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 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 please 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 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 my 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 in 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.