to his Friend. “I hope you do not find dragons at the dinner table untoward.

Colonel Bradon huffed as he held the chair for Marianne. “Hardly. They are better company than many men I know.” He meant that, too.

Half-Wing chuckled so hard, he bounced. “He is exactly as you described. I approve.”

“I am glad to have met your standard, might we be introduced?” Colonel Brandon wore an amused little wry smile.

“Colonel Brandon, Mrs. Brandon, my Friend, Half-Wing.”

The fairy dragon spread his scraggly wings and bowed.

“You see, you see, I told you.” Colonel Brandon looked directly at Marianne. “It is entirely possible for a dragon to demonstrate exemplary manners, as genteel as any gentleman.” He did not say it, but he was clearly thinking about Snuff.

“While you are absolutely correct, Half-Wing is all things gracious and refined, perhaps it is the same with dragons as it is with men. Some are born to refinement, some are not. There is a class of warm-blood from which no manner of refinement can ever be taught or expected.” Mr. Osset appeared at his seat. He gestured to the gentleman beside him, “May I present my friend, Mr. Campbell? This is Colonel Brandon, Mrs. Brandon, Miss Dashwood, and Mr. Bexley.”

“Please to make your acquaintance.” Mr. Campbell bowed. He was a middling sort of man, with little by way to appearance or manner to distinguish him. Average looking, average build, decent quality suit. The only thing notable about him seemed to be the red-jeweled pocket watch on the fob attached at his waist.

“Excuse me, do I not rate an acquaintance?” Half-Wing muttered, as put out as any man would be by the lack of consideration.

Mr. Bexley glanced at Margaret and sighed, as if to draw attention to a reason for Half Wings’ earlier cynicism. “Mr. Campbell, may I present my Friend, Half Wing?”

“I did not know that dragons were welcome at this event.” Mr. Campbell’s tone was mild, but there was something about the way he held his shoulders that did not match his tone. He sat down and turned his attention to Colonel Brandon and Marianne, almost but not quite ignoring Half-Wing and Mr. Bexley.

Margaret felt feel her brow knit and her lips settle into a frown, though she tried to will it away. Marianne frequently admonished her that she needed to keep better control over her expressions, lest she appear rude by expressing an opinion on her face that she did not mean to give voice. But today, it was a pointless exercise. So, she extended her hand to Half-Wing, inviting him to step up on it.

Half-Wing jumped on to her palm, then to her shoulder, as Mr. Bexley’s jaw gaped.

“I am honored by your company,” she leaned her cheek toward Half-Wing, and he nuzzled it. She might be imagining it, but there seemed to be some little affection in the gesture.

Mr. Bexley might have fainted, had it not been such poor manners to do so.

“How singular.” A hint of disapproval tinged Mr. Osset’s voice. “I had no idea you were so partial to draconic company.”

“You have met Snuff, my Friend.”

“He does not sit on the dinner table.” Had he really had the audacity to roll his eyes? He had never been partial to Snuff, she knew that, but seemed far more emphatic than opinions he had previoulsy expressed.

“It is not as though he has not been invited.” Marianne winked at Margaret.

“Is that true, Colonel? I would not have thought a man of the world like yourself would entertain the cold-blooded at his table,” Roger said.

“No, certainly. I do not prefer to keep company with the cold-blooded.” Colonel Brandon turned his face away from Roger and toward Half Wing. “But I welcome dragons.”

Mr. Campbell blinked several times, as though trying to parse what Colonel Brandon has said.

“I like him, too.” Half-Wing snickered in Margaret’s ear. She scratched under his chin.

Servants appeared and set plates before them, including a small one for Half-Wing.

“Would you be so good as to feed me, Miss Dashwood, so that I do not offend the sensibilities of those who would not have a dragon dine with them?” Half-Wing said loudly enough to be heard across the table.

Poor Mr. Bexley! He hid his eyes with his hand. “Pray, ignore that, Miss Dashwood. I cannot image what has gotten into him.”

“Oh, I can, and I am happy to accommodate him.” She took a sliver of fish and delicately offered it to the fairy dragon, who cooed as she did.

Mr. Campbell turned several shades of red. But it served him right for being so insufferably rude. How could Roger tolerate such a man, much less call him a friend?

Part 6

“I do not recall asking your opinion.” Half-Wing perched on the edge of the mirror in Bexley’s bedroom, rocking gently with the sway of the full-length Cheval mirror, and watching Bexley as he dressed.

The black and white fairy dragon had become very fond of it in the few days they had been there, almost like a swing in a birdcage. But that was the sort of thing one never, never said to a fairy dragon. So Bexley would just enjoy the image privately.

“Miss Dashwood invited me to meet her Friend, and I fully intend to do so.” Half Wing fluttered his wings, increasing the mirror’s swing. How subtle he must have thought himself.

Bexley stifled a chuckle. “You know he is just a puck, though.”

“Just a puck? That in insulting. I never thought you so dismissive of minor dragons.”

“You very well know that is not true, so do not play that game with me. I just know the sort of conversation that you prefer, and that is not usually to be found with puck. They are widely known to talk only of their hoards and what might be tangentially associated with them.” Bexley pulled out the knot in his cravat and started again. Bother the silly thing. Perhaps he ought to just resign himself to a simple knot. The complicated ones never suited him well.

“I have it on good authority that this puck is unusual.”

“In what way? It seems like unusual might not be a good thing.”

