Excerpt
By far the worst thing that could happen to a gentleman of good family is to come into his fortune at the age of two-and-twenty. Why, a man of such recent vintage has barely begun forming his character, and now he shall never have to.
"When you say things like that, Dimity," clucked my sister Dido as I sulked on the window seat of her parlour, "It really does make you sound like a dragon."
I had not realised I was speaking my thoughts aloud, but having done so I was willing to stand by the sentiment. I hardly ever say things that I do not mean.
"I would be honoured to be a dragon," I said with fire in my heart. "Oh, I wish I were!"
"You'd have to give up bonnets," said Dido with a twinkle, busily knitting some garment or other for an impending baby (not her own, thank the Mother). "None would fit."
"Worth it," I vowed under my breath. "I'd sacrifice half my bonnets right now if it meant Chambrey would change his mind about this horrid plan."
Dido raised her eyebrows and purled her stitch at the same time, which is quite the trick. "I suppose we could let him run off to play at being a country gent without us, if you're so desperate to stay in town for the Season…"
I stared wildly at her for a moment, and then we both burst into fits of laughter. I love my brother dearly, but it's bad enough that he has his hands on his funds so early in life — and that every fortune-hunter in the Nine Hundred knows he now has an income of five thousand a year.
The last thing Dido and I would ever do is let that sweet, innocent rabbit out of our sights. Not until he was safely settled with a suitable wife.
Thank goodness for Rackham. My sister and I were not the only valiant souls standing between Chambrey and the decade or so of terrible decisions he would surely have ahead of him without our diligence.
It's not that our brother was unintelligent, you understand, though please never tell him I said so. It was his tendency to believe the utter best in every person he has ever met that left him constantly teetering on the brink of the most dreadful peril.
For the sake of Chambrey and our family's future happiness, I had already resolved to sacrifice this Season. I would, however, begrudge and decry his wretched scheme every step of the way.
The Season in Abberline is quite the best time and place in the entire world. This is where the dragons gather when they awake from hibernation. Our city was founded on basalt and other types of volcanic rock that make it especially appealing to dragons — though I'm sure all the splendid parks, museums, ballrooms and theatres are also something of a drawcard!
For a few blissful months every year (the sweet spot between the final chill of winter and the first tiresome heat of summer), all our patrons and doyennes and inspirational elders condescend to emerge from hibernation in their shiniest scale and claw to make the world marvellous with their presence.
Granite statues crack their jewelled eyes open. Colour floods back into their sun-warmed flesh. All around the country, our cave-dwelling aunts and godfathers and patronesses stretch their wings, yawn and hurl themselves into flight.
Why would you wish to be anywhere else?
Summer is for hunting and autumn is for hoarding. Winter is for the long rest: for dreaming of next year's invitation lists and dinner menus and theatrical commissions. But spring…
Spring is the season of dragons. And thanks to my thoughtless brother, I was going to miss it!
