The turnspit dragon, p.1
The Turnspit Dragon, page 1
part #9 of Jane Austen's Dragons Series
by
Maria Grace
Published by: White Soup Press
The Turnspit Dragon and other tales of the Blue Order
Copyright © November 2021 Maria Grace
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof,
in any format whatsoever.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For information address
author.MariaGrace@gmail.com
Author’s Website: http://RandomBitsofFascination.com
Email address: Author.MariaGrace@gmail.com
The Turnspit Dragon and other tales of
the Blue Order
Dive into the hidden-in-plain sight world of the Blue Order dragons.
A heart-warming collection of short stories peeking into the hidden lives of the dragons, their Friends and Keepers. Birth, death, love, loss, and the amazing relationships that underscore them all.
Visit with familiar characters and learn their stories. Meet entirely new dragons and their Friends, while delving deeper into the mysterious world of Blue Order dragons.
Looking for the more books in the series? Find them here:
Pemberley: Mr. Darcy’s Dragon
Longbourn: Dragon Entail
Netherfield: Rogue Dragon
A Proper Introduction to Dragons
The Dragons of Kellynch
Kellynch: Dragon Persuasion
Dragons Beyond the Pale
Dragon Keepers’ Cotillion
Don’t miss a dragon update! Sign up for the Blue Order Dragon Newsletter HERE and get a free copy of The Blue Order Dragon Index
Table of Contents
Lost and Found
A Friend in Need
Worth Her Salt
Invitations
Not Handsome Enough
The Turnspit Dragon
The Butler’s Pantry
In a Fit of Temper
Motherly Instincts
Less than a Keeper
The Benefits of Sea-Bathing
Other books by Maria Grace:
Free ebooks
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Lost and Found
Love, loss and hope found in unexpected places.
This takes place during the evens of The Dragon of Kellynch
July 1809Blue Order Offices, Lyme
Every morning, on land or at sea, rain, wind or cold, they walked.
As the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon, Captain, a pewter grey cockatrice with more dignity—or perhaps it was pride— than most, would stand regally on Easterly’s leather-gloved forearm, and they would parade the ship’s deck or main street of wherever they happened to be.
Those who saw Captain as the dragon he was invariably remarked on his unique coloring with his neat grey feather-scales that matched the shimmering, nearly metallic scales of his powerful serpentine tail. Those who were persuaded that Captain was a common bird of prey found him anything but common. With a wingspan that matched Easterly’s greater than average height and a razor-sharp beak that glinted in the morning sun, most gave them a wide berth.
Captain could have flown the same track they walked in far less time, with far less effort, and learned far more for the effort, but that was not the point. Balancing on a walking man’s arm was a bit of a trick—and quite a workout for the man doing the walking. It did have the not-disagreeable side effect of dramatically improving Easterly’s figure in the fighting ring. Which was probably Captain’s true intention.
Captain approved of the attention prizefighting brought both of them. Men admired Easterly’s prowess as a pugilist. Ladies were always drawn to dominant dragons, at least that was what Captain always said. Whether or not that was true, Easterly was never at a loss for female companionship when he wanted it. The winnings were not bad either, a nice supplement to a naval officer’s pay.
For Captain, though, it was all about the connections. Never had there been a more gregarious cockatrice. He had the uncanny ability to size up a man with a glance and judge him worthy or not. And he was always right.
Easterly’s rapid rise through the ranks had been all Captain’s doing: making the right connections, conversations, suggestions, perhaps even just a touch of draconic persuasion here and there. Though using persuasion for such personal ends was against the Blue Order rules, and Captain adamantly denied he was doing it. Too many coincidences did cause Easterly to wonder, though.
Coincidences that led Easterly to Lyme as the English fleet’s youngest commodore and the Blue Order Regional Liaison to His Majesty’s Royal Navy.
It was a big title, with big responsibilities for a man probably not old enough for them. His shock of prematurely white hair helped a mite, convincing some he owned some greater wisdom and insight than he actually did. But the truth he kept close to his chest, the secret to his apparent sound judgment, lay in maintaining the connections Captain created for him, seeking out the insights of those who knew more than he did—which some days seemed like everyone in Lyme.
The first day of his second year as Regional Liaison, July 10, 1809, was supposed to have been a day of (subdued) celebration, as befitted one of his rank. They would begin with their ritual walk, then attend a breakfast with officers with whom he had served, indulge in several matches in the ring, and finish the evening with a card party that Mr. Peter Wynn, the newly made Blue Order Regional Undersecretary of Dorset and Somerset, would attend, a connection Captain was most anxious to make.
But they did not walk.
Captain did not rouse at dawn. His feet were curled tightly around the iron dragon perch stationed at the side of Easterly’s bed, perfectly balanced despite his half-lidded eyes and unnaturally pale, now cold skin. Even his glorious silvery feathers seemed faded and dull.
