LITMIR.BIZ

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on the state of the war and England’s readiness for invasion. Woolvey was ridiculously enthusiastic, speaking of how the militia would teach Bonaparte a lesson if he dared to bring across his army. Laurence was forced to fix his gaze upon his plate to conceal his expression. Napoleon, master of the Continent, with a hundred thousand men at his disposal, to be turned back by militia: pure foolishness. Of course, it was the sort of folly that the War Office encouraged, to preserve morale, but to see Edith listening to this speech approvingly was highly unpleasant.

      Laurence thought she might have kept her face turned away deliberately; certainly she made no effort to meet his eye. He kept his attention for the most part fixed upon his plate, eating mechanically and sunk into uncharacteristic silence. The meal seemed interminable; thankfully his father rose very shortly after the women had left them, and on returning to the drawing room, Laurence at once took the opportunity to make his apologies to his mother and escape, pleading the excuse of the journey ahead.

      But one of the servants, out of breath, caught him just outside the door of his room: his father wanted to see him in the library. Laurence hesitated; he could send an excuse and postpone the interview, but there was no sense in delaying the inevitable. He went back downstairs slowly nevertheless, and left his hand on the door just a moment too long: but then one of the maids came by, and he could not play the coward anymore, so he pushed it open and went inside.

      ‘I wonder at your coming here,’ Lord Allendale said the moment the door had shut: not even the barest pleasantry. ‘I wonder at it indeed. What do you mean by it?’

      Laurence stiffened but answered quietly, ‘I meant only to break my journey; I am on my way to my next posting. I had no notion of your being here, sir, or having guests, and I am very sorry to have burst in upon you.’

      ‘I see; I suppose you imagined we would remain in London, with this news making a nine-days’ wonder and spectacle of us? Next posting, indeed.’ He surveyed Laurence’s new coat with disdain, and Laurence felt at once as poorly-dressed and shabby as when he had suffered such inspections as a boy brought in fresh from playing in the gardens. ‘I am not going to bother reproaching you. You knew perfectly well what I would think of the whole matter, and it did not weigh with you: very well. You will oblige me, sir, by avoiding this house in future, and our residence in London, if indeed you can be spared from your animal husbandry long enough to set foot in the city.’

      Laurence felt a great coldness descend on him; he was very tired suddenly, and he had no heart at all to argue. He heard his own voice almost as if from a distance, and there was no emotion in it at all as he said, ‘Very good, sir; I shall leave at once.’ He would have to take Temeraire to the commons to sleep, undoubtedly scaring the village herd, and buy him a few sheep out of his own pocket in the morning if possible or ask him to fly hungry if not; but they would manage.

      ‘Do not be absurd,’ Lord Allendale said. ‘I am not disowning you; not that you do not deserve it, but I do not choose to enact a melodrama for the benefit of the world. You will stay the night and leave tomorrow, as you declared; that will do very well. I think nothing more needs to be said; you may go.’

      Laurence went back upstairs as quickly as he was able; closing the door of his bedroom behind him felt like allowing a burden to slip off his shoulders. He had meant to call for a bath, but he did not think he could bear to speak to anyone, even a maid or a footman: to be alone and quiet was everything. He consoled himself with the reminder that they could leave early in the morning, and he would not have to endure another formal meal with the company, nor exchange another word with his father, who rarely rose before eleven even in the country.

      He looked at his bed a moment longer; then abruptly he took an old frock coat and a worn pair of trousers from his wardrobe, exchanged these for his evening dress, and went outside. Temeraire was already asleep, curled neatly about himself, but before Laurence could slip away again, one of his eyes half-opened, and he lifted his wing in instinctive welcome. Laurence had taken a blanket from the stables; he was as warm and comfortable as he could wish, stretched upon the dragon’s broad foreleg.

      ‘Is all well?’ Temeraire asked him softly, putting his other foreleg protectively around Laurence, sheltering him more closely against his breast; his wings half-rose, mantling. ‘Something has distressed you. Shall we not go at once?’

      The thought was tempting, but there was no sense in it; he and Temeraire would both be the better for a quiet night and breakfast in the morning, and in any case he was not going to creep away as if ashamed. ‘No, no,’ Laurence said, petting him until his wings settled again. ‘There is no need, I assure you; I have only had words with my father.’ He fell silent; he could not shake the memory of the interview, his father’s cold dismissiveness, and his shoulders hunched.

      ‘Is he angry about our coming?’ Temeraire asked.

      Temeraire’s quick perception and the concern in his voice were like a tonic for his weary unhappiness, and it made Laurence speak more freely than he meant to. ‘It is an old quarrel at heart,’ he said. ‘He would have had me go into the Church, like my brother; he has never counted the Navy an honourable occupation.’

      ‘And is an aviator worse, then?’ Temeraire said, a little too perceptive now. ‘Is that why you did not like to leave the Navy?’

      ‘In his eyes, perhaps, the Corps is worse, but not in mine; there is too great a compensation.’ He reached up to stroke Temeraire’s nose; Temeraire nuzzled back affectionately. ‘But truly, he has never approved my choice of career; I had to run away from home as a boy for him to let me go to sea. I cannot allow his will to govern me, for I see my duty differently than he does.’

      Temeraire snorted, his warm breath coming out as small trails of smoke in the cool night air. ‘But he will not let you sleep inside?’

      ‘Oh, no,’ Laurence said, and felt a little embarrassed to confess the weakness that had brought him out to seek comfort in Temeraire. ‘I only felt I would rather be with you, than sleep alone.’

      But Temeraire did not see anything unusual in it. ‘So long as you are quite warm,’ he said, resettling himself carefully and sweeping his wings forward a little, to encircle them from the wind.

      ‘I am very comfortable; I beg you to have no concern,’ Laurence said, stretching out upon the broad, firm limb, and drawing the blanket around himself. ‘Good night, my dear.’ He was suddenly very tired, but with a natural physical fatigue: the bone-deep, painful weariness was gone.

      He woke very early, just before sunrise, as Temeraire’s belly rumbled strongly enough for the sound to rouse them both. ‘Oh, I am hungry,’ Temeraire said, waking up bright-eyed, and looked eagerly over at the herd of deer milling nervously in the park, clustered against the far wall.

      Laurence climbed down. ‘I will leave you to your breakfast, and go to have my own,’ he said, giving Temeraire’s side one final pat before turning back to the house. He was in no fit state to be seen; fortunately, with the hour so early the guests were not yet about, and he was able to gain his bedroom without any encounter which might have rendered him still more disreputable.

      He washed briskly, put on his flying dress while a manservant repacked his solitary piece of baggage, and went down as soon as he thought acceptable. The maids were still laying the first breakfast dishes out upon the sideboard, and the coffeepot had just been laid upon the table. He had hoped to avoid all the party, but to his surprise, Edith was at the breakfast table already, though she had never been an early riser.

      Her face was outwardly calm, her clothing in perfect order and her hair drawn up smoothly into a golden knot, but her hands betrayed her, clenched together in her lap. She had not taken any food, only a cup of tea, and even that sat untouched before her. ‘Good morning,’ she said, with a brightness that rang false; she glanced at the servants as she spoke. ‘May I pour for you?’

      ‘Thank you,’ he said, the only possible reply, and took the place next to her; she poured coffee for him and added half a spoonful of sugar and cream each, exactly to his tastes. They sat stiffly together, neither eating nor speaking, until the servants finished the preparations and left the room.

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