Soul of Fire by Sarah A. Hoyt

he knew that three or four servants would be up and unobtrusively watching from various places. Part of this, she knew, was that servants tried to be on hand if you needed them. The other part was that they would be curious. She knew—from being closer to Lalita than was expected, having found herself more at home with her servant than with English misses—that the main topic of conversation for servants was their masters. And in India it wasn’t any different. Perhaps it was even more so. The sahibs were strange, wonderful creatures, to be marveled at, censured, criticized or mocked.
    But she assumed that Farewell didn’t know that, and she would not be the one to destroy his illusions. Besides, in her experience, when a young woman tried to inform a gentleman about some area in which he was woefully ignorant, she was likely to find herself ignored or—worse—put in her place. She didn’t want to start an argument here, in the middle of the night, in some strange people’s home. Farewell had been dismissive about his hosts.
    “The Holferns,” he’d said as they’d entered the immense, carefully tended garden that put her parents’ to shame. “Really quite good people. Friends of my father’s from way back. Possible they were, initially, my late mother’s friends. Not sure about it all. But at any rate, they welcomed me with open arms, and in six months haven’t so far as hinted that I leave. Really, quite hospitable. You see why I can’t disappear without leaving them a note?”
    Which had brought up yet another fact none of the books on how arcane dragons were had disclosed: They were punctilious about etiquette. And now they were on the second floor of the house of these quite hospitable people, where St. Maur commanded a room as large as Sofie’s own at home, but far better furnished. It was stocked full of good, solid English furniture: a broad, curtained oak bed; a delicate, painted oak desk by the window; a huge mahogany wardrobe, which St. Maur was consideringly turning out as he packed various suits and hats and walking sticks. Really, Sofie was starting to think that, dragon or not, the Earl of St. Maur was a dull man. The sort that one’s parents (though perhaps not her parents) said would make a splendid husband. He’d put his ivory-handled brush and comb into a silver-plated toiletry case, containing any number of specifics and powders.
    He finished packing the suitcase and looked at his closet, which remained half-full. He sighed with an expression of resignation, and muttered under his breath, “Only so much to carry.”
    Then walked past her, quite abstracted, to the small writing desk. From a drawer he pulled stationery. He opened the ink bottle. Dipping the handy quill, he wrote quickly. Placed as Sofie was, she could read—in fact, would have trouble avoiding reading—what he wrote with his broad angular hand: Dear Molsy —or it might be Moldy, but Sofie very much hoped it wasn’t. Squinting, she decided it was probably Maisy, and then she wondered if it was a woman’s name and why he’d been addressing his hostess and not his host. I’m sorry to leave so quickly, but as you know, I got word via mail this morning that Father had departed this vale of tears. The wording struck Sofie as funny. She’d never have expected even this seemingly conventional English gentleman to use such terms. Please forgive me, and rest assured I will attempt to return as soon as possible, to claim my clothing and to take a proper leave of you and dear Funny —or possibly Furry, though more probably Fanny, she supposed. It is simply that I must consult with Father’s local man of business before I make any decisions about my future. He’d signed it PF and then, after an hesitation, St. Maur. And then he turned, and caught her looking at the paper.
    She expected him to be upset, or perhaps shocked that she was reading over his shoulder, but instead he flashed her a quick smile and spoke in a low