How was it possible?
Granted, Captain had become his Friend as a full adult and never disclosed his true age. How unfair of him not to prepare Easterly for the shock.
He carefully released Captain’s feet from the perch, laid him on a pillow on the bed, in the little terrace house they shared, and trundled downstairs to write invitations.
∞∞∞
One day, maybe a month or two ago, they discussed the possibility of Captain’s demise in very vague terms. More specifically they discussed how he wanted his passing marked.
A party, Captain insisted. A big one. With liberal food and libations flowing. A celebration to end all celebrations (at least without putting Easterly into debt for the remainder of his days). Moreover, the Blue Order, whom Captain had faithfully served as head of the Lyme office’s cockatrice guard, should not only host the affair, but assist in paying for it.
I like parties. Captain had insisted.
But a formal ceremony, it would be more appropriate. Easterly countered, a little exasperated.
There is nowhere I would rather be than a rousing party. They have always been good for us.
And Captain had always been good for him. A party the likes of which Lyme has never seen, you shall have, when the time comes. But let us plan that it not be soon.
Though Captain had not kept his side of the promise, Easterly would keep his.
∞∞∞
What Easterly knew about arranging a party–of any sort—came from attending them, mostly at Captain’s insistence.
Left to his own devices, Easterly would have happily kept to himself, avoided the gatherings he could, and lingered in the corners of the ones he could not. Captain, though, insisted on, excelled in, wrangling invitations to every Blue Order gathering in the vicinity and being at the center of it all, all the time. From small groups shipboard, to large assemblies on land, no event was too humble for him.
Once there, he told stories, some liberally embellished, of his adventures at sea and in far-off places; he complimented men, ladies, and other Dragon Friends with a genuine sincerity that won him no small measure of popularity. He offered advice only when asked, and often sought the opinions of not only those with whom he agreed, but of those with whom he did not.
In short, he spent the entirety of their Friendship demonstrating to Easterly how to be personable, relatable, and dare he say it, popular. Lessons that he desperately needed.
What better way to honor Captain’s life than with a party? One that would be remembered for years to come.
∞∞∞
The conversation with Undersecretary Wynn had been an interesting one. Bald, with pronounced scars along the left side of his head, Wynn had a voice shrill as a cockatrice’s squawk, his temperament seemed similar to one as well. The Order was not in the habit of hosting large parties.
Thankfully Wynn’s Friend, Jasper, a red and black minor drake the size of a large dog, with a voice as sweet as her temper, reminded him of just how many parties the Order actually had sponsored, and that it was only appropriate to honor the Captain of the Guard thus. When he argued, Jasper became adamant, her color shifting from dull red to vibrant—probably the sort of sign one should not ignore. Wynn was not happy, but he acquiesced.
Naturally, as such events did, it grew from a gathering of just a few from the Order offices to include everyone on the rather long list that Captain had left him in case it would be necessary. Easterly spent the next three days writing invitations—only handwritten personal invitatio
Thanks to Captain’s patient example, he managed to shut his mouth and listen to them, and allow them to take charge of no less than a score of tasks he had no idea needed to be accomplished. Who knew that planning a large party was so much like preparing a ship for a long voyage?
A se’nnight later, all was in readiness. That night, Captain would have his party.
∞∞∞
Easterly dismissed his valet and stared into the mirror, the iron dragon perch just peeking out from behind his shoulder in the reflection. Draped with black crepe, like the one in his office, the empty perch was wrong, simply wrong. A symbol of everything that was wrong in his small world right now.
How could a small Friend leave such a very large, gaping hole in one’s world?
He pulled on the long leather gloves he’d worn to walk with Captain. Plain, sturdy, and covered in scars made by Captain’s talons, they stood out against the black wool of his tailcoat and still smelt faintly of Captain’s draconic musk, the one that left a fuzzy taste in the back of his mouth. Not the sort of thing one wore with formal attire.
Damn propriety, he would wear them this one last time. To remember.
Familiar faces nodded as he walked to the Order offices in the waning sun of twilight. Those who had known Captain, both as Captain of the cockatrice Guard, and as a proud, regal, bird of prey (to those dragon-deaf) nodded and tipped their hats, honoring his loss in their own quiet ways. Interesting how Captain left such an impression even on those who never knew his true nature and thought him a mere animal. Though polite, even kind, the gestures seemed too small for all that Captain had been.
Easterly paused across the street from the Order Offices. A large terrace home, four stories tall, matching those surrounding it, unremarkable really, except for the front door painted Order Blue. (And the connection to the dragon tunnels than ran beneath it.) The near constant sea breeze cut through the lingering heat radiating up from cobblestones that had baked like buns in the sun all day. Sweat trickled down the side of his face, into his plainly tied cravat, like it always did before he knocked on a door to be swept into a party.
He rubbed his hands over the length of his gloves. It was not how it should be. But it was what it would be.