“Why are you so determined to see trouble where there is none? Really, Bexley. One might think you were worried about what might come out of furthering your acquaintance with Miss Dashwood, which seems entirely contrary to the care you are giving to your cravat.”

“You were the one who, just last night, declared I should marry the girl.” And since when was trying a new cravat knot a declaration of endearment?

“Yes, I did, and I stand by that statement. How many dragon Friends do you think have the concern and consideration for their puck Friends endeavour to help them with their hoarding hunger?”

“All of them I would think, given pucks’ propensity to hoard. They all must be managed or it gets out of control.”

“True, I grant you, but the way she is going about it is unique, and I want to better understand.” Half Wing edged his way along the top of the mirror to be closer to Bexley—that it rocked as he did so could not possibly be his intention.

“And what amazing revelation has this girl hit upon?”

“Do not be so dismissive. She is hardly a girl, but a young woman—an attractive one at that. And if you must know, she is trying to discern what exactly it is that draws her Friend to his hoard in the hopes of finding an acceptable substitute since he has been unable to change his fixation by will power alone.”

“That is interesting. Is that not a line of thought you have been following?” Bexley sat on the edge of his bed and slipped on his shoes. They had just been resoled, and the cobbler had done something disagreeable, rendering the left one a mite too tight.

“Precisely. Which is why I must take her up on her invitation to meet her Friend and talk more with them about their strategy. It is the kind of thing that could be very helpful among the minor dragons. It could have significant ramifications throughout the Order.”

“I can appreciate that. But—and I hesitate to say this—is there not more important work to be done?” Bexley held his breath. Half Wing did not often lose his temper, but when he did, it was memorable.

Half Wing swallowed back a growl—even he realized how adorable, and counterproductive, a fairy dragon’s growl was. “What is more important than to visit your principal partner of the evening?”

“Principal partner? I danced with her twice, that hardly—” Not to mention what did that have to do with the business the Order had sent him to accomplish?

“You danced with no one else as much.”

“What do you think Sir Richard will say, hearing I spent my time visiting dance partners rather than investigating matters of far greater significance?”

Half Wing launched himself from the mirror to the dressing table, just barely getting close enough to grab the edge of it with his sharp talons. He took a moment to right himself and restore his dignity. “So, you would jeopardize your mission while working to fulfill it?”

“What are you blathering on about?”

“If you offend Miss Dashwood, there will be repercussions in the neighborhood. Even if she is not the source of gossip, you know servants talk. She is well liked in the community, even if occasionally considered silly, which she is most certainly not. You need to be seen favorably to do your work.”

“And your desire to see here again has nothing to do with it?” Bexley did not look at Half Wing as he stooped to tie his shoes. Of course, that might not be wise, as it invited a sharp peck to the back of his head.

Half Wing squawked a call worthy of a cross cockatrice. “If it were not in your best interesting as well, I would certainly find my own way there.”

And he would, no doubt. He had done it before and would do it again. Half Wing was nothing if not resourceful in not allowing his inability to fly interfere with those things he considered important.

And that Miss Dashwood rated that sort of consideration was telling.

Bexley finished tying his shoes and stood, casting about the room for his hat. “Very well, we will go.”

“You are planning to see Colonel Brandon, perhaps reactivate his commission under General Strickland.”

“The Blue Order Minister of Defense? Don’t you think that is a bit excessive? I had planned on speaking to him about my business here, but not taking that step.”

“You have studied all the reports from the cockatrice guards?”

“I have, extensively. But apparently I have drawn different conclusions to yours. Perhaps you should be in charge of this effort.”

“I am not?” Half-Wing strutted along the side of the dressing table.

Bexley laughed, but did not mistake the seriousness of their difference of opinion. He would have to study those reports again when they returned. “Come I shall order the horse.”

Despite all fluff and bother, Half Wing’s desire to see Colonel Brandon was solid. As the primary Dragon Keeper in the area, Brandon needed to be appraised of the situation at hand. The real question was whether Bexley should try to appraise Delaford directly or leave that to Keeper Brandon. He would have to sort that out once he spoke to Brandon.

But to Delaford, he would go and call upon the dynamic Miss Dashwood.

A quarter of an hour later, he mounted his horse, a steady bay mare he had kept for several years now. Yes, it was so much more impressive to be seen with a carriage and driver, but horseback was far less fuss, and far more flexible. And the exercise gave him the opportunity for a moving meditation during which he could climb into his own head and have a look at his thoughts.

Half-Wing was right about Miss Dashwood. She was pretty, and lively, and had a delightful determination about her, which almost made up for the fact she also had a reputation as a bit of a flirt and rather too devoted to dancing to be the bearer of much sense. Granted, Half Wing did not seem to believe that reputation was well earned. Somehow, he saw a greater depth in her than commonly believed.

She would not be the first lady to be thought twitter-pated because she was fair of face and light on the dancefloor. Unfortunately, his mission was such that he could not risk being distracted by ladies with too little sense.

Not when the Blue Order was facing enemies from within.

Half-Wing perched on the front of his saddle and studied the countryside. Although he said little on the matter, it was easy to imagine that it was very taxing to be a winged dragon who could not actually fly. There had been a time when they had pursued various treatments and promises that might help him gain the power of flight. But none came close to succeeding, and it seemed a kinder thing to let the idea go than continue in the face of dashed hopes.

The fairy dragon seemed to bear it well, all told. He was a faithful Friend, if occasionally a bit too outspoken—like when he declared Bexley should ‘Marry this one’. But then, no one was perfect.