Alone.
Lonely.
But now it was time to enter the fray.
The brass drake’s-head knocker thudded dully against the door, and the butler led him upstairs where the Matrons had opened the moveable walls to create a vast drawing room, now filled with guests from Captain’s list. Candlelight glittered and jumped from one shiny surface to another. Mirrors and crystal were stationed to fill the room with twinkling glimmers. Just the way Captain liked it.
A black crepe-draped dragon perch stood by the fireplace, in the middle of the company.
Sideboards abounded with fragrant platters and bowls for the standing supper that Captain insisted upon. Dining rooms were staid and limited conversation to those on one’s right and left. Company should flow freely, and conversations wax and wane and move throughout the room, filling it with an energetic thrum Captain thrived upon. Almost a living, breathing, being in itself, like a dragon filling the room.
The butler announced him and the party-dragon held its collective breath and turned to look at him, trying to decide what to make of him. Predator or prey, dominant or not? This was the moment Captain usually squawked a greeting to everyone in the room, and set the party-dragon back to its own business.
What was he to do?
His heartbeat drowning out all other sounds, he bowed.
A moment of silence, then the noise returned and the party-dragon broke into its component parts once again. Gentlemen and ladies approached and greeted him with words of condolence and reminisced with him. Stories of Captain, those were always good to hear.
Oddly enough, no less than seven new acquaintances were made throughout the evening. Not what he expected, but it was a fitting enough tribute to his Friend that he could have hardly refused.
Sometime in the very small hours of the morning, the conversation stopped, glasses were poured and the company offered their toasts to a fine Friend, an honorable companion, and a loyal dragon member of the Order. Each kind word, every praise offered a bittersweet blow to his soul.
Guests trickled out like the tide ebbing away, until the first rays of dawn warmed the empty room, discarded goblets and plates fitting sentinels to stand a final watch over the event.
He stripped off his gloves, draped them over the dragon perch, bowed, and strode out, his hands cold and empty and small.
Several servants passed him on the way down the stairs—only in the early mornings were they so obvious in their work. Soon all evidence of the party would be gone, with no lingering traces but the memories and the new acquaintances made.
He should call upon Admiral Turnham; the Chief Naval Liaison to the Blue Order was the sort of connection Captain would have wanted him to nurture.
Tomorrow would be soon enough for that. He needed sleep.
And to get accustomed to being alone.
Perhaps he would leave through the mews. A little lurking in the shadows felt right.
Several tall, Order-blue liveried footman proceeded him through the door to the mews. The morning air, still and humid, kissed his cheeks as he stepped into the quiet between the houses lining the mews, a place neither public nor private, neither truly inside nor outside, neither here nor there.
Carriage houses, short, plain, and squat, stood between the rows of tall, slim townhouses, like poor, unfashionable country girls at a Bath assembly. They had bought their tickets for admission, but hardly belonged in fine company and everyone suffered the awkwardness.
A simple cart with its large load covered by a dirty tarp and drawn by a tired-looking grey horse waited near the service doors. A similarly tired-looking driver stood beside as footmen unloaded the trunks and hauled them inside, ignoring the looks that suggested he ought to help with that chore, too.
“What’s this?” Easterly muttered mostly to himself. It was not as if it was his business to know.
“Admiral Langley’s things, sir,” a footman toting a moderate-sized trunk said.
“Langley’s dead?” They had served together when Langley was still but a Captain himself.
“Seems it was a sudden thing, sir. Left most of his things to the Order as he had no family.” The footman edged past him and into the office.
Easterly wandered toward the cart, all the footmen back inside for the moment. He had not seen Langley in years, but it did not seem right he should be gone. Only the pile of trunks on the cart left to show for his valor and fortitude?
Like the crepe-dressed dragon perch and gloves in the drawing room upstairs.
“Mrrrroooow.” The tarp sluiced off the cart and puddled beside it.
He peered into the vehicle, still packed with trunks and boxes. What was that? Something moved. Something bright among the shadows moved.
A long, lithe serpentine body, covered in moonlight-colored scales, slithered between two trunks and a silvery grey head—an especially fluffy cat’s face— appeared, followed by two large, thumbed paws. A tatzelwurm?
Luminous blue eyes stared at him. Sizing him up. It was the sort of stare that Captain used. She searched his face, his person, his very soul.
For no good reason, he offered his hand, fingers curled toward himself (it was always appropriate to be polite to dragons) for her to sniff.
She started at his fingertips, smelling his hand, his wrist; climbing on the trunk to smell his elbow and shoulder. Her mouth hung open, revealing impressive fangs and a long, forked tongue that flicked the air and tickled his wrist. “I remember your scent. You knew my Friend.” Sleek and sweet, her voice was just loud enough to hear.
“I did, it has been years since I have seen him. It is surprising that you remember me.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed as though he were very stupid. “I am hungry.”
